Fast as electrons zooming through circuits,

dozens of demons race to settle a score—

it’s a sore point, weak spot, wide open wound;

they feel like a john who’s meeting a whore:

they’re all hands and action, friction and heat;

they pounce, then penetrate—deeper than deep.

they batter, then bruise; grinding the meat;

flawed, fatal, and fled are the spirits they keep.

Dismal and deadened, beyond hope of help

is the soul trapped in the prison that shuts

itself off from Grace, refusing all help,

inured to the damage, stuck in the ruts

of weary, well-worn grooves, cadged for by rote

in the bowels of the sacrificial goat.

Great to see you post again!

This is an interesting piece... I liked it, it was different. I think the green is distracting though.

I must be st00pid cause I don't get it.

change "stuck in the ruts" to "kicked in the nuts."

Does it bother you now

that we hurt like sin,

or that our sing-song burden

does not seem to lift?



We’ve grown accustomed

to laughter, inured to

the crimson

of paperweights crafted

from lead-lined frames

of windows sealed shutter

than doors bolted dead.



The way to the fields,

hills, forests, and lakes

was once free, clear,

and unfettered; but now,

like the murk of a musty

old cellar,

the solace we

seek is stunted and pale.

Cankered and calloused

like lusterless love, our

souls shy away from

their weal.



Running around,

a bull whose skin’s pierced,

hell-bent on destroying

the cape red as blood,

ours is the method that moves

in a moment, the motion whose

muscle-bound beauty has fled;

ours is the final dull fatal death

blow, whose bounty, whose body

is dangerous dead.



For meaning

flies free as the life-blood flows out,

and Time like an essence whose

seconds spread forth

will no longer walk languidly,

lacking restraint in an implicit

agreement with magnetic North.



Forever, once sighted is no longer blind;

Forever once sighted is no longer far off;

Forever once sighted has no seconds to sight

like before when in days of yore

wild rains did pour upon the shore

of tomorrow.



It doesn’t bother you a bit, does it?

For the day was bound to end.

You won’t even try to defend yourself

when, in pious rage, the heathen

rave irreligiously in the china shop,

shattering the sacred porcelain without regard.



Well bully for you.

We
be
children
when
then
was
cause
and
land
was won by
battle cry.
We
be
men
and women
when appellations
and circumlocutions
quelled nations.

Design--deisgnations
for cool curmudgeons
like we, whose warm
hearts beat with the rhythms
of the streets' neon lights,
determining our blonde fates,
as dumb as mute mallards
with worn creeds
carried lovelorn to the city of angels
where loud bells
peel for weddings
at which Elvis sings
in heavenly realms--
mans the massive helms,
weaves its magic
spell, mystical and tragic,
on us all.
Do you hear its call?

Hear its song, like the birds in the elms,
and if we still have qualms
about the glass ceiling
we have managed
to break through
then let's have our palms
read in the Spring
by a full-fledged
prophet, whose true
vision is clearer
than the fears
in our souls.

The goals
we've won
(Yawn)
for ourselves
are not half
as valuable
as the Fall
of Man appeared
to the weird
and wild
demons, cold
and alone
in the zone
of oblivion.

Uncertain of what
I talk about?
It's freedom, my precious jewel,
from the prowl
of the wolf,
from the fall of the leaf,
from the law of the safe
whose shelter
swelters
in a fool's paradise,
dead as a porcelain vase,
holding artificial roses
in front of stiff poses
held by false ministers
of clay-baked cloisters,
whose magisterial,
ephemeral,
chosen children,
soon
lost
to the cost
are,
or
seem
to dream
of called-out,
devout,
phallus-
thrust
trust-
blessed
us.

Either,
or--
it is this:
Judas' kiss,
or that:
fat Pilate;
Neither,
nor--
it is not this: Jezebel's pleasure hot,
nor that: King David's deadly sling shot,
We won't wait any more
for Destiny's lore
to scare
the Whore
of Babylon
whose Satanic con
cannot defeat
the One who washed His disciples' feet.

Eat these words
like bread before birds
whose song in elms
aims
to construct by design
a sign.

And read it.
Then read it again to let it fit.

Cy put the “sin” in cynic. He knew how

to settle a score. Christian drank vodka

and tonic; he put his hand to the plow.

He married a waitress named Nathalia.

Cy fought his cousins at the reception;

in a drunken rage, he hammered his foes.

The women heard about it; came charging in;

with courage broke up the fight; so it goes.

Somewhere out there on those flat horizons,

one cold, lonely Saskatchewan winter

night I was conceived in whispering pines.

Into this world I came, loved and held dear,

firstborn son in a family of five. Why

question Fate’s gifts—“just look at them and sigh.”

Costly apparel
designed to impress
addresses the question
of who has been blessed
by the rich hand of Fate
and a touch of disdain,
again and again revealing
that the fee for pleasure and pain
is more or less free
from interest paid by the Vain
whose circumstantial pomp
repeats a refrain
that passionate people
caught up in wonder
consider clever
as they ponder whatever
flighty melodies flit
through their thick skulls,
running the gamut
of songs: From Gulls
to Larks; from Starlings to Quail;
from Wrens to Thrush;
from Dolphin to Whale;
to the cool cadences of Kate Bush.

Bleed poetry, like verbs that live to die on a page;
Let your arteries pump purple passion, freely;
like actors in a tragedy dying on a stage,
the knives that cut one to the quick are steely.

Street poets strive to know so little of their art;
hold so much of bluntness, raw, banal, and hard;
and Death, a reigning mistress, called to play her part
in some vignette performed before some guard

whose posts forsaken long ago were nevermore resumed,
fakes the love she promised not to give,
as Apathy, her sister, stout and swart and peacock-plumed,
pretends to care, and then proceeds to grieve


the souls of holy-minded men and women everywhere,
the hearts and minds of all the meek who strive
to gain that New Jerusalem on some mountain in the air
so that weak ones need no longer downward doubting dive.


Do you crave the blood that from my veins flows forth?
Will you play the dark vampire in this gothic dream?
Tonight, tonight mild, mild hearts softly beat beneath
the white moon’s wild, wild crystal pale blue stream.


Romance yearns to rustle in immortal restless seas.
Sweet, serene, and nuanced is the bed
of rosy-petaled bliss that aims to thrill and please
even as the hot red blood rushes to the head.

Surrender like a prisoner whose fate is justly sealed.
No longer will I bite when I am bitten.
When the blood has ceased to flow, it will be congealed.
When the poem is read it will be written.




Note: I use "die" in the first line in the same sense that John Donne and the metaphysical poets used it, as a synonym for sexual orgasm. In this sense, each poem that has not been "tried" is a virgin. Like Alice Cooper sings, "My heart's a virgin, it ain't never been tried. And you know I'll never cry. I'll never cry." This is from the song, "Only Women Bleed" — One of my favorite Alice Cooper songs of all time!

JOHN THE WEREWOLF: A SONNET

Gothic beyond all the limits of grace,
Intense as a Titian placed on stark display,
Was the look of utter horror on John’s face.
Full was the moon on that night they did say,
When he was bit by the wolf who did prey
Upon humans to sate his appetite.
John was hellbent to survive, come what may.
He fought off the beast with all of his might.
But little did he know the full extent
Of the power of the wolf; what it meant
To be bitten; what a vile miscreant
He would become; and what horrid torment
John would bring down on his neighbors and friends
Before a silver bullet his life ends.

Overdue Depth Charges



Caught in a mesh
of responsibility,
I flicker like trapped light
edging along
the filament of a dying neon tube;
crying out at the darkness
that swallows my depth
in a depth that is deeper than death,
my voice cracks amid the stillness
of a solemn shadow
cast from a corner streetlight
whose epic journey
into the recesses of my soul
shimmers with a maudlin echo
in the mystic whirlpools of my heart.



Over behind
the gnarled old fence
set against
the weedy back lot
where my tortured psyche sits
on permanent display,
like the chassis
of a gutted Chevy,
stands the cheesy,
long-since-faded billboard
we all viewed with contempt
back in the ’70s.
Remember?
The one advertising Chanel No. 5
with a twiggy bleach-blonde model
decked out in a green
and blue print paisley pant suit!



Colour the contours
of our collective unconscious
in pastels and lurid yellows
whose shadings and hues hang
over the dim façade
of rectitude we’ve built
around the corner
from where we used to live
back in the green hay days
of our misspent youth.

“It wasn’t like that other night,”
I whisper, pressing my lips
against the hushed wall
of worry you’ve woven
into a sullen wreath and
wrapped in woe-stricken haste
around your beautiful ears.



If in some desert mirage
we could find our way through
to the oasis of splendid
dreams far from our
stale city streets,
we might muse on
the answer to the riddle
of what it was like.



“Ineffable” is the word
whose amorphous meanings
edge along the outskirts,
splashing the muddy
curb-waters of my mind,
in the light of the dying neon’s
fading flicker.

In strong and bidden alms for the uncouth
subtle among Tynedale's youths
comes a quaint collection
of misspent pennies

These are the mysts of Tynedale
blithe and impenetrable
colder than the sea
under the winter wind


These are the mysts of Tynedale
raw and unexpected
wilder than the call
of the comet's flame
through the vastness of space

These are the mysts of Tynedale
correct and inaccessible
purer than the virgin
arrayed in whitest sheepskin
with ample dowry bestowed

Cast the pennies
in the wishing well
though misspent
they will save Tynedale

I really enjoy your writing. It's different and brings interesting perspective wth a unique voice. Very cool.

This line is awesome: "Caught in a mesh of responsibility, I flicker like trapped light edging along the filament of a dying neon tube;"