poems by Patrick Hurley

[Non-Euclidean Shapes]

picture tides and

crowded landscapes

of isolation


the flag of the desultory

conquerors has fallen


insects of chance and

empty space eat away

at the remaining fibers


the unnamed portion of the night

invites all manner of phenomena


discarded objects are mapping

a surface where no surface was before


moving across a stable crust

seeking airy corridors––

we gamble on another

elusive structure


[Positive-Negative Primate]

a fissured blackness is expanding

the fissures are delicate and

appear white against

the black background


they two will expand

grains of rice in a heap


the misgivings of

a comically named monarch

may be driving this farce


a boulevard of dead trees

is a deserted street at midnight


appropriated concepts

tick their half-lives

into repetitive digressions


uniformed primates troubleshoot

these myriad devices––

who devises alternatives?


[Blue Hubris]

this black fire

travels up the spine––

pain is a lush

tropical plant in bloom


some await the vectors

of colorless storms or

crawl across shifting

indigo surfaces


the tragedy of human ingenuity

reprogrammed the oscillations––

another worn out mechanism

from another era rusts harmlessly


[Memory Implant]

dubbed reflections disintegrate

into white particles––

now will peripheral

movement be prohibited


nylon banners burned

by a dying sun unravel

leaving behind a

substitute memory


implanted urges subvert

performance in another dimension

for all but short bursts though

some adepts work toward

a mastery that remains unspoken


synthetic quadrupeds are

draining the color away––

their rechargeable snarls

are meant to keep us

from kicking them


[Broken Monitor]

this vision underneath––

as a tree might be reflected

on the surface of a lake


lost or undiscovered

a misspelled goddess

wandering her densely

wooded fastness

amidst rolling hills


this is nature stuff

not pixels or raster

or even chemical creams


some bodies may only

be glimpsed for an instant


a static storm or

digital tempest

blows in––blinding


try not to see through

but watch the images

dancing across its surface


poems by Patrick Hurley

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