What to say? There's nothing to say. I have leprosy of the fingers, they groan when I clasp the pen.
The sky is clear at 38,000 ft. The land is smudges of hazy coal, brighter on the higher ground; the lakes look like silver puddles on tarmac.
And for your entertainment tonight - HORTON HEARS A WHO. Of course, nothing bad can happen while Dr. Suess plays in something less than techni-colour. It's kinda surreal, drinking beer, watching Horton hearing Who's while a monster in the semblance of my niece attempts to saw my arm off with a stale finger snack shaped like a shark's tooth - it's gonna take a while to beak the skin; longer for the bone . . .
Back to the window again.
The cities look like campfires in a vast forest of mist. Off on the horizon, where the mist banks, flashes of plasma like fireworks. It's the battlefield of the gods and we are the bacteria on the back of a silver fly.
Kissing the ground and counting my blessings. Not literally 'cause, christ, the people walking ahead of me used the bathrooms on the plane and we all know most men can't hit the inside of an oil drum . . . and blessing is used liberally; maybe fortunate would be more appropriate.
The Darkest Ones
Sweat glistening, silver on white. Moles and freckles darker. Scars nacre.
Everything is so obvious: the subtleties are too subtle; contrasts are sharp lines - cuts in shades.
Not like last night, staring up at the stars in the shimmering blue; the breeze lending voices to the trees that stretch forever in shadow -
A world in silver and grey and peaceful poetry.
I don't believe in god - masculine, feminine or plural - but everything feels alive, speaking through vibrations, ecliptic conversations.
The darkest hours are the brightest revelations
And the brightest revelations, sometimes, are scribed by the darkest ones.
It's cooler now
In the head, out of bed.
Fucking pills are like little suns in the blood.
The breeze is nice . . . and the smells: water, trees and damp concrete . . .
Tonight is cool breezes and moon tans.
I take a breath.
My mental meltdown is complete.
Dreams of death
There's a tension at every sound:
the crinkle of plastic; the brittle voices; the thud of a foot -
my muscles spasm . . .
The sky isn't blue anymore it's the palest grey.
and waiting . . .
From darkness she flies
and she catches me in her talons.
Together we rise
singing the lyrics of twilight.
Come morning I fall -
she's a fickle muse.
© Copyright 2016 paradocs1967. All rights reserved.
Poem / Poetry
Poem / Poetry
Poem / Poetry
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