The poet in his dark night typing away

This one came out twice as bright as the doom...So I said: show me something...

A fantastic horde of innocent pictures cast their dreaming glance this way, made by those strange ones who wander in the night of it all.

It’s funny how something so beautiful could be made by them.

To see their desolate tired faces aghast in the world.

What do they see that so many do not?

How could such innocence come from ones such as these with their long coats covering frail anecdotes and worn out grandiloquence but now only walking nostalgia?

Don’t look at their eyes burning holes through the scheme of things.

Would you judge their feet by their footwear or their life by their stumble?

Do not cast aspersions on what you don’t understand because until you know the answer to this you had better stay silent unless you become one of them who forgive to be free.

Your death is not my concern, but your life can sway me.

Anger is a greed too loud to shoot down the stars to crush them underfoot knowing full well they’re endless, with claws that inhale the perfume of fear, that ribald scab in the life that climbs no higher than the facade that’s built to limit the freedom that should be.

Ah, the miser that waits for the end to pay his penny when all before have paid in gold.

Are you the abandoned love child of indifference with desires that can never be filled to eat to satiate then eat more until it comes out of the pores in the cold sweat of death?

Are you the bastion of cruel, the nightmare of the oppressed and the cause of the innocent’s hunger? Are you the darkness, anathema to life?

If I could forgive you I would be free in the noise of it all.

The dead hearts sway shuffle in their misery of delight to balance the pieces of gold they weigh with their lives to excuse their misdeeds, their inexhaustible ignorance, and their plastic pouch hearts, insidious in their perpetuation of all they grab to keep.

This piece of news is dead, crushed under the weight of obsequious lies to hide the truth where it belongs.

Oh the rubber-necking deal in this to assuage their diversity as they travel nowhere surrounded by the too full stuff they swim in to keep alive this that is dead in them.

The hive mind laughs too loud in its rubbish and stink lending itself to the destruction it pursues; so laugh it up in your death with your noise, a small thing forever returning.

I fell over the tripping stone and came up swimming in my laughter so far from home; but the august date of my return never came as I cast myself into my future, and now, so out of date, I rebound too old in the fantastic to trip there again.

I am but the appearance of what is seen, some apprentice, a happenstance of fortune, a three pieces of delight never to be found in this with my eyes cast down, once again amongst the depression and the huge stone that breaks my heart over and over again, until I would escape.

What makes this that I keep falling to get up and ask again what makes this?

My falling is my return so far from home; and if I could fall so far, why can’t I return from the essence of failure?

These dates in my mind’s eye, these delicious deaths, some once a carol played a huge nothing that lent me its ear.

See where I have fallen? What is this excuse?

The spice essence of failure that stinks of obtuse in smiles they want you to perceive that give nothing but the stranger’s tale that tells so late some return that can never be.

How can I die this way when I have so much to be given away free past the bandit’s rage, the have you I have not, the sinkhole of revenge, the stupid that burns with false courage strangled in the passing; tell me, how can I die this way, outraged and betrayed?

As I lay asleep in bed I heard some large bird being dragged away to die; and I listened to its death so much like mine; but lethargy lay so strange to mind hanging with a whisper, embroiled amongst the rocks, soaked in turpitude to smother all that can be sold or given away, this leak so bold under the lamplight so bright in the death so small given no mercy.

Two calls for help dying in the air to say this is where you belong where you hang your grace to wither and smoulder along like some freak’s tale, some piece of grass walked on and used up, abandoned while all the promises say carry on, to tell this, of where you are and what you see and hear, and never mind the screaming of your soul, your heart, never mind the stink until you die once more.

I the witness sit in my room eating some dime a dozen with strange nothings coming over the loud speaker.

What is this that I hear and what am I and who am I in the visibility is zero?

Tantalising is the death news on the TV, some squirming thing they show; they always show squirming things that are dying and such is the dying it holds you in its trance.

I am not too soon nor too late for this that I am, for this is it, and here I am in this that is what it is; but the control is slipping.

And oh those delicious thighs of doom; where are they; I need you now, to them I say," recited the poet on his stage in the lonely dark of night where no one heard him at all.

The X-ray dog nodded at this in agreement and left the building scratching his head, with Miss Pretty following close behind.

This is not the end, it is just a moment that is changing into another one.... later...

Image from pixabay