Not Long For This World, Ghostly Shallows in Gloaming Afterthought & Scars and Lines, in Black Tar and White Paint, with Filaments

Not Long for this World

Too long in this world, breathes the light.
A slow tum-tum of waves breaking above my head.
I’m not long for this world, mums the clouded eye
In Münchausen monotone as I inspect the composite
Of last days and last suppers. Eschaton, come along!
Call the Mayans and Egyptians, Hebrews and Christians.
The end is nigh, apocalypse, apocalypse; why shouldn’t
We talk about that? It’s the one fact, certainty, truth
That we have to cling to. We should feel relieved in the
Space in which we cannot manoeuvre…


Ghostly Shallows in Gloaming Afterthought

The grass is greener, when looked at from a distance;
Up close the javelined blades are intercoursed with
Marshy flatulence and hopelessness, and
Like a moth, caught in a lampshade,
You return, to that bulb that will sting again!

Tortuous orchestration a melody of silence
In the ears of one, who, moments ago
Was a part of you; now amputated
Without so much as even a drop of iodine -
A vinegary wound left open to flag in the breeze.

Over meadows of ponderous bush
An underwood of stalemate congeals
And a heart left by the side of the road
Does not pump - ‘Same as it ever was.’
The milky silence of cold nonchalance,
When we’d given so much of ourselves,
Haunts the future with sickly ghosts!


Scars and Lines, in Black Tar and White Paint, with Filaments

Every moment changes life,
The sanct air hints of times,
And the unmanned jobs shine
Ways and displays all timing the change;
The moon is twice the size of my eyes tonight
In a swamp of craters as I’m twenty-two.

Innings and outings of soldiers warring
As traffic lights regulate and, unmanned,
Keep the beauteous measures rolling, rolling,
Beating like the trumps of coffeehouse blues
Phishing our season’s illumined aluminium.
Woody Guthrie Saint, shindig popped a shot at people
At gym class peabody mark six of seven.

You can’t stab truth in the eye, it doesn’t have eyes,
If it had seen; fuck, it would know, d’ya see, boy?
Portrayed as the enemy, bleak-top, in pedestrian:
A word is worth a thousand words,
Pedestrian, pedestrian, pedestrian, that’s the word!
But! On pelican crossings those lights still flash, un-bloody-manned.