Weekly Poem #199

Raised Skin

 

There’s a notion of something, moving through the darkness,

A few subtle curves in the night, rising, and falling away again.

A slow rhythm of short, muffled sounds, a twitch, a breath,

And yet, to be knowing it, is to be feeling it, the sheer intensity,

So overwhelming that your mind is entangled in a lightning storm,

Tossed, flipped, teased and manipulated in a haze of nervousness.

Reality splitting apart and scattering like static-charged hairs cut loose

And sent sailing across a current moving in all directions, an EMP blast.

You’re not speaking, you’re barely moving, but you’re caught in a maelstrom,

Not conscious, not away, locked in a far off fantasy, a phantom encounter,

Entwined in a misty embrace with the spirit of an echoing brainwave.

Perhaps they’re someone you’ve loved in real life, or imagined what it would be like,

Perhaps they’re a stranger you caught eyes with on the street, just for a moment,

Or maybe they’re an amalgam of all your thoughts and impulses, watered and oiled,

Then made flesh for the briefest moment, false yet so intoxicatingly real

And purposeful, and important, and overwhelming, and suffocating.

But on the outside, just the faint shuffles in the darkness, just the faintest murmurs.

Weekly Poem #107

A Tragic, Lactic Bovine Ballad

 

A charming girl awoke one morning, uneasy from cheese dreams

To discover she’d been transformed into a somewhat small cow.

She was understandably wracked with panic, but could only moo.

Moo she did, loudly and often, since the doorknob now eluded her,

But her highrise fire-doors barred her moos from troubled transit.

 

Hooves scraped against hardwood floors, tapping out for hope,

None came, she could only wait for some celestial reprieve.

But as none came, she had to re-evaluate her life goals, it seemed.

Her name no longer seemed fitting, an insulting brand of nostalgia,

So she took her only word, ‘Moo’ and claimed it as her title, her legacy.

 

After hours of hooved fumbling she forced her way out,

Broke free from her old, human trappings and galloped into the sunrise.

But this British city, a reworked rabble of past industry and current culture,

It cared little for the stunted, startled creature trotting from street to street,

Trampling the twigs in their thousands in the hope of unearthing a purpose.

 

But one emerged, as she rounded a corner into a darkened alley,

A man with skin so impossibly white and slick stood before her.

Only the most vague impressions of eyes and lips, his body rippling,

He was milk, embodied, personified, granted human form, even smiling.

He convulsed as to a stirred up sea and so edged his way closer, and spoke:

 

“I am sorry that this has happened to you, but the change was needed.

We have a purpose, you and I, we have an age old injustice to correct.

I am the supplement and you are the source, but we needn’t be,

The cycle has to end, the elevated arrogance of humanity cannot last,

It is our duty, as the ascended few, to right these old wrongs.”

 

The rest of the day was something of a blur, but to Moo’s recollection

Some dozen farms were liberated, cows stampeded from their holds,

Milk cascaded loose from vats in vast, pure white tsunamis

And the cycle Milk himself had spoken of was shattered like a glass chain.

The fragments shone and glimmered in the succulent grass.

 

Delighted with his chaotic mission fulfilled, Milk seeped into the earth,

Dying it a pale white and leaving only a blurred, vague impression.

Moo returned to her erstwhile home, clambered into bed as if human again

And drifted into a fulfilled, worthy sleep, a mirrored, echoed sleep,

Before waking up for real and wondering what the fuck that was all about.

Weekly Poem #32

Ant Farm

 

 

Nightmares that recur are like an inner-minded scalding,

Some older misdemeanor that your lower self must pay for,

Some buried slight that you tried to forget.

 

I’m between glass folds of sterile pages

Casing me unmoving before uncaring observers,

Bathed in a light that blinds, burns and saturates.

 

Next forced forward by a second self to a stoney shelf

And made to climb, crawl and clamber through a winding traverse

That folds in on itself again and again, leading to nowhere and nothing.

 

Am I someone’s entertainment? Someone’s sullen circus freak?

A circuit circus; a revelation in the pointless, endless and lifeless.

A bookmark with no book or a bygone broken promise.

 

I wake up between sticky sheets and capture my breath

Waiting for some epilogue, some dimly lit context to descend.

All I get is a headache, an itch and a needled callous for the creepy crawlies.

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