Dead Colours
Colours
Breach the harrowing steel
That cages taciturn hearts,
Spilling loose
Droplets
Of prismatic frenzy
To stir up
Pastels of revival
Within concrete eaten castles,
Housed gaunt and grey,
Tenements gripped numb by bold shadow.
Colours
Spring to womb
The Tree Of Life.
To shade the drained city’s
Lonely and wandering
Feckless captives,
As the evaporating bastille
Hisses serpent steam
And takes its wisps of anchorless vapours
Down to hell’s belly.
The Hollow King Of Make Believe
The hollow king of make believe
Preaches slow burn proverbs
And existential puffery
To his hardwired flock,
Fleecing their shallow pockets
By sleight of bony hand,
His third eye heaven
A telescopic watchtower.
The black robed moth
With pooling mercury mouth,
Garments his lizard skin
As the flat lined saints
Come marching in,
A clustering ambush
Of coma addled buyers,
And the shag carpeted pews
Are an inferno of huddled friction.
The hollow king of make believe
Devours glitter gold souls,
Held hostage
By dint
Of blood rust hooks
Punching through jaws,
Both atrophied and awed.
The hollow king of make believe
Sells vacant ideologues
And barters hope
For currency,
In the stained glass carnival sanctuary
Of fantastical delirium.
When the mewling notes
Begin to sour and float
From Sister Agnes’s ramshackle organ,
The shyster ruffles through his Armani suit
For a swollen cigar,
Behind the satanic curtain.
God is not dead
But nor is the devil,
As the ugly sainthood of mammon
Stabs a worshipful eye
With wolverine smile
That sniffs out spoils
And levels worlds.
Salvation costs only a monthly donation.
Cancel anytime.
Zen Void Of Stars
Loneliness
Is Zen
Void of stars,
Yet I suppose
That the show must go on
And leap her rude disenchantment
And gaudy charade
Over the bladed rain’s
Waterspout sadness,
Disarmed iron madness
Now colander soul
Unable to willfully cleave
To love’s slow train fade
Through the horrid suckling
And teasing drain,
Bone splintered heart awash
In silver star apathy,
My lone seat
Sunken beneath
The violent collapse
Of dusky frame,
Victim
To the creeping vermillion giant
Of another amnesia cloaked day,
Spitting out bolts
Ash licked grey,
Where hell’s boiled mounds
And heaven’s honied skies
Serve fate’s salted ire
Yet both taste the same.
Blushed Belle Of The Ball
How this courtly rose stands,
Blushed belle of the ball
Through the seasonal war
That pockmarks squamous scabs
And cuts bloodless holes
Into the lusty bloomed spread
Of her clipped seraphim wings.
How the diamond seed of her heart
Is beautifully curious,
And a miracle of proud glories.
How she is bathed
By the bittersweet baptism
Of lashing dagger rain,
Yet her dusk pink spiral dress
Refuses to strip
The occult floral layers
To worship and grovel
Upon gravestone gravel
Or powder burn dirt.
How her unyielding kiss
Of defiant repose
Charmed the magnetic mercury
And knives of grey skies,
And I forget my own sadness
Just to let her peace breathe.
Ode To A Prizefighter
Don’t panic
Don’t crumble into a foggy lagoon of tears
Don’t shiver under firecracker skies
With its tiger roar sonic boom
Or be dashed inside
From night’s crooked smile
And vacant moon
You’ve got nerve, my friend
You’ve got gutsy punch
And electric storm fury
That barrels through
The razored maze
And
The needling briars
Of brutes and bastards
Who want to tank your ship
Through the greedy storehouse
Of their petty mutinies,
So hold on to the wheel
And the invisible calm
Knowing that the absurdity of life
Is all the better
For you being in it,
And may your transparent heart of glass
Blind the dogged scoundrel
And flood the malice eyed adders
Hungry to bruise your heel,
For the self loathing beasts
At war with themselves
Despise a ravine of purity
And may their towers of rabble rousing Babel
Plant themselves face first
Into the Godsmacked realities
Of black and blue earth,
But don’t write your epitaph
Or realign your course,
You’ve only touched the simple depths
Of a universe of worth
Alive in the kindness of your eyes
And in the beautified candor of your words,
So keep sweating blood
If you must
But saints preserved
Keep pushing on,
Wave your die hard flag of no return
Because I think you absolutely matter
To God
To us
To art
To the world
To the neighbouring prisms
That reflect the stellar outline
Of a diamond pearl
That shines
That is you
So onwards you prizefighter
And steady
To ready
To deaden
The calloused nerve
That pinched you
In its boxing cage,
But break down the gates
And let the world
Hear the resurrected songs
Of your valour
And make it
A revolution
Of love,
Saturn’s return
That dries up the frenzied
Scalds of hate,
Now onwards
Now on!
Sea Of Teenage Tragedies
Teenage trauma
Drunk your milk
Boiled through bones,
As it swallowed split marrow
Through a chasm of groans,
Its Greek chorus
Of nervy phantom wolves
Howling ritual dirge,
Under rumpled velvet skies
Dearth of moon’s candle.
Storming furies in kettles
With galled steam spitting haze,
Throw brutal scorched screams
Clawing classroom walls.
Draws bosom cleaved tides,
And white knuckled seaside,
Your sinking pillow fantasies
Upon your sickbed of life,
Leaving blood ocean’s smeared prints
On stained glass windows,
In the cryptic cobwebbed convent
Of mind.
Teen royal
You could have been
If God’s stitch
Knitted a robe,
But the tailor of dreams,
Hacked at your clothes,
To devour skimmed dreams
From the cream of your soul.
Teenage tragedies
Wore you down
To quartz quartered stone,
Crushing you
With the brittle edged ache
Of hollowed heartbreak,
As you sailed away from the wailing Furies.
Those devil horned years
Are now just a tinny moan
Of sulking memory.
Humanity’s Last Stand
This is not an ideological endorsement or political speech, but just a simple wake up call to the immeasurable value of humanity that we must raise above wars, assassin’s bullets, morose tragedies and other perils.
Nobody wins in any type of war.
The collateral damage cuts through bone, touching
the soul.
Perhaps the political climate is inherently engineered to pit person against person, when partisan ideology is worshipped more than both God and loving our neighbor as ourself.
I don’t believe we should be blind to ongoing corruption and injustice that can straddle both parties, but we must divorce internal upset from hate, and utilize our humanity with composure.
For what it’s worth.
Winter, 1993
Through the dimmed lens of days,
My drowsy mind
Targets both place and time,
Winter, 1993.
It was nostalgic tragedy
Wed to the ceremonial solstice
When dark tidings smoldered the frayed wick,
And I was a salted snail,
Hooded up to the nines,
Remembering through
A chokehold of gunshot sobs
How lazy snowflakes
Used to eat up the lamppost compasses,
Flitting helical lesions
A stirred haze
Shaded blank,
Leprosy white,
Atlas shouldering
A slow motion avalanche,
Bleached in February firewater.
The shuddering saturnine chills
Deadlocked us
Into bone scalding oblivion,
Sunless miseries
And 5 P.M. curfews
For another eight weeks,
As winter fell like a plague
Of starchy white sheets.
I used to make my tarpit boots
Slide in a fumbling scuffle
With the mirror sheen sheets
Of winter glass,
Crying out
Third degree frosted burns
As I cracked
The arctic back.
Winter dazzled,
Even the apple peeled star lanterns
That rattled night’s surly cage
Took longing notice
As the shivering moon
Envied the satellite child,
Born of God’s
Sculptured flesh,
A callow captive
To the ephemeral spell
Of a frozen age.
God, I was so lonely then
And so empty there,
Soldiering a barely silent
Crunch snow shuffle
Through the duplicate rows
Of cheerless houses,
Stopping only
To flash sunken eyes
And a mournful parting glance,
Towards that impenetrable home
That lodged love.
How I wished it were mine.