Category: Poetry

The Beckon.

SmokeNight after night I fight this obsession

With a slow entwining death

that squeezes my chest.

Little by little stealing away

choking.

My air possession.

Dawn after dawn I indulge again.

Add a spark to the flame

that burns my core

numbs my senses.

Sinks it’s tar-black talons

into the flesh of my brain.

Day after day I hasten the final call

tease closer the reaper,

Beckon like a beacon

to the pall.

From dusk to dusk I wish to break

the coil.

That a moth spirals toward a flame.

The constriction of habit

of breathing away

my endless toil.

,,,

3/6l98 – on smoking.

Monster.

I hurtMonster

therefore I am

therefore I die.

*

And all the voices all around me

were the voices in my mind.

And all the voices in my mind

rose like smoke from the ground.

Made me weep

turned me blind.

*

And in the stillness of my coma

was the wreck of a broken heart

And in the silence of my eyes

was a sole torn appart

I see love…it swiftly dies.

*

Perhaps I’m too naive

I was always innocent.

Love was always loved.

Hate was just resentment.

Perhaps I’m too naive

I was always innocent.

I learned to hate

through other’s contempt.

I lost my innocence

when I learnt what it meant.

*

I hurt

therefore I am

therefore I die.

*

I always believed that if I loved someone, I’d be able to freely express my feelings.

People hate and fear what they cannot understand, cannot comprehend.

They call it a monster.

I am a monster but take comfort…I’m still loved.

Grey

There was a little grey man

in a little grey suit.

Shoes neat ‘n tidy.

He got up at morn

and went on the world’s way

into the orderly grey yonder.

His little grey wife worked at home

his little grey kids at school

to be like their little grey father

in the Big Grey World.

One day the little grey man died.

They put him in a little black box

buried him in a hole

and forgot about him.

The Big Grey World had other little grey men

in little grey suits

with shoes neat ‘n tidy.

George Powers

I’ve got George Powers

He’s bad.

So I keep him in the back.

In the dark passages of my brain.

He’s bad.

So it’s black where he lives.

Black and dirty and I don’t like it there.

So I don’t go there.

*

Sometimes George comes out to visit.

He’s bad so he doesn’t like the light.

So he doesn’t stay long.

He fantasies about the dark but here…

He likes to cut people.

It doesn’t matter how.

He likes to hurt people.

The Losing

I’ve tried so hard to hold onto this one single dream.To recall and capture fully that feeling.It’s only the day after and already the detail is lost, corroded away by time. I could probably read it again but it’s left me alone and cold. I can do nothing. As the dream came of its own accord, it has left of its own accord.

It’s actually ironic. I gave Justine warmth, gave the dream life. The dream leaves me cold and takes life of its own, fleeing from my mind.

On losing the dream.

Throw Up the City

The city gurgles, throbs.The City

The city’s gurgling, throbbing heart

belches forth acidic hot

steaming shit.

A messy medley of noise, people

and earth-metal. Vomit.

*

The building

sunken in the granite ground

struggling to surge free.

Up on grey, lanky pillars.

*

In the seething crack

between the buildings hull

and the earth’s body

is the alley.

*

Overcast pipes cling stubbornly

to the stoney cement sick skin

of the building.

Embracing it, chaining it to earth.

Eating towards its fleshy

dusty innards.

*

Here’s where the worst of the city huddle.

Accumulates and is the unwanted.

People, things caught in time – this time.

They are filthy

and the city lives around them

on them.

They scratch cement from the city’s waste

and devour it.

*

Here where the building

breathes out hot, acrid air

through a gauzed throat.

An airy emptiness-hum.

On and on it empties its lungs

on and on…

*

The breath awakens a newspaper’s corpse

printed with old news.

Yesterdays.

It gets up,

rustled,

from the overcast cement

and runs across the alley

dying again at the other end.

Metal musicians plead

Here I am.

Leather smeared on their bodies

black as depression.

Suppression of the city’s people.

Only the city grows.

Lives in monstrous deformity

we and it wallow in its vomit.

It feeds

devouring

sucking out

the being

lifeblood

of its creators.

Countess of Black Roses

The vagueCountess of Black Roses

yet clear bare beauty

of her bone face and cadaverous appearance.

Her eyes as shadow at midnight.

The horrid beauty of her pale skeletal hands.

And in her nails sparks of the dark universe.

Her black silken hair

woven by the maggots.

Her head

crowned with the jewel

of the night.

*

The remainder of her decaying skin

is icy as snow.

Soft and delicate as milk.

The colour as wan as ashes.

Her garment tough and leathery

as wings of the bat

cloaks her body.

*

Neither the serpent nor the raven

has her beauty.

Yet she acclaims their sadistic cruelty.

Their greed for shining eyes

and the taste of sweet

delicate maidens ankles.

*

She rests upon the graves of men

and pauses within the vaults.

Weaving masterfully her mischaped garments

and throwing them to the spiders.

Tending beds of Deadly Nightshade.

Stroking both wolf and demon.

*

Caressing man

as she passes.

Agonizing and crippling them.

Then she kisses

with red smeared lips.

Crushing their breath

and creasing their hearts.

As only a perfect

Black Rose would.

Haikus

HaikusStillness in the garden

Quiet in the garden

The storm has left us

*

Here by the door

A breeze cautiously enters

Soft swirling mingling

*

Trees are still outside

The air is clean and

new-born

*

A little breeze sighs

Only I feel its presence

All else ignores it

*

The pebbles glisten

Silver white and earth-brown

Earth washed clean of dirt

*

The garden is fresh

Yellow sunlight softens trees

Evening air and restfulness.

Fragment – God’s Grain –

Sleep is hard to obtain.

The night is bright

with a moon that silvers my curtains.

But I think of other beauty.

Of things to be

and things that might be.

My answer

Her reply

always she replies.

Never she answers.

Never I ask.

Perhaps she thinks of me.

Perhaps not.

*

Galaxies swirl

stirred by God’s finger.

A planet soup

and he gives me a small want.

For her.

For the fragile hand

that I may squeeze too hard.

How I wish to spoil her

Giving much

not expecting much.

I wish for only

a small measure of love.

To have her consent.

*

She moves as a faerie

in the mist.

A sprite

in mischief.

A nymph

in the woods.

*

I move heavily

Big

an imposter in the forest

and mist.

Yes

clumsy.

I wish not to force her

merely to suggest

Maybe we will dance.

Mirror-Mirror

Got something t o write-needs to be written:

I saw me today – didn’t know him

Was in a mirror – always saw him

Never looked close – always too scared

Never looked in – never let me

Turned away – as I got too close

But hey, guess what – today I leaned close

to the silver to spot – me.

Yeah, me in the mirror – there I stood

Lovely blue eyes – with little black dots

An’ look – I’m not scared of myself anymore

I saw me in the mirror –

no more a he –

He isn’t he –

but rather me.

An’ wadaya know –

I like him –

Me.