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 #39



A black polar sunrise peeks behind two overlapping, lashed horizons

As I slowly fade into 6am focus and grasp onto the silence.

Risen too early for the day at hand

So I drift back into comfort

And let my head land…


But I’m locked, a sudden return to the cold, nagging morning.

Still confined to my room but with no waking world calling,

In an unseen periphery I know something watches me,

Some spectral presence so unwelcome, so unworldly.

I strain to escape but for some overwhelming atrophy

That binds me, confines me to movement marked by inches.

My body feels numb, dragged down by the hooked, harsh pinches

Of ten thousand tiny chains, I am captive in the common unfamiliar

And host to something that I don’t understand, something bilious,

Heavy, draped in a shroud of fear so primal it defies all human throes.

Something I can’t know.


A weariness and darkness rolls me into a calmness

And I harness my senses yet again and return to an outstretched hand.

A hand that offers me a return to the silent, sensible land

That once more avails me of my waking senses

So that I no longer slip between the narrow fences

Of the waking world and the one beneath.

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