Broken Black Glass

|                                          .lɒnimɿǝɈ 

|                                         bǝmǝǝb ƨi 

|                                bloʜ ƨǝʞɒɈ ɈɒʜɈ 

|                         noiɈɒυɈiƨ ɔiɈpǝƨ ǝʜɈ 

|                 liɈnυ bǝɿonϱi γlǝϱɿɒl Ɉυb 

  |                  Ɉnǝƨǝɿp niɒp bǝυbbυƨ ʇo 

|              noiɈɔǝlʇǝɿ ǝƨnǝɈ lυʇiɈip ǝʜɈ 

|                                               mɒ I . 

|                                      ɈnǝmɈnǝƨǝɿ 

|                                ϱnibnυoƨǝɿ bnɒ 

|                       ǝnob bǝƨopxǝ Ɉpǝɔxǝ 

|                                  Ɉʇǝl ƨi ϱniʜɈon 

|                           bnɒ nɿow ǝɿɒ γǝʜɈ 

|                         liɈnυ niʞƨ nǝʞoɿb ʇo 

|              ƨɿǝγɒl nǝǝwɈǝb ƨǝbilƨ ɈɒʜɈ 

| ƨƨɒlϱ ʞɔɒlb ʇo bɿɒʜƨ bǝɿǝɈɈɒʜƨ ǝʜɈ 

|                                                  mɒ I

 _____________________________

Failed Form

I find your form failed;

flustered by the breeze.

Sinuous stellar strip

that seeps with apparent ease

through the open window

and the raindrops start to tease

and the sill begins to rot

and my luck begins to squeeze.

I find your form failed;

neglected by my care.

The precipitation thickens

like anvils from the air

in a desperately dark deluge

and it collects in my hair

and I lean from my open window

and I was never really there.

Atlas Stone

Lately, I've had a boulder
that I've taken everywhere.

Rested on my aching shoulder,

it's such a burden to bear.

But it has 'come a part of me

and so I cling to it like hell.

I feel as though it could be

the magic caster of some spell.

But day by day, I've felt strength wane

and the boulder's weight's increased

until I cannot take the strain,

the ache festering like yeast.

And so I've dropped it from my arms

but it's landed on my toes,

which seems to do even more harm...

I doubt the pain ever goes.

I've tried to lift the weight once more

but it was too heavy to take

and as it stays dead on the floor

my failing hands begin to shake.

And now my shoulders feel light

and my skin's no longer cut,

but I still have these hills to fight

and I still have a broken foot.

The Widow

Susurrus summons of the solemned sea

welcomingly waves, beckoning me.

I know not her wish

or where I will wash,

but only in her clutch will I feel free.

She's said to be the mother who gave life

but I see the weeping of a widowed wife.

She groans in her grief

to her submerged reef,

her only relief a jagged rock's knife.

I notice that she would not mourn for me

in her desperation for company.

Yet I let her grip;

I let the tide rip,

and she swallows me whole so hungrily.

Schiamachy

I studied my shadow's sapient subterfuge

as she sequestered in a selenic delight,

somewhere I've never gone, in the dead of the night—

though I wished that I might.

Her swasivious sweven was fleeting and false

as she distracted me from my supine routines,

in a fickle frisson of Freud's wish-fulfilling dreams—

she is not what she seems.

I wonder where tomorrow takes my shadow, and

why can't I too show the silence that she displays,

and if I stray from the sun can I go away—

can I leave with the day?

The Fortitude of Fallen Foliage

Often is winter's arrival mourned

as an icy season of bitter death

but I find it rather a time adorned

with the opportunity for fresh breath.

The solstice is dark and hard to endure

and it represents the pessimist's peak,

but after that those dark days are fewer

and the skies steadily appear less bleak.

So do not mourn the fallen rusted leaf

separated from the embrace of the tree

but rather take solace in the belief

that it will benefit from flying free.

The fallen leaves, once so solemn, stir

from the comforting pick-up in the air.

A Cold and Lonely Embrace

Nothing stirred the

empty flaking seat; -

not even the leaves cast

off of tall pines

dared to take spot from the empty chest

that waited for its missing piece to come.

And so they waited, taking half the bench

and watching the frail hands of the watch tick

steadily ahead to disappointment

and to empty arms resting on cold knees

As the shadows of the trees slowly grew

the face of the watch shined in the sunset,

the hours opening the metal arms

as if to console the teary-eyed soul.

Crying into a Coffee Cup

He gazed at his vacuous visage

in the treacled reflection of black coffee,

as its steadiness is displaced by his laboured breath

from his own brooding reflections.

A gulp goes down, to ease his burning throat

and then another displacement

as the tear weaves from his gossamer lash

into the bullseye of the cup.

In Chase of the Roadrunner

I am the coyote that can fly

but only so long as I think

I am the touching the ground.

I will look down to see

nothing but air

and my predicament will realise

itself.

A Blue Fire

The moonless midnight

is ignited by a spark;

engulfing the dark

and capturing my heart.

But the same heart knows

only sorrows can transpire

from this wild fire

that I've allowed to start.

And yet, although I wince,

I can't convince myself to dowse the flame

nor let it tame,

but only to bask in its heat.

Her name was taken by the wind,

a rescind of that spark

now taken by dark;

the promise of Heaven in wistful retreat.

Plunge

The breeze would gladly meet

her hesitant feet

as they cross and reach to the end.

Like great grinning teeth

the waves and rocks greet,

waiting to embrace their new friend.

Her earbuds dangle at her chest

faintly exhaling their best

eulogy for their oldest of friends.

She would feel blessed

to ride on that crest,

but that's not how this song ends.

She would see no hope

in that dangling rope

that offered to pull her to land.

Nor would she cope

with the strain of the grope

or the embarrassment of stretching her hand.

She'd wait for clouds to part,

her favourite song to start,

and then steady her now trembling hands.

Then she would brace her heart

and finally alone, she'd depart

thinking "This is living" as she lands.

Haunted Skull

Echoes of hollow hate, I

haunt my soul. My

ennui is a blank slate upon which

I shade in the grey happenings of my

mind.

My mind, whose mundane oscillations

interest no one

least of all me-

the leaves are falling.

Falling, down into the pits

of my mind. Where

I conjure up a ghost of living;

hollow and morose.

#TickingBoxes

Count the syllables

like the days during winter;

nod your head then die.

Referring to the Ending (The Day We Left)

Breathless breakfast; Brexit breaks it.

We'd almost roll off the tongue

if not for the ex in the middle,

just as I rolled in tangled sheets

sweating over just how much the nation

hates immigration.

The pendulum swings

right to left

and back, drawing your curves

in vicious inertia and either way

we're in the red.

A pan-European project to address—

to counter-progress—

technocratic anemia: ecological

catastrophes and economic imbalances

spotlighted by iPhone notifications

of myopic irritations,

beside your

Italian leather

Scandinavian bed

made by migrants to mimic

a heavenly cloud where

only you may lay your head.

Night Light

Shocking synapse barrage

weans a wary glance out the soul's windows

apple of the beholder's eye;

heart palpitations, away it goes.

Scalding black drink

innervate the weary soma

stimulate neither skull nor organs

Blind to dreams and desire, mental glaucoma.

Sweet synesthesia needle,

holy skin, mind wholly in trance

gnaw on God's flesh

and falter in his dance.

Rising lumen reflexes

further subdue subterranean sorrow.

Sensory blaze, pneuma to ash

vagrant drift to vapid tomorrow.

A Change of Light

Has there been a change in light

or have I just noticed your flaws?

The rays that break through the blinds

expose the state of your paws.

Yet under the guidance of the lamp

you needn't have a bath;

squeaky clean with a saccharine smile

and I can't help but laugh.

Loss

Synthetic and coarse,

a wild untamed horse.

An indigo glow

with nowhere to go;

slow narrow lanes—

Meetings and migraines.

Pay at the pump

Clinton or trump—

the new fire or ice;

a roll of the dice

and the score is low...

An Indigo glow

—a wild untamed course—

the world shows no remorse

Cold Tea

In the cup's chamber, a teabag infused 

and was decidedly discarded - 

happy that it could make the brew strong.

Perhaps enough for one more use,

never as satisfying as the first;

and though perhaps enough to quench the thirst

nobody once those last dregs loose

and left lying for far too long.

And so the teabag, so lowly regarded

was left cold and then politely refused.

Captain's Entry

I woke up this morning because there was nothing else to do

but gravity's grasp on my head

pulled my thoughts like a tidal shift

so I remained looking at the light

that squirted through the narrow slits in the blinds

like a gaping hole on a ship set for the ocean floor.

Accepting my fate I got out of bed and went to the door

to check if the letterbox held any hope

yet that too leaked

as saltwater coarsely collided with the back of my throat

so if this ship is incapable of being steered to safety

I might as well lock myself in and nail any gaps shut.

I woke up this morning because there was nothing else to do

and nothing of note happened

so I fell back asleep, content

with the fact that I still haven't drowned

and despite the uncertainty that the signals are reporting

I still refuse to sink.

No Cigar

I am the world's

greatest disappointment.

Mr Might-have-been

could almost have been

my name.

For every

minor victory, i am

mocked with a myriad

monumental defeats.

I am a man;

in some frozen

wilderness, rubbing

sticks together so I live

through the night.

whenever I get a fire

going, God snuffs

the spark

just to see how far

he can push me.

tonight, hell find out.

because tonight,

my wifi

keeps going out.