Those Places, The Trial & The Midnight Hour

Those Places

My mind isn’t safe in those places
Where question marks are currency
And portals to oblivion beckon dreamt
From normalcy to judiciary
Mortgages dissent
And plaster my face up against
The wall of bandage bloodied
By mind sarcasms fancied
Schismatic aligned a map
Of temporal, templar time schematic
Died and dead on time.


The Trial

Today my dreams have died;
Perspiring in a diaphanous fuzz,
Like a lachrymal mirage, before
Going over completely like that
Rum-soaked sailor, one too many
Ones in.

I’ll never make it; my crimes too
Voluminous to sustain these fleets
Of flotsam dreams: debris on the
Oily surface of rivers reflecting
Desirous fires.

I can’t distinguish days…

I, extinguisher, I, debilitater, I.
Today my dreams have died;
In august lust for tree-trunk
Helplessness: an uprooted death
Becomes our resolve and our attempt.


The Midnight Hour

0:00 again; my phone lights up
At the midnight hour, and I’ve
Seen it again; it’s not that I’m
Not always up at this hour; I am.

But it’s that I’ve seen it, for the
Past 20 days or so, 0:00, lighting
Up silently to advert us to the
New day; some new day, awake.

0:00 I dread, it comes and is
Nothing, so what? It is only
Repetition; a signalling of the
Dirge of life, skipping in the groove

Of the midnight hour, 0:00,
Nothing, zero: zero zero, nought
Times three, an eschaton in
Transition in the midnight hour