The early morning

Early morning darkness,
in swirling misty grey.
Ideas are ghostly phantoms;
that have come out to play.

Not just there to scare,
though fear may grip your bones.
They'll tantalise and tease,
and haunt the very things
that play upon your soul.

You'll get itchy fingers,
a fidget plagues your skin.
Can't sit still and wont think straight.
In early morning darkness,
when everyone else does sleep.

A tingling knowledge of what should come,
it whispers to your mind.
Jump or leap, nudging you to the edge...
But cold take over and the morning  does arise.

Ghosts become echoes and memory fades away.

In the early morning,
when all is grey,
the possible may come to life.
An infant fire, easily extinguished by the waking mind,
may through primal embers carry a fire.
And in the waking day time,
things may burn again.

Write back

It’s not me staring at a blank screen but the blank screen staring at me, that most alarms me. There comes a time, though, when it doesn’t just stare but taunts and jibes me; and then it moves. The screen warps and weaves, pulses out and ripples back; slickly transitioning from convex to concave, a rippling wave of sinusoidal snigger.

Reality swings back and all goes cold. Silent.  A white void before me, an open expanse of temptation – the arena of dreams, thought and imagination. A universe inviting creation. Such promise, such possibility ill met with silence and inaction. Frustrated desire to let the forces of creation let rip, energy burning itself spent.

Soon night time has arrived and the void is not yet filled, nor dented, marked or encroached upon. Hours ticked by, frigid torment not laid in release.

Back in the dark

Bin away,
but not thrown away.
Recycled or just returned,
not rubbish anyway.
A denizen of the dark.
A heady swirl serves a savage welcome;
with vapourous cosh a welcoming smile.
Home returned the gloom greets.
A denizen of the dark.
So back in the fug,
senses stymied and output obscured.
It's the same old, same old.
For a denizen in the dark.
Back to tread to streets of grime, no shine;
Pen hits paper, thoughts unwind; but we're in the dark, this could be unkind.
Pace and rhyme just metrics in time, and we'll be on the run; we'll be victims and crime.
A denizen in the dark.

Idle time

Like a whore, whose legs are swayed by the jingle of a purse;

So a flag flaps funny in the wind.

No mind, no integrity its pimp like mast erect to its brazen flutter.

Choices we like to think that are made with the depth of integrity, the fulfilment of soul and being;

They are but prostituted, flapping in the wind.



Us many, we deluded mass.

We hope in fear, and fear our hope.

Freedom is a bestial prison of choices.

We dare to dream and damned in a nightmare.



Give us each day our daily poison,

Keep the mind and body feeble.

A tablet, pill or lie.

Tax in life and tax in death.



Ramble and roam with thoughts,

Fall down a rabbit hole.

Wherever that may lead.

We’re gone.

Good intentions

My good intentions lay crumpled and dirtied,
cast aside, scattered to the whims of wherever they fall.
They'll be discovered soon,
shamed memory will cosh my mind.
My good intentions on the floor,
my good intentions laying in the gusset of your knickers.
Your knickers laying stripped and forgotten,
with my good intentions,
on the dirty, dirty floor.

I stood proud with good intentions,
Yeah, we know what goes before a fall.
With those good intentions I would be home soon.
Guess I clung with vain hope to those good intentions.
I had good intentions, but I needed good deeds.

The first beer was not a mistake,
but after the fourth not to have a fifth would have been the mistake.
Or so it seemed.
Not sure a drunkards perception counts for much,
not as much as the credit limit on this card.

As her hips gyrated and the music thumped,
I ordered another drink.
Well I tried, the order was lost between the hoped for promises of her surgeon sculpted breasts.
I ordered women and wine,
my good intentions falling closer to the floor.

I never made it back to your door.
Got lost along the way.
Had good intentions,
they got crumpled and spoiled on the floor.

Hit by a car,
smashed, up-ended killed against the floor
Walking back, at that hour,
trying to salvage good intention.
Scraping what I could from the crumpled gusset of the knickers,
of some whore.

You never knew what kept me from your door,
what late night errand had me in that part of town.
Do you suspect of my sin?

Or,

Is all you hear a silent din.

Wolf

I'm running
You can hear, can't see
If you'd stop you'd smell
That is your own fear


Not stopping
Always hunting
Not in forest or wilderness
In your mind


All teeth and snarl
Claws sharp too
Etching in your mind
A primal fear


I'm strong and wild
Free and lose
You're caged and weak
Bound and restrained


I can smell the morning dew
Touch rays of sun in morning's reveille
Become alive with nature
Know who I am


How many shackles jangle when you wake
Do you yearn to forget the identity that waking reveals
Can you feel the golden glisten of nature
Do you know who you are


?


I am the wolf
Predator
Wild and free

Vice

We all have our vices,
 and we all pay our prices.
Treasure 'n' blood, or maybe just psychosis.

Million reasons not to,
just takes one to do.
Our honor and pride, we just let it slide.

Under the rug,
We fear a revealing tug.
Exposure is closure, yet it makes the vice more nicer.