Tag Archives: existentialism

Poison Ivy

Desire, the fruit of patience,
          overripe and waiting,
wrapped tightly,
throttling the trees
with coiled potentiality.

One can but see me,
and be sated.
I cannot be consumed,
burned
cared for
pruned
adorned.

What flesh I know,
is only a passing glance.
Ignorance or incompetence,
either meet at the same end.

The dirt though, is amorous
as I stretch into all its nuance,
settling that wayward soul.
The sun showers me with praise,
it’s light on me in subtle places,
echoing my fingers in the earth.

But still,
I hide a quiet passion,
to move through the world as you,
create as you.

I put that lust in sweet oils,
ambitions charming enough for honey,
for dew drops,
but too much,
far too much for you.

On your skin that passion burns with envy,
raises the flesh in sour complexions,
cries out in pain, but at least-
a part of me is with you.
At least- you won’t forget my name.

Imposter

What.

Each meaningless line,
inherently out of context, out of time,
just marks on a page,
only named when needed;
given a value defined by desperate minds,
but worthless absent an observer.

Sometimes,
I can’t see past the scratches,
words I know,
that know me,
look strange and uncalled for;
a line of ships off a virgin shore,
hoisting unfamiliar flags,
smoke billowing from their cannons.

I defend myself with anger,
taking from it that worthlessness,
as if I owned it all along,
falling on that sword.
Surely, the word will make sense in time,
I’ll recognize it;
it, me.

Like crossed eyes finding their place,
I’ll remember its name,
where it came from,
what it is.

Surely,

what.

The Great Escape

Long tendrils languishing in fire
the coarse wind set against us, excites;
in concert, we begin to gossip and conspire.

Would it be best we act at night,
when eyes refuse to see such subtleties,
beneath the somber tones of the moon’s pale light?

Or would the day be enough to appease?
The brighter things keeping errant minds entertained,
just as flowers incite the lust of bees.

Perhaps the twilight hides our greatest gain,
the way it moves, like slurred speech,
what we do then, might seem less insane.

Or, is it that in this, no peace can be beseeched?
whenever, however, we choose to retire-
it is a bitter end we reach.

The Race

To frame a scene you need time,
the theft of which is a crime
for hours are not ours to give;
we live in this paradigm.

We capture all that we can,
like amateur shaky cam,
hoping to fix it in post-
at least for most that’s the plan.

We are not photographers,
nor are we biographers,
we don’t have that kind of view;
closer to cryptographers.

Drowning in information,
searching for causation,
to create more chaos,
or a cross of damnation.

It isn’t until we’re done,
that we can learn the lesson;
leisure is the right response,
but everyone wants to run.

Demolition

I wasn’t able today,
not for a few days.

They are so short,
while my troubles-
      long tired things,
heavy, hot breaths heaving
overcome the days with ever larger strides,
stretching shadows;
then fall-

like twelve stories condemned,
not pouncing, but plummeting on them,
the rest of the world obscured in billowing detritus.

The days buckle under the weight,
but they do not protest;
accepting the burden like responsibility. 

The troubles, wheezing, subsist through the nights,
just to wake me again.

Neither of us sleep well.

SS Daniel J Morrell

All that metal was more than steel beams,
born of dreams with sturdier seams,
a name whose history foretold of terrible things,
here too, here too.

A ship built of such namesake
could live eternal on silver wakes
but it’s moniker took no part, long since dead
he had no hand, no hand.

So when the ship was old and brash,
it breached tyrannic waters headlong into a clash,
abandoning the ideals of its progenitor
for shame, for shame.

As if possessed by more than storm,
the ship rose high and like rags was torn,
sending its crew scattered to the cold,
alone together, alone together,

their desperate hearts searched the sea of night,
dancing with terrible fury, they saw absurd lights,
a ship as brazen as they and cried out,
“rescue, we are rescued”

But that ghoul did not slow to greet them as a friend,
rather surged forward with rage against them;
twas the stern of their own ship come to finish the job
drag them down, drag them down.

And so it did, tossing raft to sky
and pulling them into the cold undertow
nameless faces for the fish below;
but Dennis survived, Dennis survived.

Marathon

An endless rhythm pounding against the ground,
echoed steps lost, never to be found,
Stop.
Let it all flood in,
thrashing against the coves of sanity –
white foam, screaming.
The gulls cry out for stunned fish
lying on the rocks
unaware of their consumption,
an endless rhythm pounding against the ground,
echoed steps lost, never to be found,
Stop, finally,
amidst the garland.
Are the flowers for respect,
or just the satisfaction
      of causing something else to die?