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.
To spot the sparkling magic
scattered in our wastelands
demands focus, patience
to wait for Life
{ at intervals dull
drab
and not seldom
indistinct }
to surprise — the clouds will part
and starlight touch you heart.
I fail to focus on the grand beyond,
See only a single grain of sand
Turn slowly in a rosy haze.
Dreamlike days
Without a whispering wind.
The Temptress has left me
— again.
Insignificant — the imprint of a boot
never worn,
left to gather dust
in the abandoned hall
of the dead.
Insignificant — the imprinting of a book
never read,
left to gather dust
on the abandoned shelf
of the dead.
Insignificant — the imprint
on the first face
ever seen,
right to gather dust
in the abandoned world
of the dead.
Insignificant — other
& others that came to pass
all abandoned, all
dead,
all
dead,
all — dead.
Someone’s legs dangle down the side of a bed, a yellow skirt sits uncomfortably; a retired fly on the wall limps across a dusty floor, upskirts then up sticks fearing the stick; Someone legs it across dusty floorboards, dangles a carrot, and the fly is no more.
Carol sings
Carol songs
Knee deep in the hoopla
Knees blown to bits
Biting a laced led pipe
Smoking the fastest fag
Ever lit
Carol sings
Carol songs
Hooping cough and Barbie wire
Death’s uncomfortable lips
On fire
Carol sings
Carol songs
No more.
A life interpretation — poetry
At its worst like a dawn
Without a Dawn, like a fauna
Sans the sauna; we worship words
Of others
Knowing not their belonging —
Black Suns and Creed, There!
There!
Their! … words turn into troughs
Laced with lucidity yet
Poison to the touch.
Poetry — life interpretation
Like words on a rampage
Freed when chains
Binding the soul to the cauldron
Break
— leaving the soul smiling
At the golden sun rising
And the fledgelings
That escaped.
