Cutting dead flesh
With box cutters.
Cutting dead flesh
With box cutters.
Cutting dead flesh
With box cutters.
And all the children
Cry for their sugary painkillers:
Death dances on tombstones of granite.
The whole world trembles
With the dreams of the snake.
I am haunted by my own Ghost —
Godly and ashamed.
Today I die,
Tomorrow I am born
And Yesterday is yet to happen.
I sit in my chair,
Legs crisscrossed,
Growing fat around the jowls.
Wrapping my corpulent self in loneliness.
I wish to spread my cult
Purely for lust,
But she is the one true Magdalene.
Must I be your Herald?
No, Said He.
And I wept
At his passing,
That the house was bent.
But the folk were good;
They sent me prophecies —
Holesome dreams
And God’s light:
His and their light
Shone
And it was magnificent!
I was happy,
entangled
in those arms for a broken hour.
Love cried and it cooed,
but it never once coddled.
Why?
You make my dreams so vivid.
Crack a jager boo
and throw some fire on my face.
Desperate dentists
seeking re-employment,
The coal mines are always hiring
canneries.
Icicles buzz
and spark plugs burp,
The tonal hip bop
Is no more.
Divisions exist greater than
Lewis C. Carol dared to babble.
I went out into the night;
Not in search for love —
Though that was heavy on my mind —
But in search for the ruby-red jewel,
Where my silver friend
Most commonly plays.
Instead, I was greeted
Not with welcoming arms
But with a lack of anything at all.
Though I can’t complain,
Not to you —
How selfish that would be.
For my mistress; stygian in complexion.
Was warm and begged of me,
“Stay awhile longer.”
I contemplated cowardice.
In that moment —
In her arms.
But I did not act.
At least, I think I did not.
There is still time,
Time for me to broker no exchange,
But to simply flee,
Heedless of consequence.
Return I must, I think
I must, return
I think, I shall.
I used to want to be a bird. The ability to just get up and fly away. I’d never have to worry about being trapped with the problems of my childhood again. All I would have to do was jump and I’d be free.
But, one time, I had a dream. In this dream I realised, through dream logic, that flying was the same as running. And a little boy could always run. So my dream made me run.
And I ran and ran and ran. Till I was in a place where no one knew my name. But I realised that without my problems, my insecurities, my fears. I was no one.
It was these things that defined me because it was the way I dealt with my issues that made me who I am.
I woke up in the morning and I didn’t want to be a bird anymore.
Squeak squeak,
Boots down the pavement.
Squeak squeak,
Boots down the pavement.
Water splutters like the following footsteps of a dog
The sky is black static (water storm).
There are no moonlit prairies or
Star filled roads here,
Only electric neon and fuzzy-hazy things
And the soft seep of water around the right toe.
This place is unhealthy
for body, for mind.
I sit on the sofa,
mind a jumble of lego bricks.
Not long ago, a handful of moments,
a train carried me here and I was happy,
content in escapism.
I ignore my lover – she complains –
she will not understand why,
I do not know myself.
And a silken snake (misery) helps me into the bath.
In an old film-grade black,
within a scratched spot-light,
there sits a lonesome chair.
And in a blink
the Dream King sits before me.
And thus he spoke to me;
His words were wise,
not particularly kind,
but just they were.
And in that far off desert
with its heat
that chair does wait.
The Dream King paces,
awaiting me.
Your coup d’état
Within my cerebral palace,
Leaves me sickened,
Filled with loathing.
For the beast
You have forged in the fires
Of my heart.
Dime a Dozen Tales 