#witching
i am a light sleeper
who wakes before my alarm
but i have my own personal Witching Hour
a gape
when I am utterly unguarded
and vulnerable to serpent enemies
it's then that they broach and whisper me suggestion
it's then that i whimper like an abused and receptive whelp
then that i devolve into a manipulatable child of therapy
it's then that weights are stacked upon my chest
and my breaths become short pinned and pained
even with my wife and child to my side
they patiently poison me with measured pipette drops
run them down a string like spittle
bitter mushroom down the back of my throat
and dreams warp toxic like cellophane near a fire
and what visions !
warrens of vivid insecurities as loved ones
strip their gloves and get to work ripping out the pegs
with twisted mocks tocking noggins
and flails of humiliation oiling apart
the mechanism of my meaning
they look at their watches time is up
they leave with their instruments
make idle chit-chat on their way out
lock the front door with the spare key
and place the key back under the mat
May 28, 2025
May 28, 2025 at 9:16 AM UTC
when the time is best described as
"the morning muddled middle"
for it is the middle of the night,
and yet,
we have crossed over the midnight divide,
the new day is well commenced,
but the prevailing dark sky says,
not quite yet!
this journey,
from the bed to the head,
is an abbreviated 20 steps,
you fall out of one,
unable to recall,
hours of vivid dreams,
now only scraps of script,
visions, whipped into the void
of the current blanket of a
night cosseting silence
in return for this
adventure travelogue,
you are granted free access to the top of your skull,
where apparently,
a new set, a fresh combo,
has been delivered, not by Amazon
not by messenger, not by the USPS,
but by your own,
fermenting, fermenting, formidable,
yawning
brain cells
and a poem appears,
wholly holy complete
space, typed and neat,
and falls from your lips,
filtered by your eyes
with no hesitation,
"and not a trace of farewell*
and this miracle,
is no miracle at all,
for it is routinized,
a daily occurrence,
the mystery of it
long gone,
The How,
dissipated, disappeared,
and delivered unto
You
your obligation, your need,
your urgent pungent
purging,
is strifeless,
and you owe
but you have no idea
to whom or what
to thank for this
bestowing
is this poem a stowaway?
or did it pay for its passage,
in cash, by credit card,
or barter ?
if by barter,
what did I surrender?
what item or thing of great value did I trade
for this permissive missive
that was created
for the soul purpose,
of being shared?
it's birth was painless,
the cutting of the cord,
was never felt!
and within minutes,
it went from birth to babe,
child to adolescent,
young adult to middle aged,
to now,
a senior senile senatorial
presents itself fully formed,
weaned wise and wizened
and served to you
on white porcelain dishes,
with black cutlery
so fresh, so hot, so new,
that you are the first
or perhaps the last,
even the only
to ever taste it…
I ask for your forgiveness,
though invited
on this journey to this meal
and it's many courses
and its mirrored ball of
disco discourses,
it is signaling,
like a wise fool frantically waving,
enough!
telling you that you
have arrived
at an ending,
that we each name,
Our Destination
so be it
** so be it*
so it be
now a shared property
<>
NML
April 15, 2025
labor commenced
at 2:27 AM
and the poem~baby
with all its limbs, all its senses,
was delivered to you,
its adaptive & adoptive
parents
at 3:22 AM
so good night, good day
and good luck!
Apr 15, 2025
Apr 15, 2025 at 5:24 PM UTC
I'm tired
of those nights
staring out behind
my eyelids
across the cold horizon
of reality
The bleakness of a future
dying twilight
twinkling
at the break
Nothing but
impossible choices
and hard truths
breaking the visage
Thoughts of tomorrow
and eternity
intertwined
like
Dark Lovers
screaming
the ecstasy of a
shared doom
in their embrace
on the distant shore
The reverberations
of their
passion
ricocheting
through my skull
in a constant dull
hum
Christ
that **** really *****
Nov 30, 2021
Nov 30, 2021 at 7:28 AM UTC
life fends its ache in a solid state of lumber
stretches grouted brawn
and sets its stresses on duty
gaseous pollution meets the daylight
a warming flatulence of the productivity byproduct
labour
orb
parching an arc over the brow
and easing an erase into the eve
then to
the night solution
a fluid of festivity
*** excite in arts and the conduct
a canvas of tincture
to suspend our culture
in-bedded
the witching hour is only a blink
a jiff and a wink
a humour in the plasma state
break
the process is reignited
and for that brief movement
cleaned out of heads
we are simple
guided
Jun 2, 2021
Jun 2, 2021 at 2:11 PM UTC
My mom: I am sorry for what
Have put you and dad through
Me:that is for Allah do judge remorse
Not me
My mom walks slowly in to the ocean
Where an eye comes
Before she enters the pupil
She turns
And says: I love you sweetie
And goes in the eye of hell
I yell out:
That is for Allah to decide
She and the eye disappear
At the witching hour
The eye of satan
The very portal to
The underworld
Sep 28, 2020
Sep 28, 2020 at 6:50 PM UTC
brewing potion with ritual
reciting chants, merely verbal
niching these little caviar
a mixture of gravitas and war
such ladle so long enough to combine
a virgin's blood with a spoon of wine
perhaps adding a buckskin would suffice
this hellcat's hellacious bliss
a bushel of a misogynist's intestine,
must not forget to hitch gobs of sharks fin,
augment a pair of an old man's sight
then smatter the hogs' teeth bite
sing song this dark lullaby
you ought to hear plead and cry
smell and smear this fatal brew
any life it shall take and shoo
death will come and it will reign
blood will begrime and it will stain
thoroughly toting the daring deathly hex
seeking a prey who must be next
Nov 25, 2019
Nov 25, 2019 at 10:52 PM UTC
You are not coming home
You're only visiting mine
The path I've carved to the bone
With my blood and sweat
When you left me behind
We're expecting connections
From two dead cells
Yet there's not a flickering light
No prospective spark to find
I want the best of both worlds
Knowing I've driven you away
While coping with the anger and confusion That leads me astray
I don't need restitution.
I don't seek retribution.
Here I see no resolution.
Let there be no delusion.
Perhaps there's a part of me
That will always care
About what you think or how you feel
But honestly it's hard for me to be real
When the wounds never mutually heal
My heart is repealed
Until your story's revealed
Maybe when Hell freezes over
Or pigs grow wings and fly
Suffice to say
I've grown older
Fulfilled in my own ways
Chasing epiphanies and revolutions
I've become colder
Concealed in my own space
Now I've found the ideal solution
Simply (smile)
Give you an illusion
Oct 19, 2019
Oct 19, 2019 at 7:12 AM UTC
Dark.
Quiet, quite.
The fan blows cool air on my skin.
Cats yowl nearby, the shuffling of cat litter
Makes sounds like oceans waves,
or so thought Mr Crick.
This is the witching hour.
310 and the mind starts to wonder,
Screens flicker, thoughts bicker.
314 and other transcendental numbers,
Infinites and clocks and super-tasks.
315 and the demons rise from the red room
Existing only in minds and movies.
Surely this is nearing the time that
I last rose from slumber
All those nights ago and begged for forgiveness
Metres from sleeping bodies?
Did I see it then?
Do I trust them?
I wonder still.
The chromosome lights
Flash like neon signs
Briefly spelling out notes
With no context or chronology.
Cats, Pi, oceans, light, *** but only in passing.
Every seven seconds is surely impossible.
Pink elephants she told me not to think about.
So random. No context.
Nonsense without meter or rhyme.
Is it the point? Maybe.
It doesn't to anybody except me.
And when I die I will take all meaning
And leave none
For you will have to make your own
Like everybody else.
Like I did.
Are we alone?
Sep 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018 at 1:53 PM UTC
Heavy eyelids flutter open to darkness so serene
Bare skin is cool and clammy with the slightest summer sheen
You walk into the night with moon and stars to guide your way
And it doesn't seem to phase you as the trees begin to sway
Because you're following a feeling you hold deeper than a dream
That in this moment everything is not as it would seem
Ahead of you a fire burns, a sun so very bright
Yet the silhouettes dancing 'round it sing their praises to the night
Porcelain figures move in time with a slow and primal tune
As you step into the circle beneath the silver moon
Chanting bodies begin their throes
As hands intertwine and magic flows
Souls woven together through the darkest power
Of the overwhelming call of the witching hour
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 11:47 PM UTC
When I was young, I was told that
"bad things happen at 3 a.m."
We were made to believe
that we were "not alone."
Now,
the scariest thing about being awake
when the Witching Hour strikes,
is knowing you're not here,
and I'm alone in this bed.
Aug 3, 2016
Aug 3, 2016 at 3:49 AM UTC