poetry

by

New Food

I met a merman, as he
Clambered out of my tub.
I asked him if he was
Hungry and he replied,
“Give me some food from
this foreign land, that my
tongue has not tasted before.”
So, I went to the fridge and I
Pulled out some pasta and
Heated it on the stove.
I went back to the man-fish
And found him stretched
Out on the bathroom
Floor tiles. He was cooked
To the gills, from his fin
That was stuck in the
Outlet close to the door.
So, I though to myself,
“Why let such fine fish
Go to waste?”
I cooked him all up,
So here eat your pasta
And pass me your plate
For more.

by

Diagnosis

I sit in darkness wondering if that
Redundant ringing in my ears will cease,
But lurid plundering of combat in
My warring brain expands, spreading disease.
No sense in finger tips, but needles pricks
Of fine sand trapped beneath the skin and mix
Of shore’s cold water. Grows more viscous now
And dull. The symptoms gather as fatigue
Sets in. The words, they dangle down
From lips that spill regrets with no intrigue.
In yawning darkness tribulations stay,
Before my pride is scorched and falls away
Towards the shame of sickness holding rule
To eat my independence. Stubborn fool.

by

About the Road

The rush of cars brings peace and guilt.
Never ending sssssshhhhhhhhhhh of the way
on asphalt. Artificial wind bogged by the
grumble of engines lulling as they traverse
the world on the black cuts that gut the ground.
Naturally the Wind is angry. In the trees it
calls the leaves, shifting, shouting whispers
only into the ears of passerbys that hear nothing
but buildings at their backs. Too loud here, to hear.
Calm clams up and dark drags dejected when the
boys come to town to build a seamlessly sectioned
city. Only the rain can mend the wound, when, on
night given rest from the violence of interaction
during devils hour, the world beneath wheels is
upturned down and the black tar becomes a mirror,
soft lighting our world and painting with light
A guiltless reflection.

After Nowhere Album
by

After Nowhere Album

A poem written in response to this picture.

A poem written in response to this picture.

Pink flyers hang from
Ropes swaying (barely) in
Wind like young leaves of
Penicillin, when melted are
Forgiving on the mouth for
Fear of rejection.

A hand wants to touch but
No such luck or lick.
Off limits. If you taste
That paper it will dry
The tongue on moldy bits of
Piglets.

Not that you could tell,
From such a succulent tail
Brought forth to another world where
The Cat in the Hat is Siamese
And travels around saving
Little girls from fat orange tabbies.

The Beginning

Dear fellow readers of the world. I cannot tell you how much I admire and respect that you actually do read. So many times these days, someone will leave the safe haven of education and step into the real world, in which, their eyes never focus (or ears, for those of you partial to audio books) on any book, essay, or intelligently stringed sentence again. You are they exception to the rule. Or, maybe, they are. But either way, you are appreciated. I plan to write in instalments, at least once a week. You may find short stories, short essays, and possibly poetry.  There may even be a serial story or two. Who knows? Welcome, reader, to my mind.