The breaking,
of that, final branch.
That, unmistaken,
crunching, chance.
The twist,
that teased,
the gritted crush…
…of bitter unease.
Blood, like, sap, aching,
pouring out, unstanched.
The forgotten cut, forsaken…
…of rotten, felled circumstance.
Feels, as though, inhumane, is everlasting.
To heal and grow…
…after falling, from a baned tree, ungrasping…
…is the toughest ask in life’s chase romance.
© poormansdreams
A Gulf Stream wisp, whistles, languidly,
along, a recalcitrant breeze.
Speaking of temperature, angrily.
The Pavement, can’t help, but, freeze.
Branches, embarrass themselves,
with, protruding bark, baring all.
Their dream, is to one day, be shelves.
When, a messianic carpenter, calls.
Teeth clench. Bold, Blizzard, barges in,
nervous Fangs, creek, in Her presence.
She peppers, horizons, white, arduous sin.
Tusks, sign, mute alarms, luminescent.
Coy burrows, open their arms, to hug,
their Creators, for crisp slumbers, ahead.
Moonlit Creatures, pull and tug.
At soil, Voodoo dolls, to stab, Winter, dead.
© poormansdreams
To crash, lose and fall,
from those heady heights,
a nosediving, disco ball,
of wet, unemitted light.
A crossed, cascading crawl,
into the deathly night,
a fraying, windswept shawl,
blown by galeforced might.
The reeling of the pits,
in the damp depths of the stomach,
as glum hearts deflate,
plummeting,
to their promised demise.
Defeat reddens spit,
cheeks fly the colour of ruddocks,
descent down to Mt. Hate,
tumbling,
through disquieted eyes.
The cruel, unrequited fall.
The smashed, abyssal disco ball.
The sulking, jet, cataract crawl.
The unravelling, hurricaned shawl.
The grave, staggering pits.
The stray and scarlet spit.
The chasm of a stomach.
The vermillion ruddocks.
The burst hearts that deflate.
The sinking spiral, Mt. Hate.
Became promised demise.
Untwinkling, in disquieted eyes.
And, are, all;
liqu-
ida-
ted,
into
a;
drip,
drip,
drip
feed.
For,
the
dev-
ils,
un-
sat-
ed.
© poormansdreams
Yearning for a much simpler time,
yet the ticking clock only stops,
when the overlord behemoth’s thumb,
presses the languid clicker at the top.
Churning are these guts of mine,
bones ground to juice that flops,
a remainder of all things in sum,
mass bodily equations; divide, drop.
Burning are high stakes of thine,
the living inferno never, ever stops,
bullet holes spew from a smoking gun,
a blue prison; is all you’ll ever cop.
Returning to the scene of the crime;
are the leopard gecko’s slimeball spots,
no contrived camouflage under the sun,
could disguise what you haven’t got.
Spurning longjevity in life’s grand design,
ageing knees and elbows; envy baby cots,
yarns left woollen trails as they’re unspun,
concepts were a 1 in 400 trillion shot.
Learning to make the most of light ashine,
the gloaming thief of joy; takes the lot,
every evening He turns his back to shun,
the roving wanderers without a piss or pot.
Earning a reputation for standing in line,
we all fall head long; as we come-a-crop,
the tasers are always set to stun,
as high priests of power scheme & plot.
Unturning are; unlimited tides of time,
oceans render; we sailors, besot,
waves of deathly wordplay; minus puns,
it’s the sum of; every jet & flot.
No matter how many bottled signals,
we’ve received or sent,
time always sends;
the final message in the end.
Yes, my friend, no matter how many bottled signals,
we’ve received or sent,
time always sends;
the final message in the end.
© poormansdreams
An uncovered guise.
Our; downfall is by design.
With, clipped pinions. We are told to soar.
Without, the correct equipment.
Gritty, winged-kerchiefs are, now, only used,
to make; crashing deserts of long,
suffered eyes.
Our, flightless; bracketed letters,
autarky and prospects, are;
grounded, plucked and taken away.
By egocentric, corrupt; butterfly-catchers.
Conglomerates, politicians, monarchies,
police, pharmaceuticals, media companies,
and kill-anthropists. Masquerade,
as caterpillars, from ruddered heights.
Butterfly-catchers, in caterpillar costumes,
that constantly; covet, steal, and touch,
our; colourful, patterned aesthetics.
Without, any consent, or, otherwise.
Unmoved, they subject our, sincere, candid,
consciousness, to their; captivating nets.
Nets of; iniquitous,
crooked hallucinations.
Lined and constructed, with;
utter lies.
Consequently, we have become,
an apathetic collection, of; curtailed,
blinkered, cocooned, restricted…
…(b)utter(f)lies.
.
© poormansdreams
If you ever feel that you are frightened,
by barks, intimidating.
Do not fight, ignore or repress your feelings.
If your inner-walls detain you. Imprisoned.
And you seize. It is because,
your rage within, will leave you beaten.
If the dark arts can’t ever be enlightened,
start off, illuminating,
your life’s canvas, with your soul’s graffiti.
If cold, bitter winters leave you stricken,
stiffen your fingered gloves,
and reach for your extra cover, fleecy.
Life’s the hard part, please,
know, that the unliving’s easy.
Strife’s a scarred heart, please,
be careful, when it is given freely.
Be careful and know that,
the windowed moments,
of living pane,
will be mirrored,
in the reflections,
of every anguished,
droplet of rain,
and as they descend,
upon the ground,
in puddles, lain,
they’ll pool together,
a collective of absorbing grief,
in
angels’
scat-
tered
sky-
falled
tears,
cried from the heavens,
again, and again,
and again.
© poormansdreams
———–
To sit atop
a throne
of pikes
with swin-
ging ankles
grazing clo-
uds of milk.
Above the w-
eary world, a-
way, way up
high.
——‐—————————————-
Looking down at salty, earthed disl-
ikes, and infections rankled. When dre-
ssed in robes of silk, unfurled. Woven fr-
om a lowly worms squirming, teary cry.
———————————————————–
A squ- And, i- Thorn
inting t’s pre- curls, r-
eye m- y, all, a- ed. As
akes re tan our flo-
out a -gled. ck, slow-
shrike. —- ly, die.
—- —-
© poormansdreams
Low-born, lowly,
lumbered, plebian
mushrooms, steal and
take, their final gasp.
Before, a fastly approaching,
Babylonian Avalanche. Where, lined up, thinly, ivoried-blue, are petulant
pigs. That, usually; sniff out, lick, arr-
est and lock up; black, brown and
white truffles. The unguilty
are apprehended. For false,
treasonous reasons. So, who
can blame the fungis, for wanting
to seize, the cult of vulturous swines?
By; the scruff of the system, and br-
eak their snouts, until, their peccaried
feathers are ruffled? The champignon,
were; hewed and chewed, aplenty. By;
hoggish, gnarled teeth, curled trotters
and lavish appetites. But, those that
fell, to the Babylonian Avalanche, will,
eventually, become a Mushroom Cloud.
They’ll float over, the 50, fuzzy, boarish
corpses, to stellar, toadstool plateaus. When, their; final, pixie dust; they bite.
© poormansdreams
Can you imagine,
that day,
the cataclysm came?
Red horses, ride sanguine, mammoth waves.
The foaming flotsam, screams of despair.
Fear, hastily, carrying your loved ones, away.
Can you imagine,
that day,
the cataclysm came?
Mouths, where remarks, went to their graves.
Popcorned grief, by the handful, to share.
All over lands, desolate, embodied litter, lay.
Can you imagine,
that day,
the cataclysm came?
Futures, stubbed out, by cigaretting staves.
Clung nooses, made of, shoulder-length, hair.
Burnt edges, making skins, constantly, fray.
Can you imagine,
that day,
the cataclysm came?
Water, smoke and fire, devouring the caves.
Untold, vast, abyssal infernos, consume reeky lairs.
Inky, sapphire, carmine, chews leaden decay.
Can you imagine,
that day,
the cataclysm came?
Can you imagine,
the bray, that came,
from mother nature’s, justice-shaped, shame?
You won’t have to imagine,
for long,
it’s, already, on it’s way…
Can you imagine,
what they’ll say,
when,
the cataclysm came?
© poormansdreams
somewhere
along the universal path
a twilight hut
stands alone
where cosmic palms are read
and untimely fortunes are told
by abyssal blackness
in the guise of twinkling
clairvoyants
planets reach out
to touch lost faith
yearning for a claim
to stardom
but the uncelestial zone
yields only
dead broke dreams
that have been missold
inside
the sensei shadows
of physics
whisper
contemptuously
of blaggards that
“couldn’t even imagine
how to float
never mind actually
be buoyant”
outside
sub-zero temperatures
make sure their teeth
are heard chattering
as their lips
splutter kisses
upon every
last inch of spacial decay
comets are the remnants
of their spit splattering
© poormansdreams
poorman'sdreams 