Monthly Archives: Sep 2018

Trumpet life

Under pressure.

Breaking apart — splinting at a crucial fissure.

Until,

It  causes an eruptive displeasure.

Disquieted mind  brushes strokes of  bad blood around these elemental  chambers.

Cordoned off.

This is my plea.

So, don’t arouse my anger.

Beaten hearts with a wooden spoon.

These wings will fly-

I’m a fledgling not a buffoon.

Weep for the Teether’s – the naive doomed  creatures.

They grow into  adults

Dolly the sheep baa’ed down pilgrims rest on mothering Sunday.

Bloody miscarriages — that awoke the town from their  walking slumber.

Think 6 nonsense thoughts a day to keep you sane!

Perforate these gums.

We’re merely animals lacking in  humanity,

Evolved to maim the wold for self depravity.

Governed by  social media surveyors  cohearsing   joined up conversation into cursive bubbles.

Uttering bullocks — unravel the mind to overcome the low ebb of the  tide.

Disquieted mind tumbles over.

Terribly tainted its prompted to conjure a pantomime.

San Fransico knights

Dangle buckle boots or  bare feet over the  bay.

The full  moon reflective.

Learned that life will conquer them too  if it has its own way.

Make it a Wishing well.

Make it the  Stage!

Exist or live….

Hell is on earth  — uprise to increasing fees,

We’re bludgeoned to death

if we don’t  pay.

Over and over.

More and more.

Gluttonous gloaters   feed our souls community  with a  skunk;

not from Bombay.

We walk around the streets in mobile  psychosis.

We are a society fabricated from bedlam , deserted   in these woods.

Wondering about other lands,

Running away from daggers armed by cloaks concealed behind hoods.

We dance around  the pink elephant  cuffed behind its  cage — waiting for the  trumpet,

To spray all 7 dynasties  with glory seeds.

A trunk  with roots in disarray,

This is Life that I seek to portray.

*Inspired by writers block, panic attacks, mental illness, injustice, isolation, fear and the song ‘San Fransico Knights by People Under The Stairs’

Thorn between two roses

In the twilight of that mind,

Turntables blast out despair

 Unable to fathom out her own kind.

Two open-ended books splay their outward innards.

Hesitant to accept the possibility of another perspective.

Suppose there is alien life out there…

That we can conceive of.

An outcome for her resolve to never give in to her woes?

Roses feel pain when cut down by brutal shears.

Where are the moderators in this game of Divine consequences?

Have they too been bribed to ostracise the rest?

Recalled

A product rebranded a Rose.

Children toy with her parts, cut her hair, drown her until her lungs, over-bloated

Spew out flotsam froth.

A final rattle forming a bubble of foam.

Youth is fleeting

as a pirate’s final orgasm freeing his seamen to rest.

This flight became her ghost – it tormented her in a walking state of slumber.

When Rose was of a venerable age she sat upon her own Fate.

Ignorant to all counsel,

She lacked common sense for a daredevil debate.

‘Mere islands’, she would bluster.

An ancient mariner couldn’t deny that she was born to a concubine.

Made from unusual voodoo cut cloth.

She mixed rarely with other groups

Outside of Fear

For impending wrath.

Her weeping congealed by third-degree burns.

Shuffling her feet- rarely led to any sudden about upturn.

What prompted Rose to behave in such a manner?

Emotional intelligence IQ lower than an abyss in Alabama?

Regret staggers not long after

Rose’s final walk down the marching plank.

Swords of sleeted ice pierce into her back.

She ignores all those gallant enough to help her find her to her new abode.

She has the the secret code to,the Outlaw, of the conquered seas.

Why put the world on pause when time is has its own entity?

Reality is indendant of thought.

Passionate.

Highly astute.

She thrashes about with the sense of an insecure perception of identity.

The FATAL FLAW for love on the grandest vessel

She sunk to her final resting place –

the bottom of the plastic strewn, infested seabed.

The day she allowed this rogue to assault her

Though she did plea;

Her screams were ignored-complicit to acquiesce.

Love is partly veiled.

One can’t see through the composition of the waves.

She casts one final look around,

She sees the world in all its chaos- divided into self destruct.

We don’t have love!

How can we summon humanity?

It’s merely a spectacle!

A damning show.

She turns around and winks at the one who took her to his chambers.

She smiles;

wonders if this Outlaw knew that he was taking her soul’s ability to speak.

There is no ending to pain.

Only true bedlam can express her reality.

She is the thorn.

She is the rose.

-the one frozen in hell with her never-ending guilt.

Cloud with clout

And in my darkest hours, when the air extingushes all light. Hopelessness hangs heavy, spongy and dense.

Above me it hovers, a cloud with a fierce clout. I scramble searching to strike my last match.

Unable to see what is right in front on me.I hear the mirthful tinkle of a giggling child. A purr from a serene feline.

And my senses are distracted yet aroused.

I remember to always look up.

The rain still pelts down furiously. The wind whips me with absolute vehemence.

I see the silver lining…. And my soul is renewed with inner joy once again.

* musings from a picture prompt *