Weekly Poem #87

Sound Barrier

 

I think I’ve broken sound.

It’s been cut down and rewound.

Organs shatter and collide,

Drumsticks skitter, off to hide

And violins evade the violent tide.

I stamp my feet to no avail

And wrestle out a silent wail

As some cruel god ignores my hails,

Windows shatter, calm prevails.

My feet crack a hole beneath the world

And light breaks too, a brittle pearl.

Like a spotlight crushing a pretty girl

It falls victim to this numbing whirl

And come apart, disconnects, unfurls.

Now I fear there’s nothing left,

I’ve beaten all of it to death.

Such a heinous and unruly theft

To leave thought so far bereft.

There’s nothing now to comprehend,

No longing love remains to mend

We can only bask in this dull end.

I didn’t mean to break what’s real

But I can’t help just how I feel.

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 #81

Rodents

 

My shadow is alive.
It’s a colony, a tribe.
As I walk it lives and dies,
My private kingdom, my other eyes.

My shadow feeds,
It bites, gnashes and bleeds.
Growing hungrier as it breeds
And gaining ground, gall and greed.

My shadow hates,
It rallies, rails and it waits.
Listening for breath that bates
And hunting down unfortunate fates.

My shadow feels,
It writhes and worries at my heels
Like a pulsing mass of electric eels.
A split, spilled soul that can’t be sealed.

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 #79

Scythe

 

Bruising skin, shattered shins

The burning refuses to give in.

Crimson framed weary eyes

Fixed upon the dark, withering sky.

Blooded sand for a bed

That rests a weary old fragile head.

Paid his dues, no more pain.

The last of the smoke, ash and the flames.

‘Veteran’, a strange term,

There’s no retirement from this business firm.

There’s only one way out,

Waiting, scythe in hand, for your last bout.

 

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 #76

The Dragon’s Mouth

A sea that chokes
A land that roles
A fire that’s still
A harsher pole

It shifts and slides
It cooks and kills
Life must be hard
To bear its ills

The hardest stones
Long crushed to powder
Unfriendly life
More spikes than flowers

No man feels welcome
In this harsh world
It swallows you up
All bones and pearls

No species is perfect
For every terrain
We weren’t meant for here
It’s not our domain

Weekly Poem #75

Supreme

She looked through me, saw nothing.
She reached past me, unrelenting.
I sank to my knees, slowly repenting
And my skin paled, blood rushing.
I was babbling, no straight answers.
I couldn’t run, reason or consider.
Across my neck I felt her hand slither
And felt my soul’ slight get darker.
The irony struck me like a hammer,
How insatiably I’d wanted to see her.
Now she stood, more real than ever
And all I manage was a weak stammer.

Weekly Poem #74

New World Order

 

I was so late, far too late.

Always in for 07:55, I had 08:01.

08:01 of the next morning.

 

Time had fallen apart

Between those two points.

It had shattered and splintered

Like an old, tired rope bridge

Beaten by angry winds.

 

I’d barely hit the motorway

When the sky turned navy,

The air sparked and howled

And brought everything down.

 

A clean pass with no minors

Doesn’t count for much then,

When you’re swerving away

From telephone poles, twisted wreckage,

Mangled bodies and collapsed concrete.

 

I pulled into a service station,

Threw myself screaming from my car

And into a Travelodge, into a cupboard.

I hid there for 23 hours,

Listening to the world thrashing.

 

Me and 34 others emerged,

All of us late for something.

Cornered, no working cars,

No signal and no power.

 

We rebuilt, started anew.

Made a temple of a Little Chef,

A home of an overnight halt,

A sentence of a comma.

 

Our new plastic world,

Brimming with hope.

A reef built on irony,

8 miles from anywhere.

A beacon of humanity.

 

Eventually wars raged.

The zealots of Burger King,

The infidels of Costa.

35 became 16.

 

A Magna Carta on a Smith’s notepad

Brought us reconcile

As what remained picked up

And started again.

 

When they finally found us

On our precious concrete island

They thought us savages,

Derided our new ways

And left us to rot.

 

They were all fools,

Wasting their time

Reviving the old world.

It’s already dead.

 

We are the pioneers,

The architects of evolution,

One day they’ll see us

And know we were right.

Weekly Poem #72

Apollo

 

So here I stand

 

My thoughts started and ended there,

Mounted on the observation deck

Of the Herald Arctic Research Facility,

Gazing skyward at a red, dying star.

 

The world is an ugly patchwork,

Coated with new man-made nations

That cower upwards from rising oceans

But do not dare pierce the smog choked sky.

 

Our grey, staving planet will end.

It will end without dignity,

Burning away in a coat of sickness,

Dead satellites and celestial rage.

 

Nobody wanted to heed his pleas,

Everyone looked at them sideways.

To them, he wasn’t addressing the world;

He was speaking in codes to their fractions.

 

A sunspot heralded his fall,

The largest we had ever seen.

Then an ancient being, born of great legends

Was made flesh and truth in purest white fire.

 

Death Valley was his landing strip.

His giant body withering,

His beautiful face worn with tears of flame.

He lay across the sands as we gathered.

 

There were those of science, like me

And there were those of religion.

All were silent, all were fearful and still.

His voice shook the air like volcanic heat.

 

You have drawn too much strength from me,

I can no longer sustain you.

You have grown greedy, vile and dangerous.

My kind can’t carry on protecting you.

 

You all owe me a heavy debt

And I have come here to collect.

You can see how desperate I’ve become,

If I die, I will take you all with me.

 

We saw such promise in this world,

As we observed it from afar,

But you spat on us and squandered our gifts.

You have no pride or stature left to claim.

 

Consider this your last warning,

Revive your planet, with all haste.

It is the only thing that matters now.

Do not waste any time, you have none left.

 

Years passed and wars began to rage

Fueled by his potent fiery words.

Each side knew they had heard his real message

And clamored to justify all their claims.

 

Corpse piles rose bearing his grand name,

Ruined lands lay at his altar.

Yet he did not return or sound his voice

And the planet slowly wasted away.

 

Those of us who still saw reason

Could only plead and beg for change.

We toiled away to find better answers,

But then the Sun God came and gave us his.

 

So here I stand, watching him die,

Not knowing who else understands.

Perhaps this is the ending we deserve,

I wish I could know what will come after.

 

 

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