Poetry, portfolio

☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾

Darkling, dreamer,
Stars simmer at the brim tonight.

Bluebells reach, high from your palms;
Sweet teacups collecting cool rain.
Fairies flit and flicker witches’ psalms,
Purple hues haze in novocaine.

Swim the black sea with me,
Swing through planets, galaxies,
Feel the darkness, in all its glory –
Silken, salacious, upholstery,
Into dark delectability…

Feel it seep in
To every crease of your mind.

Darkling, dreamer,
Lick the salt from my neck.
Let your tongue swell, three times,
Until your mouth hangs open…

And you cannot breathe.

☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾


I only write poems in the rain

Poetry, portfolio

I only write poems in the rain.

When the trees are heavy,
But still they sway.

White noise rolling steady,
A personal foray.

Pouring sweet and heady,
We lose the days.

The sun seethes in envy,
And you’ve gone, gone away.

Poetry, portfolio

Not quite pain,
Not soft, not rough.

My back burns
My lobster hands, un-phased.
Water reddens my skin
And I am cleaned as a steamed suit.

The toaster no longer
Exalts it’s own pop-up reaction
From me.
My fingers turn crumpets easily.

And your name,
Not quite pain, nor soft, nor rough,
Brands my heart no more –

Time has numbed me,
But protected me, I’m unsure –

My hands still burn, see…
I’m afraid one day, they’ll scorch.

Cliché: A Poem

Poetry, portfolio

my heart is broken
shot into a million pieces
but what doesn’t kill you
makes you stronger…

i float at sea,
lost in pea green boat, and
when it rains, it pours
but every cloud has a silver lining

i come back to you (again)
“cat got your tongue?”
“it’s not you, it’s me…”
and the rest is history…
fool me once, shame on you,
fool me twice, shame on me

don’t judge a poem
by it’s cover
i know it’s a cliché…
did i give it away?
but watch it sell
like hotcakes
and with that ,
i’ll hit the hay

Stream of Consciousness: To be honest…

Poetry, portfolio

It is funny
How life can change,
How people change…
And yet change –
So strange –
Consistent as the seasons…
Is the only constant I know…

Right now, I should be studying
The stapedial reflex and
The anatomical basis of deafness

Instead I’m listening to Prince
And writing poetry (again)
And all this advice
About what’s a good life
What’s wrong, what’s right
Is just white noise and purple rain,
These words all that’s keeping me sane

From the cadavers and scalpels…
The floor stained yellow with formaldehyde.
I see my reflection, just for a minute,
Dark eyes, limp hair, they should cut me open too.

Don’t get me wrong
I still love coffee
And people are still ill..

But medics offer little comfort, you see
(And believe me I’ve tried),
Too busy skipping
From one case to the next…
A portfolio for the management
Just another corporate claw.

And while I’ve no fucking clue
Where I go from here
And god knows there’s no living in poetry
This is the best I know how
To offer comfort, and support,
In this labyrinth of suffering.