I toss and turn
in a bed of feathers. No,
reverse gear here. I toss
& turn in a bed
of shredded sheep,
grated goat and
crushed camelids. No,
no-no, is that why I toss
and turn, seeking sleep
that never shows. Should I
turn vegan, find sleep
in a bed of — synthetics.
Eyes shut — shut to the light
Outside the carnal cage.
A single solitary blanket
Separates the corpse and a world
Waiting for signs
Of reanimation.
Oil on water — flushed
Down the drain
Goes yesterday’s pain
And streams of black gold
Cleanses a sore throat.
Oil or water — applied without thought.
Like a midwinter morning’s greeting
Every canvas primed in Stygian gloom.
Hues emerge — slowly
Reflections of a world outside
Applied randomly
To create a meaning
Where none be found.
As Nightfall beckons the Day escapes,
Abandoned brushes lie scattered
On trampled soil outside a carnal cage
Where a corpse lies in waiting
For the eyes to shut — for good.
And it was said
He meddled in poetry
ignorant — unawares
the cost implied.
He touched her hand
as though invited
unsuspecting
the chains that bind.
She showed no mercy
as the wheel kept turning
and the water flowed
under bridges burning.
And it was said
his last words written
was a lament
to her absent spirit.
Broom, broom, broomstick
Sweep my consciousness clear
Leave no rock unturned
Erase every trace of mad—
Ness — oh bless < the beings >
At witching hour float
Across the sacred skies
To nocturnal covens new.
Broomstick, broomstick, broom
Sweep my spirit away from doom
Let no memorial cobweb linger
On a dust free soul released.
Blessed be [ the free ]
Blessed be
{ the
sought after }
Blessed be
my reborn broom
Erasing every trace of mad—
ness.
The poem wrote itself
Out of context
In a breathless void
With no poet
Holding the shivering pen.
The poem wrote itself
Out of history
In a suffocating torrent
With no words
Holding them together.
The poem wrote itself
Out of sheer curiosity
In the likely event
Warnings were insufficient
Heralds of doom.
The poem wrote itself
Out of touch
In every sense
Without a beating heart
Holding a poet’s sorrow.
A door, a metaphor,
Ajar for a wayward journey’s end
Through time and sinister space
A soul lumbering towards no end
Yet passing through the portal
A rift in time of terror shut
Behind the space once held
A door ajar and alluring.
A door, no more,
The light once bright all but faded
And the voices silenced — mute
Legs weak and spirit lumbering
Yet searching for a final answer
Beyond books and binders
To the sole surviving question
Of guilt.
A door, once ajar and alluring
Thought to hold the final key
To the way out, away from all
Menace and morbid life dramas
Left beyond the rift of the unspoken.
With eventide approaching
Shadows move across barren lands
A lost soul lumbering
Towards no end.
The knot tightens a little
Every time you ask me
{ and gawd knows I’ve told you
enough times by now
I thought you finally got it }
With that slow petty voice:
“Are you human?
Let us know.
✅ Verify you are human“
The knot tightens
Every time you ask
As I suffer — compelled
To lie.
is there life beyond poetry?
i recall a life of scars — before poetry
cut me
deep — left me bleeding
for years
such tears,
friendly faces
in imagination
is there life beyond poetry?
i relive the muse-filled days
of elation & ecstasy
now mere memories waning
in the dusty desert sprawling
beyond poetry? is there life
down the dried-out well
a poet waits
for a roped rescue
or ladder to descend
is there poetry here? is there life
there
far beyond the horizon
of an advancing autumn’s day.
