Poetry Drafts

Poetry Drafts / / By 
tentacles
The thin treads of life, like tentacles from a neatly uncut rose-hip bush swathe my solitary soul. I cannot detach her by force, any presence in proximity becomes … entangled; the fair skin scarred and the dried blood … like the breaking of a new dawn 
– a reminder.

Poetry Drafts / / By 
Our Father - A Supposition
I suppose 
You hold in high esteem
The man who were by all reports 
Our father. 

I suppose 
You find a happiness 
Between the sheets of merry men
Like wenches. 

I suppose 
You see in me the thief
That felled the tree by force
Or mourning.

I suppose
You lost your numbered dream
The one which where by all accounts 
Your final. 

I suppose
You died by sword of pride
The man who were by all reports 
Our father.

Poetry Drafts / / By 
Like most other beginnings since the genesis of time, its life started in medias res; in drawing its first breath the infant screamed and mirrors shattered, but beyond that he appeared quite normal.

Poetry Drafts / / By

blue dog barking

Every smile was a lie, missing
like our old awning
after the winter storm,

every otherwise
you left to rot;

every yawning
a rat
echoing your old blue dog
barking,

& our sunset
in spring

unshaded.

You left none
as you left, the weary wind
took all things,

every otherwise
with a smile

still missing.

Poetry Drafts / / By

Unsichtbar

I am but

a shooting star,
an algorithmic approximation
of Tumblr’s twisted circuitry.

I am but

a discarded face,
the wrinkled remnants
of Dr Daniel Westin.

I am but

the Blackbird,
racing across the solemn sky
of lost recognition.

I am but

traces,
a dust-drop dancing
the friendless tango of one.

I am but

the clap of one hand,
a mere monologue on saline seas
a muted unsavoury meal.

I am but

footsteps,
in sinking sand
the lingering sound of carrions.

I am but

a sconce,

slowly snuffed.

Poetry Drafts / / By

The Passions

Attempting to escape the passions I kiss the white lips of Mother Moon, she trembles and turns towards the opposite, and I … I pray … my hands pray a silent prayer … that beyond, yonder, a distant land will help, that there is help, yonder: help – help me – help…

I whisper her name, her pain my gain, I summon her again as I feel her pale pain transcend … the canyon, our canyon of dreams and dents, where

I am.

She is.

We are

unable to escape our passions; the last in line greet us but as we dance our final dance

between the now and the then we find neither room for the last nor the present selves embraced, unreflective of life and lives – unconsummated.

Poetry Drafts / / By

On the way to the house that separates the mad from the sane. River Cam by Midsummer Common.

Poetry Drafts / / By

Words, unruly and uninspiring smeared across every page,
cower as the scissors march to the tune of segregation,

Albidus, Canescens, Furvus

the partition of the written – a silent slaughter in three acts.

Poetry Drafts / / By

Poetry written by pen does not benefit from automatic spell checking. After a while Life just looks at you in silent bafflement, shakes its head as it lumbers off into the night: aren’t you done yet? I’m off. Good luck. …

Poetry Drafts / / By 
The Summit
I write and rewrite 
the final chapter,
but the sun always sets
beyond the mountains yonder. 

No version ever reveals 
the path taken, the steep hills
climbed to reach the summit;
the pinnacle of life, oh really?

I write and rewrite 
the final chapter,
as if the end would matter
to someone so inept. 

No twisted ankle 
or spilled truth
could ever covey the way 
doves die in hawk’s claws. 

I write and rewrite
the final chapter, …
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