Weekly Poem #83

Hemlock

 

He pressed his lips against hers and all he tasted was metal.

The acidity, the reactivity, the coldness and the relief;

It crawled down his spine like a pulsing silkworm.

It came to rest at the base of his pelvis, and split open

Spilling clusters of nervous sensation through him.

Sensation which overwhelmed, absorbed and receded

Leaving absolute nothingness in its place, absolute tranquility.

He was satisfied with this feeling, this remarkable calm

In the knowledge that something perfectly ancient

Had just been set in inevitable, unstoppable motion.

He felt no disdain for those around him still gripped by fear,

Merely a sort of tempered excitement for their futures.

That they would one day experience this finality.

A closing, smiling lid and a last chance

To count the chickens.

Weekly Poem #80

Tailored/Tethered/Tainted

 

“Please don’t make a scene.”

Those old motherly warning words flushed through him, clear as a lucid dream.

An appropriate memory to stream, with the water jug in shards and his shirt a massacre of spilled beans.

He clasped the tablecloth for comfort, his hands speckled with sweaty beads

And tried to hold the fire in his stomach back.

 

Angela saw it all from the bar, used it as a refuge.

He was probably drunk again, the worthless stooge, she wasn’t about to move

Or intrude on his lewd, crude displays of honest attitude. This calamity was his to conclude.

She watched him go horizontal through the misted martini lens

And hoped that this didn’t spread between all her friends.

 

From his lowered vantage Kevin writhed

And tried to spy the fresh, teenaged man, the reason for their five hour drive.

The staff bustled like a burning beehive to make sure Kevin’s mess was rectified

But they left him lying, perhaps to die, as suggested by the wrench of his insides.

The wrench, the wretch, the clasping, cloying, mortal stench.

 

It had slithered across from two doors down.

Stricken, panicked, an unworldly, mangled mess of formless fear

Fresh from the funeral still calmly collecting all those tissued tears.

They would slink off to the Seudat Hawra’ah in a blissful, blinded veneer

Whilst the neighboring Bar Mitzvah bore their dear departed’s darker years,

His secret sins and his restless, raucous din.

 

It climbed inside Kevin, clawing at his ailing soul

And saturating his sinful, sour shadow like a vengeful, purposed napalm.

All those closeted skeletons rattling loose and shattering on the ground,

Sounding a suppressed regression into a past so infested with regret, it stank.

A rank, rotten reek of a hideous, insidious, furious memory.

 

Kevin quivered and contracted, he relinquished composure

As he succumbed to this demonic exposure and he cried out for closure.

For pathos, for pity, for a sympathetic boot heel to steal host and tenant

Away to a peaceful, perfect, perpetuating place of merciful slumber

Somewhere under the beds of the boys that never meant to misbehave.

 

He was almost thankful to feel his fabrication fall apart

As his new dancing partner screamed into his lungs and gagged on his heart.

Two guilt ridden ghosts gilding the edge of the saw that would rip them apart.

Heaving and hoping that this frenzied groping was as much an end as a start.

Somewhere back on Earth he heard himself scream,

At let both their past crimes spill out of the seams.

 

Harmonized and galvanized they had no time to be maligned

Or resigned to some punishment so shamefully long past its prime.

Kevin cried as he plunged the steak knife past his eye, buoyed by supportive shrieks and cries.

He could die vilified with no need to absolve his crimes

Or so he thought, but he’d counted on a world that isn’t kind.

 

So as his body cooled beneath pooled blood before a horrified host

As the community center succumbed to chaos, the sky saw two ghosts,

Two razor sharp ropes groped through expired air with a hateful hope

And a damning choke that can never unfasten, it sharpens

As they shriek across this plain in search of a host.

Another ruined soul.

Another guilty signpost.

Weekly Poem #78

Needle

 

A fragment of stone ground and worked until it draws blood.

Refined over and over until all harshness is eroded away.

A kind of laboured perfection whose honing mirrors our own.

Art in function, function in art, beauty suited in purpose.

The perfection of the lines, the mesmerizing power of a fixed point.

Crafted for such a simple, for-granted task, yet so much more.

It speaks of fairy-tales, flesh-wounds, psalms and parables.

Wreathed in metaphors, cautions, passions and pleasures.

A tool, a means to an end, an idea, a curse-bringer and keepsake.

We build the vast and the delicate and time imbues tradition,

It imbues sentiment, precision, significance and spirit.

We only need provide it with the right tool for the job.

 

Weekly Poem #68

Reflection Rejection

 

Somewhere down the line dancing got sadder

As the beats sped up we lost our grip on the ladder

And now we shiver back and forth, bitten by an adder.

We’re all twitching and itching like we’re on a full bladder.

I could be madder, but the rave has sucked shades

From my name and face and I can’t fervently fight the fade

Or fake a smile when my brain is stained with ingrained

Disdain and strain, it wanes, wilts until it spills

Out of my gills like the ink I didn’t mean to knock over with the quill.

I’m ill, I’m ailing and I can hear my innards complaining

A pain that was ordained by a diet of shame

Force fed to me by flashing lights and endless nights

That would even grip Marguerite Chopin too tight,

It’s a blight to indulge into these artificial delights

Until age bites and burns and shatters and spurns

As it finally takes its turn to help you learn.

You can lie through you mouth and eyes but not your bones

And goodness knows that entropy takes what it’s owed.

Time flows, grows and tiptoes up your spine

With designs to start making your climb

Ever higher hills that can’t be cured with booze and pills

Or any other cheap thrill that might flush your frills

Because you’ve had your fill, you’re done,

You’ve had your fun and now you’re searching for the sun

At the tip of a this final tongue, this real-life Logan’s Run

Have you won? Find out, peer over the precipice

And measure it as you gaze back on the line you stitched,

Did you pleasure it, leisure it? You better have treasured it

Because it was a mountain from the bottom, from the top it’s a pit.

Jump.

Weekly Poem #67

Nocturnal Syndrome

 

I haven’t seen the sun in seventeen years,

It crisps my skin and wraps me with fear.

It’s not a condition or an internal struggle,

I just wasn’t born to emerge from the tunnels.

I’ve blacked out my windows, bolted my doors

And recoil ever deeper as daytime endures.

Dark is not absence, it’s thick and it’s safe

And in my chambers I horde it so it won’t go to waste.

My eyes have narrowed and increased in scope.

My fingertips quiver and tighten like rope.

Some say I’m a ghost, that I died some years previous

While some others call me inhuman, deadly and devious.

I’ve no qualms with the outsiders, no axe to grind,

But their willful self-destruction often plays on my mind.

I try to move past it, I just bottle my darkness

In preparation for nightfall’s last carcass.

Yes that’s right, one day the sun will decline to set,

It will linger, loiter and boil mankind to death.

You think me misguided, unhinged and deluded

But deep in my purest blackness there is wisdom secluded.

A child who was hounded, beaten into the light,

But I’ll outlive you all, I’ll win this last fight.

Weekly Poem #66

Colder Shoulder

 

Am I a genius? I’ve written more symphonies than Mozart

More tales than Chaucer and more memoirs than Seyssel

But no note has found string and no word has found paper.

My mind is thick with pulsating vines of nervous trees

But my mind is mine, I do not share it.

 

I bundle it off out onto the icy shelf and let it expand

While I perch motionless, letting my body take care of the primal,

The primitive, the instinctive. The mind the genius, body the hunter.

I’ve no patience for the others, I keep them feed on fish

While I dine on solitude, they let me be.

 

I’d always assumed it was fear, but it might well have been respect.

Some presumption of a deep-running understanding of the way of things,

Some aura emanating from my silent, diligent instrumentality.

Because when that thing came crashing out from under the ice

They sent me to deal with it.

 

Imagine that? The lowly fisherman sent to slay the vicious monster,

Armed with only a spear and a club, meant for execution, not combat.

You don’t slay a dragon with a guillotine, do you?

I doubt that ever entered into their consideration,

Fear makes you stupid.

 

Fear can also keep you quick, keep you alert and keep you alive

And I was overflowing with it when I followed those heavy, angular tracks

Out past the furthest limits of our known territory to find it.

I didn’t even know what I was looking for,

Theseus was blind and he had no string.

 

Soon enough though it found me, ice offers no clarity but the water beneath is light as air.

Crystal as the pair of eyes I saw staring back across the frozen ocean,

Framed in skin of perfect marble, an edged, angular shell

Coating a 15 foot frame of four arms, two legs and a fluke

Which dragged heavily across the frosty floor.

 

Thick, heavy hands that hung past a heaving, harsh heart-case

And a skull that splayed out past the eyes like an ancient headdress,

But I never saw beyond the eyes, gently gleaming in the perpetual light

And helping me to understand why I, of all of them, should have come.

The solitary, ghostly fisherman.

 

This creature was no threat, no pest, it was nothing to us because we were nothing to it

It had no concern with beings so young and naive, the synaptic gleam of its eyes

Told me everything, told me that we were the same.

This great, marvelous beast was a stranger among humans.

Just like me.

Weekly Poem #63

Jenga

 

Get this man a megaphone,

Gather around him as he stands on the roof of his home

And offers you all something so much darker than a daily drone.

Because if you don’t take him at his tone,

He’ll still be carved from stone whilst the crows pick at your bones.

The pharaohs were laughing up to a minute before they fell

And you could never tell any well-feathered chieftain that hell

Was on his doorstep, until he stumbled in.

The fabric between our feet and the fire is pretty fucking thin,

At times you’ll find that the sweat runs up past your shins

But one day it’ll be waist high and then it really begins.

The concepts that hold us upright are old and tired.

It’s been decades since our society really expired,

Our rotting reef is spent, no spores for the new empire.

So when we’ve faded and our failings are laid bare,

Tell the new tenants that their day will come, see if they listen.

See if they care.

Weekly Poem #61

Jaguar

 

Can you see the Earth for the roots?

I’ve stepped out into the sunlight before

And recoiled away like a troll.

I’ve been afraid of life’s energy.

I think we’ve all been afraid of it for too long.

We grew skin over muscle over bone,

We became ourselves through a beautiful process,

We weren’t carved into shape by some godly saw

And scattered across the board to find our marks.

People ask what the meaning of life is,

But life has no meaning, none at all.

Don’t let that notion frighten you, embrace it,

It is the most beautiful thing you can know.

Life have no meaning but lives can have any meaning.

Whatever you choose, whatever you imprint

Is yours, so be honest, don’t be shy, ask yourself

What does your life mean?

Take pride in it.

Be honest.

Weekly Poem #60

Skins

 

I don’t want to be angry anymore,

I don’t want to feel like I need to stamp the floor.

I’ve wasted archives, tomes and trials on you

And for what? A cold, petrified, unrelenting tune.

A tune that vibrates through viable rations

And overtakes logic with impotent passion.

 

I don’t want to be vengeful anymore.

I don’t want the pain to take a walking tour.

One day I’ll laugh and say it all meant nothing

And I’m running at that day, longing to be touching

The barrier that holds me back from seeing truth;

The wall of forged emotions that imprison my youth.

 

I don’t want to think about you anymore,

You deserve to be a ghost, a shade across my door.

It takes a lot of whiskey to kiss a shit-eating grin

And every time I look back at you, the nausea creeps in.

I’m finished being fucked with, I have better things to do;

There’s an important life out there for me, eons away from you.

Weekly Poem #59

Three Roses

Some angular white-haired sapling
Lets the ocean clutch at her ankles.
The waves are patient, slowly lapping
And the breeze is gentle, thankful.

A thinly wrapped gift to Mother Nature,
With her back to gestures of mankind.
Three roses spelling longing pleasure
That she fully intends to leave behind.

The painted arches of her human past
Are eaten away by the smiling sun.
Her cells spread out with salt and grass
And her walking, waking days are done.

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