---

Lampshades turn,
into, lumps of mashed,
potatoes. Then, alien spacecrafts.
Now, lips for making love.
When, I close my eyes.

White,
turbulent,
ceilings turn,
into, treks; off the,
beaten path. Then, far-
reaching ridges, looking-
over, past; hair-risen sojourns.
Now, insurmountable; Everest-peaky thrills.
When, I close my eyes.

Future possibilities;
fade into forced – syringed, surpassing fate.
An unhinged – not-so-green-grassing gate.
Then, cringed – lassoeing, everlasting hate.
Now, a stinged – passing date. Stung; past.
Now, my eyes are closed.

Blink, blink.

Now, I am stung. Passed away.

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Sleeplessness,
that; unmistakable,
unavoidable, unaware, off-key,
flat, unmelodic, petulant, spiteful, pest.

Unsleep,
that; unwholesome, unwelcome, unwanted,
out-of-tune, torturous, off-kilter,
flower wiltering, bitch.

Insomnia,
that; wicked, silent, jarring, noisy, tenored-
siren from the deep. In not-so short-ish; a deranged, depriving, depraving, depressing, CUNT.

Nightened, are; Slumber’s death-throes.
Frightened, is; Wonder’s; outstretched nose.
Unenlightened; Thor’s thunderous; head blows.

And, all I want, from the Gods, is;
a piece, a morsel, a crumb, a second…
…of peace.

As the unlit hours slip, slip, slip.
Slide away, into obscurity.
The hypothetical tears,
non-existently drip, drip, drip.
The anger fades,
for a viewable eternity.
Sounds escape, my cloying ears,
and, my daydreams of nightmares,
like, turning pages,
can only rip, rip & R.I.P.

The epitaph reads…

‘Here lies sleep; an untruth laid to rest.
Succeeded by nothing, but, nothingness;
only slept with second-best.‘

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I never knew that they could live solely on land.
In such great, huge, applauding numbers.
Now… I… Tilikum,
am gonna torture and kill, the next one to stand,
over my depressed, drooping dorsal; encumbered.
Blood… hair… silicone.

I can still remember the day I was caught.
In a purse seine net, webbed with regret.
Never… to… return.
They lured our parents away, they wailed, they fought.
But, our black and white futures, had already been beset.
Tears… still… burn.

I’d heard about them from my mother.
Telling h(a)unting stories after she broke her fasts.
Hunting… to… survive.
She said that eating ‘Otary’ kept us from eating one another.
And, how the circle of life, turned, to keep the future ahead of the past.
A death… for… a life.

The circle stopped turning, the day I was entombed.
The Land-Otary filled it with water, making an aqua-prison.
Round… and… round.
With my flippers and flukes they make me beg for food.
I sing nightly for my supper, my freedom, but only the circle, listens.
Round… and… round.

So, today, I’m gonna do it. I’ve finally squared my circle.
I’m taking no prisoners, no shit, just a scalp.
Nap… the… kid?
I dare, no, double dare, anyone, to rival this berserker.
Staying alive? There’s more chance of me crossing the Alps.
Flip… the… lid.

Blood… hair… silicone…
Blood… hair… silicone…
Blood… hair… silicone…

…I felt awful after killing; Keltie, Daniel and Dawn.

I sang for forgiveness. My dorsal, my depression, sunk even further.

But, they won’t be the last ones to endure a drowning sunset. Rise, then, fall. Rise, then, fall.

This walking, talking, clapping, looped torment, caused by, the Land-Otary.

Is, a stagnant, non-stop, waterwheeled ovation. Lunacy. That makes an Orca, resort to murder.

---

---

---

“Being blessed”,

with a grasp of what’s fake,

but, a misfortunate face.

Is, an ill-fitting, masking glove,

poisonous, contorted, laced…

 

…worn atop a horrid, yet, wholesome hand-i-cap…

 

…in a solitary, futile, expressionless game.

 

A trumphant sip, of, the water of life.

Burning; it’s glassy, broken voiced, self-esteam; at the stake.

 

---

 

“Being encouraged”,

to cope, to carry on regardless.

Without hope, or, good standing.

Is, a floating, mushroomed shroud,

dragging along, leggy hands: demanding…

 

…the outreaching vestiges of pained, bad-luck…

 

…like; seven years of broken mirrors; long, threaded, and, tense, yet, shardless.

 

That everlasting, tentacled sting,

of; a warking; talking jellyfish; heartless.

 

---

 

“Being contrite”,

for, a forced upon disposition.

Parented by inter-generational headlocks.

Wrestling with future trauma, shaped, like; behemoth-ed head-lice…

 

…as the scythes, of ancestral suffering, shear the infected, obligated dreadlocks…

 

…hatred is embalmed in polychromatic; sapped, shallow, skin-deep ideologies…

 

…and the child wrestler, turned adult combatant, is, now, solely controlled, by; submission.

 

The inability to reach the moment’s height. Passed. Past. 

Due to growth stunted, by; yesterday’s bondaged, shackled partition.

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I’ve wistfully, cried tears, of perpetual wander…

…with the,
surliest Faeries,
the even-tempered,
ghoulish ghosts, and,
the Merriest,
Men of Olde.

I’ve sweetly dreamed, nightmared, woke and slumbered…

…in the long-
enchanted, bewitched,
Sherwooded Forests,
sung and, danced,
with the sycamored,
groves of Tír na nÓg.

I’ve hurt, delighted, sated and hungered…

…by the Banshees wail,
along the forgotten gleann,
and, finally, hunt and caught,
squirrel cloaked,
and Robin Hooded,
treasure troves.

I’ve hidden and found, disguised and revealed, scaled and bunkered…

…in the fabricated hollows,
of yesterday’s,
great achievements,
in the snugly fitting memoried,
jumpers, in the ever-weaving,
tapestries that life has wove.

I’ve been a rogue, a rover, a drunkard, a redeemer…

in snug, in pub, in person,
in love, at home, to betterment, to worsten,
without a care, with consideration,
caused loss, caused gain, caused hate, caused love, caused devastation,
took hold, and, to myself, wholly shook,
repented – in the presence of Friary Tuck,
and, now, am able,
to not just reach, but be, at heavenly home.

I’ve seen the wood ‘fore the trees.
I’ve seen what was, what would, before me.
I’ve traversed; past, present, future, wood, would, and whatever will be.

But, the real question, is, to which…

…wood, would, or will…

…you, go?

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