Posts Tagged ‘dark poetry’

We’re taught that sorcery died out,
That all of the sorcerers burned,
But if you travel to the isolated places,
Those hyperborean ice fields and glaciers,
Away from the urban funk,
And look to the sky,

There you’ll see the most mystical of sights,
A sky bound phenomenon of green veins,
A jade dragon over the peaks,
A stroke of intangible mana,
As if conjured by some Nordic witch,
Nothing of man could compare,

And so,
This aurora casts a spell upon us,
A gift of sight mystic,
And if such an ensorcelling wonder exists,
What other spectacles may hide out there?
Magic is very much alive,

The sky tells us so.

We as a race are a broth,
A primordial soup of sorts,
Despite the delectable taste,
It’s an uneven brew,
Unequal in its very composition,
Poverty and fracking reflected in its surface,

The ingredients are indeed all present,
The boiled water of first breathes,
Chicken stock and upbringings,
The ever reliable starches of the working class,
Spices from every corner of the Earth,
Taken and gathered,
Governing herbs to hold it together,
Theoretically,
Chopped vegetable and bankers tax cuts,

Inequality is a salt,
An unfortunate seasoning,
In this broth of a nation,
In this broth of a world,
The majority blend delectably,
The scum invariably rises to the top.

A city is not its landmarks,
They are merely brick and mortar mascara,
Traps for tourists,
A city is its soul,
The veins of the urban centres,
The cobblestone lifeblood of a city,
The alleyways and sights less seen,
The sights and spices and blood,
The sweat and tears and backstreets,
In these asphalt warrens,
You’ll see the real life of the city,
The real people,
The blood cells through these capillaries.

Beware that reef child,
It is a graveyard,
A hodgepodge of stony dragons teeth,
Full of great timber titans,
The sound of torn sails and creaking hulls,
And salt-wrapped spectres,

These wrecks are a diorama,
Skeletons still at their posts,
As if frozen in glass,
Awaiting orders that shall never come,
Sailors picked clean by the reef,
Feed for the crabs and fish,

It’s a morbid monument at sea,
Whorled in mist and deathly cries,
It harkens back to a past of seafaring,
Of piracy and exploration and glory,
A time now only whispered,
Upon dead men’s tongues.

Ahh yes,
That dank motel has many stories,
Each room a storybook of flesh,
A rogues gallery of sorts,
In a cloak of cigarette smoke,

This room here,
Contains a beggarly prodigy of paint,
A Picasso in poverty,

That room there,
It contains a young couple in love,
Fleeing a pair of oppressive households,

That room at the end,
The lady there killed her decorated husband,
For striking her one too many times,

The road has all kinds of refuse,
Much finds its way here,
Travellers and outcasts of all shades,
Drawn like moths to its neon sign,
A haven on these backroads,

A den to sleep in,
A hole to fade in.

It’s almost October,
The most glorious time of the year,
Or the most frightful,
When sun lotion gives way to autumn spice,
And lady lunar flaunts her totality,

The mercury descends,
As the sky attains a new palette,
The trees follow suit and shiver,
Quaking as the spectres begin to rise,
Coalescing in their nightly revels,

To us freaks it is a clarion call,
A call to arms,
When witches and bloodsuckers suit up,
The wisps prance through the pines,
And this Harlequin paints his grin anew,

For finally Samhain is upon us.

On this stage,
This pantomime of a world,
In all its misplace levity,
The limelight never deigned to look at me,
I had no monologues and action scenes,
No share of the fame,
No fans of my own,
And no ovation to speak of,

I remain a supporting actor,
An extra,
Still chained to the backstage,
My voice silenced with a “cut!”,
This is not the gripe it appears,
I’m content in the limelight,
Perhaps that’s my place,
My mark on the stage floor,

But I wonder at least,
Could my message be mentioned in passing?
A footnote in the plays review,
Or am I just to elevate another?
To be behind the curtain,
To keep in mind,
There will always be a bigger star,
A louder tongue.

She is as a cobweb to me,
A heart-shaped trap above my bed,
A dreamcatcher of sorts,
Voyeur to my crestfallen eyes,
She is a lethal spider,
A black widow with no time for dross,
A powerful and bewitching thing,
A beautiful razors edge,
Which scores against my marrow,
Ensnaring me,

And so,
I find myself in the webs clutches,
She approaches me piecemeal,
Embracing me in her silk,
I am her fly,
And I am willing prey.

You mean to tell me,
That this wretched scrap of fabric,
Green as envy,
Is the meaning of life?
The means of ones survival?

I’m to break my back for this writ of coin?
This imitation of worth?
To bear restless nights and foreboding,
Over its accumulation,
Must we sell our souls to the banker?

What ever happened to,
Art and triumph,
And love and joy?
Were they rendered obsolete during my sleep?
Replaced by this sickly green memento?

Work hard for scraps,
Your little jade tokens,
And watch others,
Those fat cats,
Grow fatter.

Last night,
There were strange lights in the sky,
Creepy neon greens and oranges,
Comets raving as if sentient,
You remember it making your head hurt,

You wake up to eerie silence,
No birds chirping or distant lawnmowers,
Everything aches,
Your cat hisses as you pass,
The paperboy gawks way too long,

The street feels somehow off,
There are bizarre burnt spots on the lawns,
Your neighbour doesn’t know who you are,
Passers-by stare at your house as they walk,
Vacant expressions and wide eyes,

It’s your imagination you conclude,
An off day surely,
At least you think so,
But your spouse forgets your name,
Your children flinch at your presence.