Sack of Skin

Into the dusk

The crawling things come

Chewing upon the tiny hairs

That cover an imperfect skin

Burrowing beneath the folical

To feast upon

The blood and marrow therein

The victims scream they do

In their own comical way

Until, the last,

The eyes are sucked out

And the breathing brain

Is drawn clean away.

Tumultuous Times

The toad sits
Upon it's throne
One eye black
One eye blue
Glaring
At all who
Dare approach
The timid
Slowly making way
As the brave
Are captured
By a wicked tongue
Gobbled up
And swallowed whole
Death in vain
As the shy ones
Within grasping distance
Would never dare
To steal the crown
Lest thy prove
To be little more than
Flies in body
Rather than
Flies in soul.

Otherwise, it's not so Bad

A sharp, stabbing pain

Through the back distracts from

Life's daily toils.

The Writer

A creature selfish

In its moody indulgence

Yet giving in thought.

Somehow They Bypass the Fingers

The words lie

Trippingly on the tongue

To fall trippingly off

In a mangled heap

On the floor;

A testament to the

Selfindulgent tragedy

That is writer's block.

Discomfiture

Under the chair
There is a bomb
But no one knows it's there
So I sit very still
And dare not get up
Lest its presence be brought
Violently to bare.

The sad, SAD man

The present shut in

Sits idly by as

Indeterminate snowfall

Councils caution in the midst

Of dreadful despair.

This Poem was Written to the Accompaniment of Tone Deaf Singing, and I Refuse to be Held Responsible for the Results

Upon the ground

I found a thing

Without purpose

Or place in this world

Or any other

And in me welled

Up a deep sadness

For how horrible

A fate as to be

Placeless in

Space and time

A life truly without purpose

And without a moments

Respite for fellow friend.

But, I, being human

To save myself

This same unenviable fate

Placed the thing

Back where I had found it

And hurried away,

Lest I lose my purpose

By association

And become placeless too

True, we would then be two of a kind

And could share our troubles in the way

Misery loves,

So charitable a person

Is rare.

Amidst the Caterwaulers

The awful side of life

To live

And lean

Against the Earth

A heavy thing

That holds us upright

Even as it pulls us down.

The awful side of life

To fight

And trudge

Constantly up hill

Against the call of gravity

Made loud amidst the bitter call of nature.

The aweful side of life

To stop

This battle

Against a fruitless foe

Who care not for our wants

And only serves our needs;

In this there is some sense of peace.

The Fly

The noise
The horrendous
Hideous
Habitual noise
Of a fly
Buzzing in my ear
There then
Gone
For blessed few
Ticking moments
In which the ticking
Takes precedent,
Only slightly less annoying,
But a reprieve
Nonetheless;
Then the fly is back
Buzzing
Buzzing
Buzzing
Like the inmates
In an asylum
Driving me ever madder
And closer to their layer.
Oh the endless buzzing
Blocking out the
World around me
So only sight can tell
Me the sound a fire alarm makes
And oh
How often my
Eyes do
Deceive me.
The buzzing
Like a cancer in the brain
Likely forming a tumor therein
Which will grow and grumble
And eventually explode
Leaving a neat little hollow
Between my ears
A path for the
Fly to follow
From one side of my head
To the other
Without getting wet
In the event of rainfall.
Oh the buzzing
Growing louder
Ever Louder
And LOUDER again
Raising my agony
In a crescendo
That rises,
Breaks
And rises again
Until
SLAT!
Oh my,
I've killed my only friend.

The Statue Writer

The lane lies empty,

The glen bare of heather

As the mind

A cold, dull landscape,

Is left barren

And utterly featureless.

With such extremes
As these
Are thoughts
Of winter
Trapped
In a writing desk
Rattling round
In a drawer
Pounding its outrage
Out against
The underside ceiling
Of its prison
It clatters and rails and screams
Until
Exhausted
Falling silent
To wait
In moody contemplation
Enwrapping plans in plots in
Rationalizations
Until, one day,
An absent moment comes
And the jailer
Having long forgot
Its cruel joke
Unlocks the writing desk.
Make no mistake
Revenge is swift.

Ta-ra

There are times

When the gift

Is not transparent

And this thing

Becomes

Nothing

So much as like work

The ease and value lost

In an uneasy sea

Of antipathy

Made utterly

Pathetic

By self

Hatred.

Intelligent Gibberish

The offal thing

Is the lack

To whit

Of luck

On a lark

To laughter

Full stop

To stop

Now

Is to secure

Mayhaps

Unlawful

Crimes against

Nature

Which are

In fact

Far worse

Than when

Lawful

Crimes are

Broken.

The Answer to Ill

This merry dystopia
Set amid the ashes
Of an otherwise
Ideal world.
Those loose, freewheeling
Thoughts are
Tidied up here
Swept into welcome order
As opinion is lost
To the malaise of
Angry
Agreement;
Loudly voiced
Arguments
While either side debates
Who more thoroughly
Appreciates the only
Way to boil
A three minute
Egg, then peel
Back the skin
To reveal flesh
Molded to
A perfectly uniform
Shape.
March in time
Knowing you have the better
Of those
Who do not understand
This beautiful,
Enraged
Peace.

The Fading Wood

Scenting the air

A perfume

Rich

But will not sell its secrets

A slow soft tread

Out of the woods

Into the trees

A cool mist descends

Crouched

In the bowl of the tree

Lies a cup

Sat proudly

Amongst the gnarled limbs

The approach

It's stem heavy

In the hand

Lift to lips

Drink deeply

Swallow

Emptiness

Gaze down into

This bowl

Of sadness

There is nothing there

Not even a wood

As the protagonist

Our king

Sat proudly

In the bowl

Of a twisted tree.

Forgetting the Plot

My mind overturns

So my cup runneth over

With spite and concerns.

Gentle Shade

Away from fire

From light

From sun

From warmth

Toward the cool

Shelter

Safely hidden

In dark

In shade

In cold

The freezing

Unfamiliar.

Muddled Voices

The procession of a lie

Through the democratic process

Or an illusion

Playing democracy

With demigods

Who don't know how to share

But, ignoring this

The system seems sound

We raise out ballots

Cast our votes

Mutter out concerns

A voiceless theocracy

That fails to cry foul

But most faithfully mutters it

With quiet polite inquiries

As to the state of the World

Or if we will have a World

At all

Come next winter.

Nonetheless

There is something

Tirelessly comforting

To be found by blind belief

In such an institution.

Appreciating Wariness

Within the walls there
Lies a slow, creeping shadow
For which we give thanks.

Tilted Jaw

Sickness
This thing
Lying here
Unmoving
Consuming
Me. It burns
The flesh
A paragon
Of wasted
Will
and cold
Desires. It wraps
Me up
In this
Cocoon. It warps
Me.
My
Constant,
Unstable
Friend, this
Sickness.

Undo, Undone

Searing warmth
Melting away skin
Flesh
Bone
Until only the soul remains
Naked
Undone
This child-
Like substance
A jaded
Metamorphosis
Into fractured
Light.

Another Away

Time immaterial
It's threads
Loose
Floating freely on the air
A lulling song
Binding me
With soft restraint
Enough to still a struggle
Without raising alarm
Something unseemly
Niggling at the back of my mind
Not quite right
But not quite there;
I open my lips
To sing
Softly
With the tune
That trips the tongue
Which
Lacking better employment
Gently strums the stings
That bind my lips together.
A sweet melody
That lifts the soul
A kind of happiness
Almost
If only this something
Wrong
Would...
Really,
It's not like I can't
Move, I just
Can't go.

Slipping out of Mind

My head is splitting
Cleaving one half from the other
Unevenly bisected
Along a jagged fault.
And from its depths
Are hatched such miseries
As Pandora and Master Sun
Cannot know.
From the same is born pleasure
Small allowances
That hardly make the pain worthwhile
But somehow more endurable.
An unbearable crime
Made flesh
But easily undone
If only some indulgent soul
Would sew me up.

Generation Gap Ad Nauseam

I try desperately hard
Not to disappoint
But then I always do;
The fault lies not with myself
But with my circumstance
And besides
Others are far more flawed then I
With less to lay in their defence
And more to lay at their door.

Regretfully in Haste

I made my exit
Through a small hole at the back
Leaving bits behind.

The Old Country Again

The renewed country
Where men stand to fall heartless
At the feet of infamy
Without conclusion
Or reason, or need.

The Follow Tree

Falling back and staring
With an alien sense of ease
The various things buried
Beneath the red weeping trees
Large portions of insight
Smaller portions of the soul
And tiny lives all held safe
In a vault where they grow.

Tripping Time

Time, an enemy
Of necessity and need
To live to an ends.

Forever Land

A cacophony of sound
That tears the ears
With colours bright
To sear the retinas
As a fire of sensation
Pricks the skin.
Then,
Curled up into a ball
And put away
Safely from the world
In a pocket
Whether it exceptionally large
Or I insignificantly small
Is a matter of philosophy
Though I don't see
An optimistic approach.
That's where I was left
A long time
My safe haven from the world
Clean and familiar
As all outside fell
Smothered under cobwebs and dust.
It is my home
Regardless of prospective
Or what the proper course
Of action may be
And I don't intend to leave it.

The Sceptre

To think of this
A chrysalis
To leave what's more
Behind a painted door
Which will not open
Save for knocking
And what's behind
Is never the same
To masters kind
And those that hold
Fast and wicked reign.

Lunch with Sardines

Katana
Poke
Slice
Tomato.