Archive for the ‘Poems’ Category

Glass in hand you recline,
For your very own calming standstill,
The turntables sense your earned slack,
And begins its twisting dance,
Soothing your daily hurts is its objective,

Round and round,

Elegantly it twirls,
A black disc of musical sorcery,
The stylus a conductors tool,
This onyx maestro is an aural hot spring,
The tune washes over you,

Round and round,

Each note is an invisible bandage,
Strings of sublime contact via your ears,
The touch of a seraph,
The sips of crimson from your glass coalesce,
Tongue and hearing in a refined waltz of healing,

Until the record abates.

The days insanity has come to an end,
Your body is weary,
Its defences worn down to soft grain,
Your head pounds with harmful influences,
You lay it down to recuperate,
Upon your factory of dreams,

Unforeseen the silence crawls over you,
And with it the demons multiply,
Salivating over the cracks in your psyche,
Malicious maneuvers in the dark,
They would ravage you like countless hypodermic needles,
Save for the defence resting above your bed,

An arcane symbol from the first nations,
Molded of willow and spider sinew,
Spindly weaponry of Asibikaashi,
A conduit through which your dreams can be mobilised,
As an aetheric crusade against the night,
Old magic to protect you until the morn.

The eve grows fatigued,
And your eyes along with it,
The shapes in the corners grow contorted,
Monsters hiding in the periphery,
Raving as you sweat bullets,
Shudders in your limbs,

You feel dark eyes upon you,
An undeniable weight,
Your heart rate begins to sprint,
But you dissuade your own chills,
T’was merely fear of the night,
You lay your head down,

Something sees from the rafters,
Not a revenant,
But a ghost of flesh,
An adept of a grim mantra,
A bladed shadow,
And it seems you’re the mark,

Sleep keeps its distance,
Shudders radiate in your marrow,
You clench your eyes taut,
Something drops to the floor,
Black garb flowing like water,
A shadow approaches its prey,

Eyes and edges behind obsidian silk,
Sleep of a kind is here.

I feel off-kilter,
Somehow weighted to one side,
The mind hangs in the balance,
A set of scales nestled in our egos,
Ungodly yet ornate,
Lifes events are as weights on one side or the other,

Life can bring circumstance of both good and bad,
Too much of either can be destructive,
Positive and negative,
Success and heartbreak,
Narcissism and misanthropy,
Use these events as lessons not additions to your id,

Either weight dropping is a fell stroke,
One way leads to decadence,
The other a fall to adversity,
Both are forms of insanity,
Both will destroy your own soul,
Both are evil by different modus operandi,

Do not allow your scales to dip,
One must strive for balance,
Be as a pendulum,
Map a safe travail through lifes hills and valleys,
The ups and downs,
Protect your minds integrity.

I descend in to my sarcophagus,
To rejuvenate this faded corpus,
To replace grey with luminosity,
My self-imposed hypnosis,
Death with benefits,
My nightly reprieve,

Hither to my closed eyes comes a slideshow,
Disjointed images with no rhyme nor reason,
Castles riding upon clouds and birds flying backwards,
Conversations that never occurred and lessons never taught,
Stars playing chess with bolts of silk,
Vagaries and illusions in tropical colours,

My sense becomes a nebula,
Colourful and vibrant in the extreme but vaporous,
This nightly madness has done its due,
I awaken scarred and grinning,
Feeling ever more liberated but less stable,
A clown ready for the banal day,

Until my next death,
Next rest.

Do you hear the chanting?
Esoteric words upon piscine lips,
Hymns out to sea,
A burg willfully forgotten by humanity,
A fishermans haven turned nightmare,
Towers held aloft by stone tentacles,
This decrepit ruin of a town contains a dark secret,
Even the moon looks away in fear,

Prayers made amidst undertow and rock pools,
Bubbles and salty mist rise up in chorus,
A cacophony of groans and briny gargles,
Praise to a god not dead but sleeping,
At once the chanting dies away,
A dire shape appears under the waves,
A hunger unknowable,
An apocalypse summoned,

Dagon.

I could tell you of numberless beasts,
My voice could be a bestiary,
Of sirens and goblins and demons,
Of dragons and gryphons on the wing,
But instead I speak of a creature not of nobility,
But cruelty given wings,
Sadism in the sky,

You’d be forgiven for believing it a vulture,
An unkempt avian with a fair maidens gaze,
Perched atop the expired skeletons of trees,
Indeed it is a glutton for mens hearts,
Both symbolically and physically,
She will gladly carouse with you,
Winning your heart before plucking it clean with talons,

Beware the harpy,
For the nectar she offers is bile,
The words she speaks are barely contained storms,
Her kind have scavenged for eons,
Leaving legions of hoplite bones behind,
Curiously graceful in their barbarity,
Flight wasted on cruelty.

This thing brings back memories,
A reliquary for a piece of my soul,
I grasp it close to my chest,
And take a jaunt down a familiar lane,
Both greet me as warm friends,
Happier times in golden years,

I need not describe this object,
For it is different for each of us,
A parental heirloom or gift from a personage departed,
But regardless of its somatic form,
The pure magic of sentimentality is at its core,
An ember of the past,

And it is true the past can be a scar,
Maybe even still riddled with maggots,
A twinge in the gut,
But this object can be as a lense,
Seeing past the memorial blockade that plagues you,
And perceiving the happy images of your life.

It has come to this,
This dramatic crescendo of the days violence,
Surrounded by snow and foes aplenty,
A hinterland field of carnage,
Only a sole pair of warriors are here,
Isolated from the regiment,
Husband and wife,

Back to back,
Iron support betwixt now as ever,
One nocking a bow of artemis,
The other brandishing a weary excalibur,
Black blood and sweat already a deluge down their cuirasses,
A legion of enemies already cut down,
This havoc was a lovers last dance,

They were a stalwart couple,
They stood together through betrayals,
Held each other through childbirth,
And a funeral too soon,
These conscript lovers would hold fast,
Even if the end came this day,
It will be as eloping in their spring years.

Do you think the Earth has a gravekeeper?
An elderly man worked to the bone,
Not truly living himself,
A retainer of Father Time,
Caked in mud of prehistory,

Tending to markers of civilisations that have fallen,
The graves of cultures rotting,
Peoples long past,
Traditions preserved in dirt and amber,
Their stories insulated against times decay,

He is a curator of memories,
Propagator of the ways of peoples of eld,
Pyramids and ruins and spires,
Egypt and Inca and Cree,
Among others these graves will not vanish into dust,

Whether lost to famine or conquest,
Plague or assimilation,
Old flames will be kept alive,
Flowers will bloom upon their epitaphs,
For all to remember and learn,

Our gravekeeper digs evermore,
His shovel groans in earnest,
All cultures fall to the grind of time,
All empires collapse,
Our western culture indeed has a grave waiting cleared.