“And it Roars”

Midnight mental meanderings,
scribble-scorched papers,
bed sheets bloodied by ink and words
and thoughts and feelings, felt
and unfelt, uncertain assertions
tumbling through possible pathways
previously hidden –
sweet permissible nothingness,
welcome black, void-edge twirling
spinning, failing, flying nothing-anxieties
with broken backs, scars bursting
into being, pockmarks
marking palmprints with curling
spiraled roots searching for water,
love and life – life and love,
inkwells running dry of familiar
worlds and words and whereabouts,
nothingness, voids, oblivion, black,
sweetness bitter burning, understanding
scratches the front of your cortex,
potential enlightening, understanding,
it all bristles at your coming, but
fades when you reach for it,
fingertips and fog, a desert swallows
a drop of water, a bead of sweat,
a ball of insubstantial everything
growing in the centre of your forehead,
taking all the space of your thoughts
and none of it,
subsuming you, breathing you,
breaking you, walls of loss
and life and love and loss rising
infront, behind, before, afterwords,
intent is lost, it was never
found or had or loved or
lost or lived or loved, or loved
or loved

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“Patrician”

delving sideways along a desk of maimed nature
through notes of crushed-stabbed papers scrawled
with arcane, ill-thought, ill-felt runic ramblings
damning some and soul-saving others
making exceptions without feeling-thinking
who goes ahead and who is left behind
to bleed-black on volcanic dead-rock.

“A Time and Place”

There’s a time and place
for thoughts like these.
Lonely bartop ramblings
and sudden cynical desires
are never well combined.

There’s a reason all the colours
fade like they never knew the bright,
a reason for beauty like that
to disappear and never be known
again.

Who knows what that is?