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Once upon a notion,
I warred,
against, an Ocean,
of uncried tears.

They coalesced,
on the battlefield,
of my Soul,
rigid, reticulated,
frozen.

I gunned down,
the last of the emotion,
with, shattered shells,
of me, broken,
cannons fired,
on fears,
at my behest,
a forked feeling,
on every axed pole,
insides, ended,
by implosion.

The waves, of,
my innermost,
sanctum,
are consumed,
like Whales,
swallowing Plankton.

I’m left, just,
about,
alright,
alive,
trapped,
between,
the deep,
blue teeth.

All remedies,
are, corked,
and, I sank them,
the puddled spite,
serves as,
memorandum.

The unsurfaced truth,
is, what, lies beneath.

I am an inky blot,
a hydro-error,
an oxy-thief.

A misshapen,
lost sole, a forgotten footprint,
on the Seas.

Ego Oceanum sum.
Ego naufragus sum.
In aeternum;
erratum.

© poormansdreams

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That, unitchable, scratch.
This, abominable, sense, of yearning.

The setting, of Ignatius, upon, a thatch.
Yet, even, cataclysmic floods,
didn’t douse, the unrelented burning,
for, odious and loathsome, goods.

That, monkey, clasping onto, a back.
This, sour crabapple, bitten, for the gurning.

Fruit flies, swarm around, use-by-dates-past.
Tasting riper, than, Stygian buds.
Maggots embed, in scandalous skins, squirming.
As, oily shame, seperates, from curdled bloods.

That, fear, of firstly, coming down, for the last.
This, offer of being sated, that is drier, for the spurning.

Saturation, is, just, about, the only thing, that is, lacked.
An idea, stuck, sinking, in the clinging muds.
The verdict’s in. Been caught. And, there is, no, adjourning.
Weighed down, at the gavel, by, unsentenced, “should”s.

That, one wish, that, fell-off, the starry mast.
This, uniform of stripes, worn for, elliptical, turning…

The unhatched egg, that is craving, to be. Cracked.
Despite, the inevitable ending. Thuds.
The yolk’s eyes, are; yielded, yellow and blurring,
a yoke, unwing-ed, foul, hungers to fly, high, from, unturning hubs.

© poormansdreams

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“Does it make the contrived medicine,
any easier on the gander or the swallow,
when it’s from a ‘scaped Nanny goat’s,
ground skin, flesh, bones and marrow?
The bitter bleating maa’ing pills will turn you into the very same tomorrow.
While the birds will peck, honk, hiss and
cheap-en it from the heron to the sparrow.”

“Are comets simply shots fired by luminaries during interplanetary warfare from galactic bows and arrows?”

“Does the rain wet the appetite of Godly stars that wait patiently in the shadows?”

“A scope turned hanging rope is the Milky Way fallen from a spacious wheelbarrow.”

“The horizon’s panoramic vista to a universal puppeteer is still awfully narrow.”

When you set out to deeply ponder,
on the ever-expanding nature of all things,
you become an avid first responder,
to the ubiquitous pulling of the strings,
the camouflaged veneer of over yonder,
and the unsurprising pain as it stings,
the moulting and shed skins of anacondas,
the outstretched spreading of eagled wings,
you care not for worldly riches squandered,
instead you enrich your soul in everything,
you say a prayer fervent, full and sombre,
for those living on ever-thinning strings,
the trapeze actors you’ll love ever-fonder,
for the beauty in the hanging-on of their cling,
and the daily tightrope they dare to wander,
in order to trample, to revolt, to be uprising,
to be a Rapparee of the highest honour,
against deluded grandeurs of any king.

© poormansdreams

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If time were human
would it want to hold on
for eternity?
Would it grasp for
the stars knowing of
their inevitable fate?
With vast sums of hours
for hands grabbing into
tenebrous obscurity.
A comet’s tail slipping
through it’s minuted fingers
while running late.

If space were human would
it feel self-conscious about
forever growing in size?
Would it count asteroids
instead of calories
to reduce it’s weight?
Other universes and planetary nebulae pointing and whispering about
it’s belly being bigger than it’s eyes.
Trying not to show off
it’s favourite cascading multicoloured
galaxies in order to placate.

————————————————————

Stuck in an orbiting, far-away rut
somewhere along the Milky Way
synapses resembling stardust
each trajectory a threaded fray.

An umbilical cord unravelled, cut
and used to climb down into space
downtrodden by an intergalactic foot
satellites pulling at the cosmos’ lace.

The book of time will no longer shut
and there’s no finish line to the race
trapped in an orbit without any luck
fortune has roundly forsaken the brave.

Celestial hands on quills are taken, took,
and handwritten upon Andromeda’s grave…

The epitaph reads,

“Your shining pluck
of courage swirled around us, and, saved
many a sinner’s soul from being stuck,
betwixt vast nothingness and spacial slave,
but, was lost on matterless knaves who don’t give a fuck.
Creatively you birthed new worldly waves,
white horses’ prisms surfed as we shook,
stars walked the plank, plinth and staves,
the midnight skies couldn’t creep or snuck,
from your twilight masterpieces, engraved.”

© poormansdreams

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To think
there came a time
when the locks
were changed
on a door
I could no longer
open
to a home
with the coldest
of shoulders
it’s back turned
we were now
estranged.

One blink
no clue, no secret sign
the musical chairs
unchanged
I’m out of key
out of ideas
and tokens
ill-fit for shouldering
winds blowing
colder
twig silhouettes cast
on a tent, so, strange.

A rink
of icy breath, resigned
my skating notions
unexplained
a sense of self;
fractured, jawlocked,
broken
a phantom door handle
without the holder
can ghosts
over the threshold
be obtained?

Succinct
erasure’s bereft timeline
memories besmirched
and stained
wipe away
bleach
coloured tears
soaking
“Let’s just forget it”
is what I told her
but, there’s a room
in my head
where it stays…

… Always.

© poormansdreams

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Superficial,
living the breadth,
of, newcomer’s struggles,
your future’s, fickle,
skinning, the depth,
of, summer puddles.

Aella, your whirlwind, wraps your hair,
each lock, encircles, to make a noose,
your gallows, stand high, above, your flare,
we swing, like, pendulums, excused.

If, it’s eminence, you seek,
beware, of, rosy, passing cheeks,
their emptiness, will, fill, you whole,
like, birdsong, without a beak.

Peripheral,
the outliers, omit the truth,
they’d rather, speak, of stats,
robes, of kingly purple,
a smacked mouth, so uncouth,
bites a tongue, until, it snaps.

Aella’s lipstick, on her ex, marks his gob,
the treasure, planted, she leaves her foal,
neigh-saying tears, themselves, do, sob,
as, her spirit, moves onto another soul.

When, it’s tragedy, you find,
don’t blame fate, for, a lode unkind,
your hibernation, outlasts, what you bear,
and, honeycomb promises, sting and bind.

© poormansdreams

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And, Dale, like, the road, we knew, so well,
you tried, to drag me, down to Hell,
with, your nose, so wet, unwell.
A white cat’s collar, rings it’s bell.

I climbed, the banks, of, the Glen,
without a thought, a hope, or, ken,
up, the paper-sharp, clinging, edges,
without, a purpose, a plan, or, pen.

And, Dale, you could, always, tell your lies,
without a mouth, you, still, have eyes.
They seldom blinked, at other’s cries,
they never saw, your glassed demise.

I ran, with every notion, of escape,
knees and elbows, grazed and scraped.
The lined and needled hedges,
scored me, for my sake.

And, Dale, you think you know so much,
but, you have, only, read, one book.
The book, that answered, your bad luck.
The questions mount, and, you’re mistook.

Do hypocrites, make sense, of words?
Can, a shark, out-fly, a bird?
Can, the past, out-swim, the dredges?
The answer you hate, is, all, I heard.

And, Dale, can, you turn, water, into wine?
Create, signs and wonders, all, of the time?
Live, in, the House of God, sublime?
Or, are you, just, really, past your prime?

The bed, you made, is, crawling, with, your lies.
You, always, said, you’d rise, we’ll see, how high.
When, your final sleep, comes, to soften, all, of your edges.
And, the larvae, have, sniffed you, into flies.

© poormansdreams

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To He who
hath taken
all of me
for a fool
let it be known
it’s for the birds
and that I shan’t
say much out loud
better yet
anything at all
because mouths
and souls
at a loss
have no need
to recoup
stolen words.

Your idle hands
ashame
even the dev-
ils that plague
your mind
and shallow
attention seeking
prayers
cannot save you
from the various
versions
of yourself.

When the clock
strikes infinity
the warmth
you feel will
not be from
your loved ones
but rather
cynically will be
from the burning
coals of suffering
that burn blacker
than your heart
and that you felt
were worthy
to place in the grasps
of those that gave
to you unconditionally.

Now they
scorch your feet
as you walk
the blackened plains
alone knowing
what you beseech
is an obsidian
desert palace
made of oily tears
left unweeped
and a blaze
of suffering’s coals
compiled with
charring hate
to make a throne.

I sincerely
hope you reign
for as long as
the desert dunes
reject the rain
and that your seat
of conceit
brings you comfort
with jet mirrors
that caress
and worship you
proudly and vain
as the sinking sand
is melted into glass
and blown
for you to view
consume and feel
the nothingness
of your empty soul
through it’s open pane.

© poormansdreams

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We, lie, in the cafeteria, after, the infirmary,
like, the three fleeting feathers, of;
fought-for, freedom,
fought-for, fairness,
and, fought-for, future.
That, forcedly flew,
from, the open palm, of perjury.

The tarot cards, of today,
lie; torn, ill distribted and deathly,
like, unstitched mouths of prey,
under feet; broad, flat and hefty,
trampled upon, yet, with nothing, to say,
but, to whisper, nothingness, bereftly.

Each, feather, once belonged, ungot;
to, a plumage, of the three, winged-sisters,
The, long-feared, Mór-ríoghan, but, they, were,
brought down, with, modern missiles,
then, laid, on, a robust rotisserie of unrest,
when, at Yuletide, got mistaken, for turkeys,
whilst, they, were, plucked and primed, for the pot.

Our, final flight, has, lost it’s way,
darkness, lays eggs, for, four-and-twenty,
as, the clockwork hours, plummet, into grey,
the cockpit, lies, barren, lame and empty,
there’s, no; fiery bellies or dragons, left, to slay,
despite, eight, final words, from, the corpse, of, King Henry:

“…feel myself, I will advise upon the matter…”

We, are, now, Apathy, we feel, nothing, at all,
and, we, no longer, flutter, or, even, matter,
our will, can’t; advise us how to fall,
when, our three feathers, have, forcedly flown, then, scattered,
they, can’t, pluck us from the skies, or, cuckoo, or, even, caw,
as, we; descend, disembark, and, are, finally, splattered…

…alongside; pride, avarice and gall.

© poormansdreams

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