Abstract

Vodka mornings,

Coffee nights.

Pagans on hearth,

Church bells toll.

Miracles and sins,

Washed in a tunnel.

Advertisements

Like a pillar,

That can blink.

But cannot move.

Goes around the focus,

But never in focus.

Take me over,

Guitars and cymbals.

I have love to give.

I know not where.

My head spins,

I jive.

The mother and children,

They wait.

To sleep and forget.

The agony.

Clouds in sky,

Clouds in mind,

Rain in blue.

Thirty four years,

And four years.

Intertwined.

The love, for two men.

Dotted by tears and smiles.

Happy and sad,

Part of life.

If death comes by,

I am camera ready.

Diablo

Winter,

Spring,

Summer and

Fall.

They came, they went.

Something thawed.

A night owl,

Hooted aloud.

A bat hanging,

Screeched from the bough.

In dark robes,

Weilding a scythe,

A faceless figure,

Glided in the night.

Roaring and thundering,

He beckoned the sleeping,

To worship him and bring,

The blood of the weakling.

Stranger thoughts were never thought,

Scarier tidings were never brought,

The seasons changed from winter to bright,

And yet this monster would not slide.

Tired of waiting and wanting,

He moaned a hideous whisper,

Left atop a shrine that was pointing,

To neither heaven or hell’s emperor.

Cried he, not from the hunger,

But from his weakened surrender.

Back to the forest, he glided,

Until the new man was knighted.

 

The Brothers Karmazov

Walked in the drizzle,

With a heavy heart.

Stifling the groan,

The groan of sadness.

Stopped by a store,

Bought a cheap wine.

Asked for a cork screw,

Popped the bottle open.

Made a call, sat on the ledge.

Chugging and talking to a fantasy.

Heartbroken and inebriated,

Recipe for disaster.

Oh, the monsters, you are funny.

Y’all spread happiness,

Y’all spread sadness.

The lines are getting blurred,

Confusion reigns, very strange!

Six degrees of separation,

Disliked the theory now.

It was better in the clouds,

The candle wanted to burn on,

A woosh, a whiff, a whisper,

And the flame is gone!

 

 

Untrending

Hey Black Porsche!

Why do I see fumes from your rolled up windows?

Are you just baking in there?

Hey Blue Eyes!

Why do I see the mist in your sparkling iris?

Are you just irritated with the smog?

Hey tall drink!

Why do you look so gloomy?

Is the pink umbrella making you too cold?

Hey mighty eagle!

Why do you soar so low?

Is the prey you were after already dead?

Hey shining sun!

Why do you shine so bright?

Are you glaring at the sins of us morons?

Hey pretty bug!

Why do you wriggle in the jar?

Are you stifled in there without holes? 

Odium for the Podium

Born decrepit, a tired spirit,

A shabby soul, a foul mole.

Swinging on the branches,

As the storms passed by,

Holding onto self,

And nothing more.

At the cliff, it danced,

Like a swaying shrub,

Petrified of falling,

Yet savouring the surge.

As the moon rose high,

And the wolves howled,

The derelict searched,

For a sanctum of peace.

It made a home,

Warmed it’s cold heart,

Not knowing the pastures,

That lay underneath.

Scavenging and hunting,

Foraging and gathering,

The despair in its bosom,

Withered and died.

Six feet under, 

It buried itself,

The anger, the fear,

Turned into dust.

When it rained,

The drenched grave wept,

For six feet under,

There was still pain.