Untitled (10664)
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.
Untitled (10665)
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. …
Untitled (7347)
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, …
Untitled (7348)
The Theatre of Mischief
In the Theatre of Mischief
I play the fool, a mere tool
in a sinister plot unfolding.
You find comfort in the unknown,
the pretentious paces unfolding
and the matching hubris revealed.
In the Theatre of Mischief
lives come and go, portals open
and quickly close.
You sit in silence, watching
my undoing; my luddite life
barely keeps you awake.
In the Theatre of Mischief
I was born a janitor, much later
did I graduate a fool.
You leave in silence, shimmering
swiftly through the backstreets
of life, of love, and sentient stench.
In the Theatre of Mischief
lives come and go, portals open
and quickly close.
You never stop to contemplate,
all other eyes and juice
and their dreams and callings.
In the Theatre of Mischief
lives come and go, portals open
and quickly close.
In the Theatre of Mischief
you are the one watched,
beware the optics of departing.
In the Theatre of Mischief
I am – The Fool
watching your lives unfold.
Untitled (7350)
Innocent
You dressed yourself in innocence
Twirled like there was no tomorrow
Sighed at the feeble attempts wasted
On getting you right.
No need for saving me you yelled
This life of mine is short enough
To give a fuck
Tonight we ride
So we rode the night
Gave a fuck
As morning dawned
We had lost our innocence
Untitled (7351)
Caged
Caged, stainless gleaming steel
and one creaking gate left open,
unguarded
the silent moan of another ghost
left wanting,
left
wanting, wishing to dye
the pale bones
of the merry Makers,
the troubled Takers
of a life given,
unawares
the youth led astray
to become a man
in their hollow image
would lock the cage
without a key, eyes shut
– and moaning.
Untitled (7352)
In Grey Hues
Booze, to much booze
today, tonight I snooze
unweary,
unawares of every youse
in every house
dancing in grey hues
yet dreaming of a souse,
of rainbows, and a muse.
Untitled (7355)
Muted Moon
Embedded in the muted Moon
curved claws spurned the crumbs,
my bones
my shadow
my longing for another
demanded the sacrifice
of a soul: my soul
my own goal
and the voice
turned silent.
New Moon, never noon
no crumbs left
to follow; I caved
I … gave
no crumbs
no crumbs
no way to find
me. Me and my voice
sacrificed.
Spurned.
Silenced.
Scorned like corn
kissed by Fusarium Verticillioides
on the night of a muted Moon
rising, and a voice silenced
on a rattling heap of bones
behind the shadow of a soul
– longing.
Untitled (10668)
Eve
I saw the three faces of Eve
and bleaker days came and went,
through lingering smoke
a blue china cup, and memories
like an old TV set
the white and the black
dreams came and went.
I saw the three faces of Eve
hoping, dreaming, wishing selfishly
for replacement faces
for other places
to leave more traces
for you to find; a bleaker face
watched her turn
into one.
I saw the three faces of Eve
wishing
for more
than one.
Untitled (10669)
Beans on Toast
I’m baked beans
looking for toast,
an old lover’s tape
silenced; remember
those tapping sounds
across your heaving chest.
I am cold baked beans,
a stream of dreams
beyond the fears
of finding the player
broken;
I’m broken,
a mere token
of withering skin
and soundless whispers
wishing you home
where the fingers
once did the talking.
I’m baked beans
{looking for toast}
in a tin – shelved
and forgotten.