Awaiting the first pages of my novel The Kleptocracy to present themselves, I have faith in these two poems:
She is as a scroll of fervent Thuluth.
Not adorned but is ornamentation
Of Life; flitting through perilous existence.
A Minaret scene through and above the spandrels,
Gilt and wondrous!
(Of Maria Callas)
Especially sharp in absence while,
Ornamented by the environmental totality, we recline in a slow brooding splendour.
And I saw Maria Callas through a lens, a swaying torrent indistinct and shrouded
the world’s last Diva: “very nearly silvery”, as a Bel-Canto reprise.
Madness in soft outrages.
Through timeless winters’ generation of dull principles
—the delirium of interred ashes wrought with the keen illustrations of antiquated martyrdom—
As the winds inundate, ceaseless impressions,
wiling with indecision, press upon us the shallow theft of carbon remnants;
Her ashes adrift.