Month: August 2015

THE JAILED FREEDOM OF WRITING

Sour, my attempt to write –
the flavour lost in every bite.
Undecided words, unheard,
but seeping out, expelled,
disturbed: a self-invaded,
cornered bird, un-winged
and clipped from flight,
while

I rumble with poetic temper,
my bleeding soul,
in part, dismembered,
blank, un-whole, alone,
distended –
my belly full of passion,
yet, my appetite untended,
and

expression jailed and flawed,
dissolving quicker than it pours –
a vat of garbled, bubbling
troubled thought
that rivals typed impression sought
to pillage mind and spill from core.

Scored, the days it takes between,
in floor and wall,
to key the lock that binds
this isolation door,
ancient finds arising
in my lust for seeking more
and more –
buried words upended
with surprise, and unintended,
for,

from I, the Jailor,
baseless accusations rise,
lashing, fast, acidic wind
that primes the rhymes I tongue within,
and
never one to coat my words
too thin/too dry/too weak it seems
(by definition) I resist
to drown (at best)
or leak,
while anchored here, existing,
with unflinching frozen speech,
but

the accidental draining of my
purpose-tended bed of prose,
is waiting hand on foot
with sweetened
suicidal pensive throes,
as I,
with mocking rows
and rows of written doubt,
release, in lines,
my stomach
churning through and out
demands to hasten
one true last and final shout,
so,

this filtered care
that stains my lungs with ghostly stare
and soaks my throat
as vomitus
as stinging air
that leaves me rendered,
flailed and flared and wounded,
brooding, undeclared –

through THIS
the words escape,
an icing on the freedom cake
all cherry-topped, and cut, and baked:
a timeless meal to share
without the food to waste,
the friend to taste,
the key to exit,
smitten,
from this solitary mind-induced
persisting empty prison space.

POSTERIOR SUFFERANCE

This night carries me,
blinded,
in the back pocket
of dirty minds and
shabby dreams where I,
flat, and molded,
press against this folded denim,
warm and splayed with
arms outstretched,
longing,
for another day, but

what if I turn my head
to over-peek the top
of these fraying jeans instead,
grasping threads
to keep me still within its seams
– will the exhilaration
of watching where I’ve
just this moment been
allow me inspiration
– asleep –
– awake –
to boldly look,
clinging to the back end of
these thoughts that write me,
penned in ink:
a pre-determined book?

Perhaps I should just
– winded –
forward face,
ignoring the sour stench
of this unmoving,
walking,
waking race,
stalking through the darkness
in a covered veil
at quiet pace,
destabilising future steps,
accepting this acquired taste,
processing my obsessive needs
and bathing clean my crumpled face
in chafing tears that fear progression,
awash, alone,
in one more nightly session.

Devoid of light,
hear, ye, the theme:
this narrow, stunted, damned depression,
the fabric of a self made bed –
this
bottomless pit without expression
unstitching dreams of fortune
as I swelter, melting hope
again,
apathetic,
white of noise,
inside my broken head.

MOTHER AND WIFE

Bear witness
for in this river of flesh
I carry souls ashore
where countless numbers of
babes become men
become monsters, and then
become thrustly
and greedy
and desperately famished of reason
but too fat with ease, and
too brittle and fractured
of heart and of sense and, thus
absent of care
to repent or ascend
but instead
so depend on their
wafer–thin skin to protect
their descent
into watery storms
– into tangles of nets –
– into womanly curves –
and the blue, blue eyes of
breasted streams,
ungodly fresh sin,
and purposeless dreams.

Bear witness
as I birth these farmers of filth
who strangle the earth while
I patiently wade in the knee–high abuse
and the ocean of seed
to stand watch by their graves in,
where the no–longer–babes
(the sailors and cowards and bastards that dribble)
are caught in a wave
made of stone and soil (crippled)
and anchored and drowned
without sight, nor intent, but just
passage of life
for a time once less lived
due the freedom I
selflessly lost
but to generously give.

Bear witness:
I swell with the waters of life
– the mother and wife –
for an endless such blight
yet, still, I exist
swept aside
and, despite.