Archive for the ‘Poems’ Category

Humanity is electric,
Volts piloting fleshy mannequins,
And we’re all having an energy crisis,
We lack the energy for change,
A scarce stockpile of self-betterment,
Effort dimming along with our bedside lamps,

It seems our supplies are depleted,
Interest and vigour evaporated in our tanks,
No drive to fix our problems,
Our societal defects,
No natural gas to pump our breast,
Nor to warm our hearts,

Tragedy after tragedy,
And plight after plight,
Policies for change are avoided,
But these shortages can’t be ignored forever,
There is an energy crisis abound,
And the future shall pay the inflated price.

Mankind is sick,
Addled by a toxic fog,
A primal miasma,
Colourless and odourless,
But insidious all the same,
It permeates not only into our skin,
But our humours also,
Reducing us to beasts,

We scratch at one another over trifles,
Imagined slights and bruised egos,
Chimpanzee disputes and jealousy,
A red mist owning our minds,
And though harmony is our ideal,
Our intent,
We show such aptitude for rage,
Such illness.

Why do I write?
It’s an intricate question,
But the answer is simple,
I found a calling within the ink,
A reason for being,
An obsession perhaps,

And so I waltz with quills and vellum,
A giggling rune crafter,
Splashing ink upon dreams and fantasies,
Incubi between the lines,
Chimera of vowels and consonants,
And I’m a capable beast master,

I’ll admit it takes practice,
When I pen these brainchilds,
I’m not showing off,
Not espousing some kind of artsy manifesto,
I simply write because I love it,
I could not see myself any other way.

I admire the philosophers,
The thinkers,
Those followers of wisdom,
Those Platos and Nietzches,
Those who deign to study reality and existence,
Thankless profession as it is,

Unlike the astronomers,
Who look outward,
To that more tangible mystery,
These souls look deep inside,
Into that primordial mass that is humanity,
The wiles of our nature,

They ask questions,
Is there meaning in life?
What is consciousness?
Are there deities?
Fate or free will?
Positing enigmas ad infinitum,

Yet they shout into the void,
No concrete answers will echo back,
And for that,
I admire these personages,
Because they understand that basic tenet,
Philosophy is to know that you know nothing.

What is dark poetry?
It’s art from the other side of life,
The undercroft,
It is the pens true misgivings with the world,
Poetry without the veneer of hope,
Without naivete,

It’s verse unconcerned with the daisies,
Or the wonders global,
It’s poetry with the mask off,
Of black eyes and cracked teeth,
Of track marks and hangovers,
Grief and crime and the reapers art,

Don’t misconstrue my words though,
Flowery prose has its place,
Ink of faith and family,
Denial helps with the pain after all,
But all ideals require an obverse,
And that’s poetry from the dark.

There is a golden road afore you,
Afore us all,
It’s a track to virtue,
Gilt stone after gilt stone,
A journey to be a good soul,
It is no easy road,
Feeling like a savage incline even on the flat,

It takes temperance to reach the zenith,
A conscience,
There will be temptations off the road,
Jackals built of greed,
Landmines of notoriety in the dirt,
Enticing sculptures of carnal flesh,
Vice beside the aurum,

Don’t get turned around,
Keep plugging away,
Foot after foot,
Year after year,
Your sweat shall keep you true,
Few perceive the golden road,
Fewer still remain good.

Even in your loneliest nights,
When the silence screeches in your ears,
The sky can deliver you love,
In the form of a cerulean comet,

An evanescent light in the sky,
Streaking across your eyes like a pleasing form,
The shape of a paramour,
Painted in azure trails,

This falling star,
It burns white-hot,
Like the throes of frenetic passion,
It conjures images of trysts and new families,

But comets are only brief interlopers,
And if you don’t grab it,
Pluck it from the universe,
It’ll pass by at light speed,

And proceed to the orbit of another.

I was spawned without logic,
Without reason,
A vacuum behind the eyes,
Only a glitzy nebula in the gap,
My mind must be locked up elsewhere,
Incarcerated in absentia,

Reason has formed a bogeyman,
Trying to drag me away,
To mundanity,
But I won’t go,
I’m fleeing sanity,
Cloaked in oddity,

I live as a madman,
Bereft of marbles,
Skipping gleefully along the path,
Sidestepping what you call common sense,
Seeing carousels and masquerades everywhere,
Persisting on this demented track.

The sun is fervent,
And the fields of green surround us,
Nature in all its splendour,
And its authority,
A patchwork of reeds and moss,
Tarmac snaking betwixt,
Hay fever winds and manure vistas,
A million little legs within the grass confines,
Fur and feather and carapace,
The fields of green are all around,
Pulsing,
Encroaching.

As I sit here,
Reclined in my own squalor,
The good townsfolk pass by,
They call me an abomination,
A troll under the bridge,
An insult to decorum,

They call me mutant,
It is true I’m misbegotten,
Birth was not kind to me,
Inflicting this contorted form upon me,
Certainly no gift,
This repugnant chimera of a body,

I linger only in the dark places,
Mother nature,
I know that she loves me not,
The flower petals said so,
This story has no happy ending,
I was never meant to be.