Brian Patrick
My head pounds with each beat of my heart
The pounding grows with every second that passes
Seconds turn into eternities of distress
That distress grows into pain beyond endurance

The pounding continues to drain my spirit – hah
Pills and drink only mask what is happening in my head
Throbbing, throbbing, throbbing
My thoughts are turning inward – **** dastardly thoughts

The throbbing won’t leave my head – it’s ever-present
The darkness is growing inside of me with every beat of my heart
Thoughts, gruesome thoughts, start to take form in the psyche
They churn and grow into such images of despair and worthlessness

A .38 feels so real and yet heavy in my trembling hand
Blue steel should do the job and consummate the end
Swift flight through the jaw into the throbbing head
No more throbbing or pain, nor thoughts of demons – just serenity

A blade might be nice – to the jugular, the deed is done
The slow drip allows me to contemplate my demise
To see those things that drove me to this end
Slowly easing into nothingness might be the way to end the pain

Whatever chosen method of demise – this earthly life betrayed
Shall allow this body to die and decay over the timeless drift
To end this stay that has tormented my means throughout my time
I cling no more to thoughts unreachable and painful only to fall into requiem

John Keats

O Solitude! if I must with thee dwell,
Let it not be among the jumbled heap
Of murky buildings: climb with me the steep,—
Nature's observatory—whence the dell,
In flowery slopes, its river's crystal swell,
May seem a span; let me thy vigils keep
'Mongst boughs pavilioned, where the deer's swift leap
Startles the wild bee from the foxglove bell.
But though I'll gladly trace these scenes with thee,
Yet the sweet converse of an innocent mind,
Whose words are images of thoughts refined,
Is my soul's pleasure; and it sure must be
Almost the highest bliss of human-kind,
When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee.

Brian Patrick

Insidious by its very nature
Yet soothing to those who indulge
It calls upon its broken cohort
Every two hours like a sentinel

It silently creeps along the mire
The Reaper within smiling and leering as he
Calls upon the Banshee McLemore
Searching for the wanton easy prey

Somehow the Poison drifts along the ebb
The shore becomes a winter haven
Solace among the rubble and waste
The storm as the background for a living hell

The innocents have no fight with the
Pinprick that brings their bodies delight
Off into the realm of self edification
The familiar warmth that overtakes

The warmth that turns into stark heat
Fluttering eyes look to the heavens
The beauty that is McLemore, lips waiting
Death in all its beauty awaits

To be stolen from the claws of McLemore
Cheated from the Reaper's blade
The spray that awakens the departed
Another snatched from the clutches of the Poison...
...has risen

© 2014 Brian Patrick

Brian Patrick

A gift is given without expectation of return
A gift is wrapped in anticipation
A gift can be hidden in finery
A gift is accepted without question or hesitation

A gift may be breath into life
A gift is a feeling beyond mere words
A gift brings joy and solace
A gift allows total abandon

My gift is beyond all expectations
My gift is tall, blonde and exquisite
My gift is the greatest promise of life renewed
My gift is totally mine without reservation

Thankful for my gift of love
Thankful for my gift of life
Thankful for gift of beauty
Thankful for my gift of forever


© 2014 Brian Patrick

Brian Patrick

Tall, knowledgeable, caring, jovial and holy
Respected by many; exalted by others
His road – the road that should be taken
Irish of course, but not of the old sod

The unattainable, becomes at once, attainable
Your reckoning lightened by his words
The Black Robe is a tale to be told by all who believe
Believers they may be, but not for ease of living

He, The Black Robe, beckons you to seek his countenance
Consolation is offered within the folds of his robes
You accept the gift without hesitation of belief
Your belief in the blood sacrifice of the unbelievable

The comfort of refuse offered by The Cassock
Truly blackens with the deceit of the unholy
All too friendly for men and boys
The betrayal all too familiar for me

Brian Patrick

Plodding, trudging, slogging through the reeds
Praying for death or at the very least – rescue
Sweat and muck mingle as one
Sliding down my face and pouring over my body

Why me? I have no repair
Looking behind; not a human in sight
The arrows fly by whizzing in the dark
Into the mud I go – fearful

The light in the distance beckons
My limbs giving way to the weight
The rope catches my  neck and tightens
Into the Chart House dragged to no avail

My captors start the endless mindless dance
I am at the beginning of my long goodbye
Dare I give them the dark secret they desire
Never, never …
… the blood trickles down my ***** neck.

Brian Patrick

Cold blooded, darkly dripping
Teeth; long, sharp and oozing red
Nails extending beyond the reach
Wings embracing the night sky

Beelzebub scans the upper crust
His cantations include the depth of misery
The collector of souls and destroyer of flesh
The Rake, the conveyor of death

After the vernal equinox, preparations to begin
The first of the year yields way to St. Wineblad
Blood, body and soul gathered
More to continue for Walpurgis

As the sun sets, the three-eyed raven appears
The signal propels The Rake to flight
Searching, searching for worthy sacrifants
Low over the cornfields he marks his prey

Brian Patrick

Interesting, that someone like me
Someone who grew large on the street
Would have their very own island
An Island where one could go, but never live

The Island is far from beautiful
The flora and fauna are deplete from color
The water colorless and hard to the touch
Sand invades making all heavy

Visiting my Island becomes too often
It pulls me – no beckons me like a lover
To extend my stay never to retreat
Never to return to the life I live

Once on the Island chills and tremors grow
Dripping with sweat only to give in to torment
No sunshine, only the darkness and despair of the Island
My Island delivers desperate comfort

Never do I want to leave – only always
My Island only for me to wallow about
Forever trying to leave this paradise lost
Only to find my island visit lingers ...


© 2014 Brian Patrick

Brian Patrick

So isolated
My being feels like lead
groping, groping
my fingers raw with ripped flesh

Rotting, putrid air
Breathing becomes a burden
Walls keep closing in
Dark, dank and musky

The ***** *******
The cunning **** that he is
Exiled me to this earthly dungeon
My sentence to be drawn by death

The constant murky mess
Sludge that seeps in every pore
Without forethought or feeling
Life without touch; death

Brian Patrick

Standing on the precipice of my life
Waiting for the darkness to fly in
Looking at my starving body and wondering why
The images punctuate my failed existence

The world never wanted my being
It gave me nothing
A nothingness that craved heeling
My mind collapses on itself

How did I come to this precipice?
Why didn't the gathering herd receive me?
There can be no answer to my misery
The edge beckons me closer

As the images creep in and out
The abyss waits for my empty soul
The edge calls for me
The edge is no more – I have given in

Brian Patrick

Enveloped in the dark fog of goo
Surrounded by the dank starkness
To be home where it wallows
My being satiated with nothingness

Depth - reaching for the beckoning hand
My arms are stretched beyond their limit
Hands gripping for salvation
The salvation sinks below the hell frost

Silky smooth and rich with calling
The goo oozes everywhere
It calls for me to become enveloped
The light, the doorway just beyond

Redemption from the dark ooze
Something yearned for; yet still so far
Legs unable to propel
Forever stuck in the goo