In the shallow dance of life
I no longer recognise the self.
I feel my soul slowly succumbing
To pressures far beyond comprehension,
Its slow seep through the cracks
Of a once solid foundation.
I no longer recognise my self.
I fear this new foundling
And its tepid taps
Across a dusty floor.
Blindly scouring the barren lands,
Unmade nails once bloodied
Now carry the dust of desperation
As the cracks and lines grow.
I search the scrapyard
Of the Lost and the Fallen,
Looking for another soul
To match the one pocketed.
I go on – reluctantly
Answers become questions
And bloody knees know
When to stop
But the head does not
Stop
Scouring
The scrapyards
Of the Lost
& the Fallen
Death rode in one blustery morning
Marking the coming of Shame,
The horse limp and striped
— tick tock & so they went
Barking up the write tree
Where ink no longer fade,
In sunlight their words stayed
Unstained,
Taintlessness in ambiguities
— and the uneven echo of history
Repeating itself as Death spake
Gingerly
‘Is there a House of Pleasures?’
‘It’s Limpy – needing a rest,’
The emphasis tainted by moonshine
And a red bottle cap
Left by the wayside
Way way desert way,
…
‘I only need a bath, and a pen
Cil
Cut
Sil
Ver is the House of Pleasures’
Death asked and Death stared
Down a barrel
Of a new beginning
Where wee Clouds of Shame
Saunter alongside savvy Selfies
Tapping along to trumpets
Blowing out their own ass.
Death rode in one blustery morning
Marking the coming of Shame.
Alas, no horse just a wannabe bronco
Z could have found some fame
Knowing Death — and the poetry
That could have been.
The poetry was only found
In the unwritten,
The omitted
Words carried the burden
The dead donkey
Left behind
.
Outstretched, like a beggar’s arm
The red rod dangles glistering keys
Enticing an abandoned kingdom of surprises.
The prickly path of the piscatorial
Points towards rainbow’s end
A box — alas — unlocked & looted.
Outnumbered, by slippery silver shadows
In a deep and shallow dance
Of artistic abandonment
— Oh, such bewilderment!
Outwitted, … …
… … *sigh* …
… like a breadcrumb in the sand.
I lust
Lust for the marginal
Being on the same page,
Teeter slowly
In a dance of aging tethers
Weep as slow slacken threads
Wither and pray
For another page
To curse
A sad congregation of Pretenders
Strutted across a summer’s stage
While the silent morning mirror reflected
The lone pretender
Gawking,
Gawping
Into space
In a Feigned Resignation
At Summer’s inevitable End,
*guitar solo*
‘I am not on fire,’ the boy of eleven said.
The Four Firemen of the Apocalypse disagreed,
The Hose of Infinite Squirts
Slaked the source of all powers
But but but the Hug of Infinity
Floated away in a soapy bubble
Towards no end.
Life – an endless stream of rehashed thoughts
Thought dressed in virgin white
Brown hashed thought
Left sizzling & discarded
Thoughts festering
In the lining of a virgin’s coat
Life – an endless stream in blotchy beige
For aeons I wandered
The wilderness of fools,
Roamed the ragged roads beyond
Never questioning the goal.
Faceless — speechless
Beside a faceless crowd
In a silent shadow dance
Along a winding promenade.
Now I see only familiar faces
The haggard and delineated traces
On friendly aging faces
And a recognition of my own
My rocky road is closing
The circle made complete
Returning to the seedling field
For roots to spread — with hope.
My life —
Contained in 53 boxes
Brown recycled boxes
With sticky tape
Brown sticky tape
White sticky tape
Careful handling please
And sticky fingers taped
Brown sticky tape
White sticky tape
Wrapped around pulsating fingers.
My life —
Contained in 53 boxes
Is moving on.
