Bed

Over-eager summer nights

strip me naked drenched in sweat.

The window is no escape

nor her hazy cigarette.

Autumn evening's welcome sigh,

a brisk breath against my bed.

Her acclimatising bliss

soon brings warmth to where I'm led.

Yet winter's kiss is far too cold

which lingers along my back.

Her sheets shake my shivering spine,

living in sincerity's lack.

Truth is, I can't blame the seasons

for the discomfort night brings.

It's the lonely side of the bed

which brings the coldest of my stings.

Mr. Meldrew, I Feel You...

"Technology has sunk society",

typed tempestuously to the network of inattentive eyes.

Spouting the same old stale jokes shared and restated;

quipped with my continual complaints—

I'm every bit as bad.

Beyond the Beacon

Azure hammocks of cotton strings

suspend premature rains,

celestial lenses of passionate gas

hug tendrils connected to torrential reins.

Precipitous pride in the catbird seat,

humbles and crumbles to chalices below.

Necessity calls upon deliverance,

for life's elixir, has no life of its own to know.

Flight from the Fly

The devil is at my window.

Six legs latched onto glass.

His hexagonal eyes disinterested.

I freeze and wait for him to pass.

His crooked smile twists my way.

I look fearfully to the floor.

He stretches a bony finger and beckons.

A signal that I can't ignore.

It's become clear that I'm found.

I have no faith to hide.

How could I possibly use the shadows
when the darkness is his guide?

So I take a shaky step full of shame
and climb onto his sebaceous back,
feel his wings flutter against my heart aflutter,
almost praying for an attack.

But when I open my screwed-up eyes

I see that I'm falling through the air.

I'm paralised completely,

death has answered my prayer.

Crossing the Storm

Passing the threshold of the storm

on the road to staying dry.

As the clouds slunked off over my head

I exhaled a thunderous sigh.

I was headed firmly north

whilst the gloom swallowed the south.

Looking the storm in the eye

I ripped the sharp teeth out of his mouth.

But now that I have got here

I just want to waste my time and roam

because I know that if I return

he'll be waiting for when I get home.

Lull

I collected no comfort from these cold keys

in the brightest months of bloom,

but my own flowers came into fruition

in the meager greying gloom.

The paper seemed to absorb raindrops

and break apart with such clarity

which the computer could not evoke

nor offer the same sincerity.

My walking boots had been collecting dirt

whilst my writing pen was collecting dust

and when the conditions turned for the worse

I peeled away the clay-like crust.

Damp air imbrues my curly hair--

through my scalp, soaking my skull;

and only when the summer's passed

do I feel the skies clear calming lull.

Café Blues

Who runs the sundown coffee joints
at the close of Night and Day?
I have spare time and money
without a place to pay.
There's a premium of rowdy bars
with loud voices and louder shirts
but it all smells so superficial
with egos as high as the girls' skirts.
Just take me in from the cold
and keep my caffeine from going low.
It's another sin-free Friday night
and I have no place to go.

Broken Doll

There are knots in the strings on my shoulders

and I have not the nails to disentangle.

You can ken from my canter and my carriage is contracted;

the controller's lost control.

How'll I relocate my lifeless limbs

with none to manipulate my marionette—

and even if it could be managed

how'll I master my own movement?

So better to sever these tangled chords

and decussate this surplus cerebrum,

disassemble the parts and restart

to give this stooge corpse a course.

Negating the Negative

Considering the phrase "too much of a good thing is a bad thing",

would the inverse indicate

that too much of a bad thing could indeed be a good thing?

It would most likely be concluded to be a rash rationalisation

for the very beginning-

"too much..."

implies an excess, which in itself connotes negativity.

With that being said,

this apparent negative is already an alternation—

or a negative-

of a postive action, and so any negation of a negative action

would invalidate any reprehensibility.

Right is wrong is wrong,

and wrong is right is wrong.

Cold Campaign

Egoistic lists govern my compulsive cabinet-

and though I see the policies that I pass

often alienate the public,

I care not for their votes.

Deep down,

I would rather display contempt towards these empty vessels

rather than fill them up with the ingredients of growth.

So I questioned if culture could cure the ignominious ignorant

when I killed their comatose cult;

but my misanthropic mindset met no well-taught contention;

victory tasted like an insult.

Infusion

Sheets mottled with our stains

painting portraits of those afternoons

in dried tears and satisfied drool.

Cravings channelised through touch,

tactile tenderness turns to tactical retreat--

emphatic sighs broken by caffeine's refuel.

Biting Back at the Crocodiles

Fourteen billion eyes gaze

transfixed on the same thing;

their own self-centred sentiments.

If only we were staring at substance

instead of inconsequential ideals--

and as the starving skeleton stirs

from his lurid lacrimation

his sleepless lucid dreams

are controlled by a Sandman society.

Our own tears are filled with foul floods.

Illicit spills of banal and lilliputian "loss",

these opprobrious cathartic tears blind us

from a sight for sore eyes.

So let not our own troubles be a willing distraction

from our despondent and decaying domain,

but let them guide us into worthy action

and put a priority on the purging of proper pain.

Woven Blanket

A mile long bed, with room to spare 

and a blanket that I’ve woven from your hair

found in the plughole of the shower,

and I still need

every last piece of you

wrapped around me.

501

Another dart has been rakishly hurled,

curled to the left of the intended red mark.

One more to spare, a double to win,

too cautiously this time into the dark.

With replenished arrows, I hold my resolve,

determined the next should be my final shot

but some vacuous distraction at the hilt of discharge

ensures my fumbling fingers fall foul of the slot.

My rivals also struggle with the subtle balance

of butter-fingered brush and ham-fisted thrust,

sure that it will be my dart to pierce the heart

I'm distraught to find myself once again bust.

The opponent steps up with a glint in his eye

as all I can do is watch him take his aim,

acquiring the target which I have let slip by

I'm once again on the end of a losing game.

Mouldering My Mind

Nothing so coarse as that course

which will take my corpse to the morgue.

A rot in the roots where golden explosions grew,

sees that the soil masks my beauty completely

and my withered state must collect what it's due.

I have let this plant overgrow,

keen to reap the fruits of its embrace when they ripe-

but that comforting clutch is clenching too close

and the now blackening grass is past the graze of my grasp.

I won't be picking fruit again.

Rot

When I'm smothered by the soil

dress me in withering white.

Say a prayer for my soul

and watch me as it takes flight.

When I'm buried in the ground

drop a single pen.

Read to me a eulogy

for me to write again.

When I'm food for the worms

keep the Devil's jaw away.

Do not wish for me to go

but do not wish for me to stay.

When I'm only rotting flesh

let the rain tear me apart.

Cherish the splendor of life

and forget my dried-up heart.

Life is too Long

Contrary to the overused phrase,

life is too long.

Occupied mostly by menial mediocre makeweight moments--

fastidious fragments of filler;

the greater fraction spent feigning death,

a large proportion placed in grudging positions

and just a morsel used to actually live.

100000 pages describing a character

with pretentious pitter-patter

which provides no penetration to the underlying plot.

A perpetual instrumental track,

with unnoticeably subtle progresion

that offers no tying motif to the record's ambiance.

Give me something succinct, condensed

and stimulating--

I hope that I'm dead

by the time this is read.

The Grey Chess Piece

Darkness ultimately devours all,

and rather than shy from it

I wish to fuel it with the Devil's narcotics

and become the light;

a nemesis to the demon Night.

Bring me close to the end

so that I may breathe down the neck of Death,

observe it

understand it,

and defeat it.

He will learn to fear me.

Meaning Found, Meaning Lost

Last night,

fueled by some clear haze--

I discovered

the meaning of life.

I forgot it by morning.

Self-Prescription

My phantom footsteps

float along the filthy floor

of this foul forgotten town.

Slipping through the slime

of otiose citizens

swiftly squandering handouts.

Medicine music

drowns out society's dregs

and deadens my disgusted frown.

Doze

The moon-grazed sleepy poppy fields

lulled my plagued mind into a lucid calm.

The moon gazed at shadows he yields

but had no concern of potential harm.

The sun's sharp prick got me back up.

Rubbing my eyes, I was mad at the day.

No longer numb, I took a cup.

I sipped til the clouds drew the sun away.

My eyelids danced like shooting stars

and my head orbited my drowsy frame,

intending to ask the way to Mars

all I mustered was a mutter; "Who's to blame?".

Second-hand Love Notes

Musky margins with amorous musings

in my used hardback book passed along;

previous owner to lover's perusing

to my own eyes. So uncomfortably wrong,

for these faded fancies were not meant

for me yet fate should have it I read these lines:

"This reminds me of the time we have spent"...

such sweetness I could not hold as mine.

It sickens that such care is discarded

and that the calligraphy's charm isn't cherished,

when someone's read is so well regarded

that their love lives on when the page has perished.

So perhaps paper is the best thing to hold;

its meaning stays true when people's grow old.

Drive It All Over Me

Swimming in the salmon skies

on a Sunday afternoon.

Speeding to where softness lies

when conclusion comes too soon.

Shading in consonant sounds

to dissonant melody.

Sliding through the sun-kissed mounds

to valleys of strawberry.

Smiling upwards at the storm

with its purifying bliss.

Gazing towards my distant home

and the dreams of its soft kiss.

Renascenery

Low hanging wisps on a velvet fabric sky

falling into the ubiquitous wet,

illuminated by poppy flowers

with enough light to prevent the dew to set.

Sweet cinnamon moon brings the rain to rest

and the clouds all part to his potent glow,

dreams dancing sideways back into the day

float into the fire to feel afflictions slow.

She will bring song when such dreaming is done

her fingertips glancing my curtains ajar,

and rays will lead me to her glowing embrace

that which I have often admired from afar.

Sure, the skies shift with stuttered intensity

but I willfully trace her propensity.

Vacillating Vessel

Effulgent and effortless

yet so elusive to find.

Elegant and eloquent,

you are elevated in my mind.