The magpie shuffles
Both brisk and sluggish
Amongst the harsh, hindering harassment
That is the tall grass, parted by bullish trees.
The magpie knows
In his handsome wisdom
Like an old oak with vast invested visions,
That the wind soars it’s fluttering sights.
The magpie feels,
As well as he flies
From open wasteland to tireless terrain,
That concrete slabs and statues have no flight.
The magpie is,
A farmer of all small
Pieces to forage, cascading his clever calculations
Of separating the crumbs from morning harvest.
The magpie calls
For all other magpies
As fields aching in acres are amply aroused
By the momentary sound of a fellow chirp,
The mellow tweet of hers.
I proclaim in our spiraling universe
The first and last stars molds truth and bounds worlds,
Curling nothingness which goes on and on
But I still say we’re far-gone and far more wrong
Than the song which blasts from a bubble of mute.
As for our father and further much closer to mother than revealed.
Safe yet twitching God
Angels which cry at angles, positively styling trying contribution
Of lost mental entrails and words which mean nothing, something
To scientist with more time than activity.
At least notify direction of my negativity ‘cause morbid halos
Are all I have above my head and beneath my feet is a polished rubble.
What that in which you spoke out of turn, what gives you the right
To think for yourself and be individual?
No, Imagine your fear of drowning without learning arithmetic.
1 + 1 = 3 as far as breathing is concerned. And
Imagine the universe without knowing that
Wall to wall
Wall to all, that to all
There is more than one face.
So to the same I proclaim the spiral is spinning but not sinking,
Nor growing as we are throwing everything at a single answer,
Perhaps we should prepare to not exist, first.
What was the question?
The filthy, lingering wind past through the building like a stuttering engine. Bolts and screws and estranged pieces of woodwork shaped themselves in an automated choreograph, fleeting in a rhythm that had all furniture and bending mirrors sway with the grace of horrific ballet.
Light shone in awkward corners, for the shadows had no fixed place. Bulbs, half melting, gave little luminosity and the dimness spread from those sorrowed filaments.
Eerie movements made soft work of creatures with eyes of dead children. The discordance surrounded the rooms from creaking floorboards to the shuddering damp ceiling. It smelt like the great depression, bellies of hunger rotting with fear. Fear of entrapment in this ghostly place. Fear for opening flesh, bloody organs and the wounds of aching souls.
The shuddering disturbance was harsh. Sounds became ludicrous, unintelligible, inconceivable – Screeching like violated echoes from a disused factory of abuse. A heavy thumping dragged my vision through a doorway to a musky work-desk where the screws and bent nails ushered pain as they manoeuvred.
Something vile felt all too familiar, I remembered my father kept in the lower drawer of his cabinet an old map of our lost society, wherever it may lay to nightmare. God-light forgive us eternal, for this place we remain wounded, tearing and carving one another like fiends of bloodlust. All cherished memories forever seeping into this ghost town.
The known world, we once had, is now gone.
The meadow glistened, then faded as an Aztec house
Suddenly morphed into a clock, and back into
A house. The flowers withered only to be replaced by shrubs.
All of us (whoever we were) ran our separate ways.
I was on the roof and it was moving, swaying with no rhythm
As two suns closed in to become a single moon.
Then crickets and frogs and Aztec walls. Echo of
Croaking and tick-tock surroundings.
The chimneys were like helicopters and I was
Alone. The meadow was yellow again.
Bless for you
And a glass for you,
Me as well.
Drink up old friend
As I’d be a sinner too.
God bless the truth.
Stroll towards. Shimmer back.
Crawl towards. Stumble back.
‘Her’ words were whining and what’s worse was
Still to come. Come-hither and see you later.
The nightmare in which every door is the same.
Her room is cramp like a spacious and sleeping virus –
Lodged behind the heart. The heart lodged
And caught in the door. The door locked
And caught in the heart. Miscellaneous will.
Fall towards, stammer back.
Turn around and walk away now.
My clasp slithers snake slippery and ghastly,
Hands holding, folding nothing so sheets remain creased
Like the grease which trusted your fall from solid grip
And a trip that busted your hip, hop and hot metal leaves u hanging
From the floor.
Trust me, it must be, must bust scenes
As effort and energy condense to trickery
And the walls of Niagara float harmless to the slope
But backwards soaked in gravitational pull, full throttle
With no message and no bottle.
We end to start again.
We begin to march again.
Nothing more to stand for,
Nothing new to harm-
I choose waterfall over scolded palm.
I must have sneaked out of hospital
Tiptoe, Tiptoe, Tiptoe. Trip, flip and go.
All the way to the arms
Of never ending horizons.
So called freedom,
So called feeling.
In my craving for
I begin to realise self.