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CK Baker Dec 2016
The napalan man in a violet cape  
descended the stair with a lopsided gait
a wretched procession, subscribers in cue
rattling off as they stream from the pew  

sounds and smells from a shadowy place
a catholic priest to gin up base
lanterns strung from bolted doors
cobbled streets and wooden floors  

stepping stones and iron bell
fortified by the citadel
hallowed halls and sepulcher
dragon cane for the horse drawn tour

castle turret,  archer holes
centaur scribed in chamber bowls
garden columns in courtyard view
the blood ballet and hullabaloo  

ancient tombs on warrior grounds
gods and saints who made their rounds
goliath still with battered scythe
knelt in prayer and mummified  

battle fires and crowds that roar
gallows, caves, abysmal war  
gargoyles flock the terraced *****
pearly gates to bring on hope  

serpents, snakes and burning ash
lava bombs and trident clash
mariners drift in absentee
as neptune rises from the Tyrrhenian Sea
A cradle of scythes lay in a chariot.

You reap what you sow, I grow plans.
Plant them in my mind, let them expand.
Watered with thought,
Spruced with consequence,
Implanted quietly, with utter nonchalance.
Meanwhile, in society
I digress entirely.

Later when fruition has come to bear,
A portion of the harvest will have been ensnared.
The scythe has a name: Benefit Of The Doubt.
Don't fear the reaper,
Fear without.
Opportunity, patiently.
Ciel Mar 27
I look up at the chaos around me
and see.
I see people saying their last prayers,
Waiting for their fateful endings,
I hear the church bell toll in its last call,
I feel the suffocating heat from the burning buildings,
I smell the smoke from the ignited city,
I taste the desperation in the air and the bitterness of regrets.

But in the middle of this tumult,
One thing stands out;
One person.

A little boy stands there in a tan attire,
dark gray ash contrasting his almost-white hair
and tears stains on his ivory cheeks.
A grim expression marking his features,
He shakes as if freezing
and although the heat has almost become unbearable,
he stands in the middle of the flames
barefoot yet unharmed.
A scythe lays at his feet,
and a pale horse stands by his side,
making his small body look even smaller.

As if feeling my stare,
he locks eyes with me.

And as the world burns down,
the reflection of the cataclysm in his brown eyes
and the look of innocent incomprehension he wears
is the single most heartbreaking thing in the moment.

Suddenly, I do not care about the screams and cry of the despondent goners.
I do not feel the harsh scorch of the burnt remains under my bare feet.
I do not mind the tears welling up in my eyes due to the fumes.
They are but a distant reminder of the atrocity surrounding me.
I can only focus on the strange guilt reflected in his warm eyes.

From those same eyes, a tear rolls down his cheeks
And as it reaches his dimpled chin,
he raises a little hand to wipe it away
And then waves at me.
I do not wave back,
too stunned to move or react,
But I could tell he did not expect me to anyways.

With one last look,
he picks up the scythe with an unusual easiness
and turns to walk towards the flames,
the horse close behind him.
And soon, they are one with the flames.
The first of the Four Horsemen series of poems: Death. This image came to me in a dream one night.
Bants RJ Jul 2018
I’m alone, with smoke and bottles.
With an itch around my neck,
my feet kicks off the bench.

Surrounded by darkness,
a figure has come to jest.
“Did you do your best?”

Feeling hypoxic,
I try to shake my head “No.”
I look at him whilst my feet kick, longing for the ground.

Lighter by the second,
darkening complexion,
I silently scream, “No. No. No.”

With knowing eyes,
the angel sighed,
raised his scythe, ready to chastise.

Although red, my eyes see the light.
But wait, this doesn’t feel right.
Mr. Reaper had nothing to do with me tonight.

My back felt the cold of the floor.
I’m dying no more.
The ancient one cut my rope.

“Don’t.” he says to me.
“Promise me, try to live.”
But I see him nightly.
Of what to Think, and Thought be Thought-of-Thoughts
Equalling those Clouds no-one tried to reach
And with just a Model-of-the-Board besought
Belated Nations took you to beseech
Parsley that in Sick Reference apply
To One dug-out from Humble Electric
Honour is his beyond the Scythe comply
And carry his Image on so frantic
That is my Code acquired late at War
Knowing the Outcome of this Useless Battle
As that Spartan King drew his Sword at fore
Charged his Army; And the Persian, wrangle.
It's News to me, if I can Speak the Truth
If only I Avoid what seems Un-Couth.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
Lyn Senz Nov 2013
I keep waiting for news
that my body will tell
you've been paying your dues
but we still have to sell
please, there's life yet to use
sorry, next stop is hell
I keep waiting for news
to dispel

I don't want to go there
where so many have gone
just pretend I'm not here
and let's just carry on
I'll be quiet I swear
sorry, time's overdrawn
but I don't want to go there
begone!

I don't want to get sick
I don't want to look old
there's no buckets to kick
there's no streets paved with gold
look you skeletal *****
take your scythe hit the road
cuz I don't wanna die sick
scared and cold!


©2013 Lyn
Benjamin Apr 2018
I could hold it in a breath,
bury it inside my chest,
watch the cilia react,
a current sent with each contact;
alas, I cannot keep it in
considering the broken skin;
with crimson ink, this razorblade’s
a fountain pen, I scrawl away:

“Hear me now, in sight of God,
first all is still, then comes the flood.”
The little blackbird hushed her song—
she could sense something was wrong—
pitchforked lightning bent the trees
and fireworks consumed the leaves
where my better angels hanged—
this, the Province of the ******.

If you were kept inside my chest,
you’d have slipped out with the rest,
while the vultures had their fill
picking piece by piece until
I’m left bone-bleached in the sun—
all the others turned to run;
but you were steadfast through it all,
from the spire to the fall.

The willow whispers from outside
where my history resides,
ghosts of angels hide beneath
the wilted branches of that tree—
I still catch glimpses of the scythe
from the corner of my eye,
but morning’s come, I cannot sleep here
in the shadow of the Reaper.
Andrew Rueter Oct 2017
I can hear the lonely air whistle
As we fly on this time missile
The wind chimes
As it carries time
A time that is quickly fleeting
When it's death we'll be meeting
So as time keeps flowing
My anxiety keeps growing
Like the Reaper's scythe
It used to be a knife
But now it is my crescent moon
That will take me to my tomb

Time keeps passing
Time keeps thrashing
My skin is hardened
As my mind is smartened
I gain my impurity
From my seniority
But time slows when I'm with you
And you can erase the color blue
Please pluck me from your fandom
So we can tackle time in tandem

The clock keeps ticking
The clock is tricking
Me into thinking I have time
And so I begin to climb
The sands of my daunting hourglass
Sand hits the ground becoming my past
Your absence makes sand fall faster
My life becomes a natural disaster
I'm stuck in a sandstorm
Only you can reform
For the power of time
Covers me in grime

Time's gavel
Is my calling
Time travels
As I'm falling
The minutes feel infinite
Until they're gone forever
If we could be intimate
Time would be pleasure

I am missing seconds
As your kissing beckons
I start to float through time and space
Whenever I witness your lovely face
But that's time I'll never get back
So I must get my life on it's tracks
And reset my clock
And reset my ****
So I can see time clearly
And watch it float near me
Because in a life without your love
The passing of time fits like a glove
leave the lights on
and kiss the dance
of the seven veils
upon my windowsill
or leave me now
with the abject quiet
that the scythe
and sickle sound

i’m so used to being
in love with you
but the world is ever dark
and we sleep
in separate rooms
Kenn Rushworth Jun 2015
A world in colour lies
                semi-distant, semi realised,
A near-forgotten future exsanguinates, yearning
              in the weakened glow, of infinite winter morning.
The voice, the voices, the voiceless, my anger, my age,
                Pan-millennial youth in coming years will fade,
It will carry duvet and pillow from hateful home
                to halfway-house until half way home
It will make all its hearts into the shape of cardboard,
                blemish the fire with chemical ****, **** hard,
It will seek forgiveness at the steps of screen,
                beat asthmatic chests, fingers, ribs and seams,
It will see itself cower in the horrible light of mirror,
               sail to the sun on wings of fakes lashes,
And it will burn, burn not in forgiving hangover sodium,
                but burn in the eye of a guilt yet to come,
And it will drown, drown at the blessing of the water,
               drown at its birth time and time over,
And it will wound, wound in scythe and cushion comfort,
                wound the waking dream in Siamese horror of sorts,
And it will leave strangled in the cords of its university hoody,
                leave alone at night, touch itself and cry.

Bursting rhythm from the panopticon, viewing all aspects
                of itself engulfed in ex-disney coloured acid
                spewing forth from the desired wreck,
Hurtling profound and profane into and beyond
                ******* and love and love and *******,
                *****-tinged snows lubricating seasons onward into each other,
Gut-busting, gut-busting, gut-busting societal downpour to harridan office
                from liquor dormitory, escaping and elevating
                on citalopram or selegiline,
The surgeons and nurses, the poets and builders, ever restless
                at the unbolted door, screaming into their unread palms,
                comparing varying hell to holy water lakes of others,
Sipping the dew from paradise wing, discontent with all
                in purgatory-England whilst licking the knee
                of America and imagined Europe,
Wanking itself dry at the lottery of thought,
                crude reckonings spiralling sugar into salt
                landing on the tongue of want,
Feeling crucified at the Atheist tea party,
                climbing the cross of trend
                supplying own milk and nails,
Unwanting in the chrysalis, ignoring coming candles
                but fantasising a thousand symmetrical suns
                to limited avail and idea.

But idea there will be, birthed, blood-hungry
                gnawing at the heel ‘til bare bone,
And it will rip apart fat riddled arteries,
                Deconstruct, Reconstruct all the bodies and the cites,
And it will write and spell all the words wrong
                realising that what ‘they’ are selling is sign language for the blind,
And it will note of itself as harsh but not unkind,
                reject bribe bread and water be it divided or divined,
And it will say of cartography “No need as of yet,
                I have seen men lost in the lining of a suit,
Crying into their shoes, uncombed, unfettered, unfertilised, without hope,
                after laughing into empty lakes.”
We can each say “My God, my empty sky, my cartoon prophet, my local MP,
                I have seen everything and want none of it,
                I am alone in a narrow shape of time,
                watching us all unfurl to the scent of burning feathers and hair,
                to the sound of punctured veins.”
We watch silent litanies for graceful pardons of filth,
                in “Amen” then nothing,
We watch our age’s world rend lung
                through hollow cheeks and air in our bones,
We watch ourselves into eyes or no eyes at all
                watch ourselves read last lines and then
                watch ourselves realise and whimper
                from ulcerated gut, tongue or pen,
                the everlasting knell…

                “…And it will happen again…”
The uniVerse Sep 2016
This world is not meant for dreamers, poets or lovers
only to be torn apart
slowly dissected by death's scythe
worn down by the language of life
words, weapons and worries
all designed to destroy us
losing yourself in a flurry
a chaos of accidental karma
taken by the hand and led astray
I never wanted to harm her
I just wanted it my own way
a perfected illusion
trying to mould life to suit our ideals
but it's those same ideas that ****
torturing us during the night
and rotting our insides by the day
the maggots of the mind
make bait for the fishes
the world is full of sharks
this world is malicious
as I wade through the dark
you devour me whole
spit out my bones
and consume my soul
then leave me alone
for there's no more you can take
there's nothing of value left
when I rise I will be awake
or else my name is death.
https://www.instagram.com/p/ByYSl3DnKIR/
William Eberlein Feb 2013
Long awaits the hour of death my son.

And so must be matched the minute of life.

Give it no heed to look it in the eyes,
as not to give it a gift of good health.

For it will take from you,
if presented the chance,
all that can be held close to heart.

Bring only 2 coins of gold pure.

One shall be given to the harbinger himself.

The other placed of center chest,
to deter and deflect his silver scythe.
The uniVerse Oct 2017
The silence it deafens me
with violence they threaten me
to carry me off to an asylum
unless I can provide them
with an ulterior motive
till I hand in my notice
relinquish the chains upon my bed
the fiendish brain inside my head
deviously plotting my own demise
take leave from this place to warmer tides
bathe my body beneath calmer skies
naked like the day I drew breath
naked as I stare upon death
one hand holding a crooked scythe
the other beckoning to me, my life
did you forget to count the die?
or forgo the countless lies
that made the Countess cry
neither man nor mystery could change her path
so it's left to me to rearrange the past
jigsaw pieces scattered upon my pillow
connecting dots to draw the willow
who could forget the weeping widow
that cried herself to sleep.
https://www.instagram.com/p/BzgaX_GHJRE/
One day I will depart the train at a station without a name,
Pull emergency cord and take the plunge thru parted doors.
I'll pack no suitcase or bindle, in my head young, free and single,
I will be a living swindle - wherefore art prat poet of before?
New job doing something I've shown no interest in before,
Change my name to 'Neville Moore'.

I'll do a Reginald Perrin, leave red herring threads at Sherring-
ham, then dice-rolled palookaville of new self I shall explore.
When Palookas call me Neville, they won't see this wasted rebel,
But numpty Neville, on the level, who misplaced his wasted days of yore.
Amnesiac clerk stoical over mist-shrouded days of yore.
Only knew my name was Neville Moore.

Neville will moonlight at night-school, pick up a trade that's practical,
In minimalist digs post-dossing on unforeseen saviour's floor.
Time's sandstorm obscures lyrics, John Doe-penned hieroglyphics
- lost soul Lysander's from Norwich. His mind shut like a shoved closed drawer
To Poesy's Pandora's box of ******* in indigo iron drawer
In Norwich. No bones to Neville Moore.

Neville will be a straight arrow, nice chap whose mind is narrow,
Tepid tryer temping at call-centre, lockjaw forevermore.
The blandest of mystery men, what was Neville's name again?
Man with no memories blends in; my dead ringer, stunky, strong-jawed.
Eye-witness testimony of 36 years will gladly be abjured
- done myself good deed poll: Neville Moore.

I'll  abscond so left Lysander might be eternal loose end, the
Inner poltergeist confined to an indigo iron drawer.
Tomorrow I'll do a John Stonehouse bog-snorkelling, a grandiose
loser who fled being infamous in his own dinnerhour, a bore
Unto myself.  I'll abandon ship,  then life will be less of a bore,
Being much more boring Neville Moore.

And I'll meet a girl called Sybil, Palookashire an idyll,
Where a man with no past can just wash up upon the shore.
For if child is father of the man, Neville'll be an upbeat orphan!
Labels torn off the clothes from Oxfam what Memory's Outlaw wore,
Newfoundhometownbound Mister X such clueless clothes wore,
Clean the pockets of Neville Moore.

Sybil won't be the type to probe, at night she'll pop her Zopiclone,
Cuddle up to normal Neville, earnest the embrace of average amour.
We will rent a little bedsit and expend a lotta effort
To make our place seem white-picket-fenced, tho'  we resided on 3rd floor.
Down updrafts of Fate, untempted to faceplant from the 3rd floor
Is plain ol' sane ol' Neville Moore. 

No temptation, but something racing, the unexplained midnight pacing,
And murmurs in Nev's sleep there's reams in an indigo iron drawer.
But in daylight we'll have daughter, from nowhere the name 'Cobania'
(Nev wouldn't dig Nirvana, fin de siecle scream's aural chore,
nihilistening not for Neville in zen of playful household chores).
Shrug-a-lugs of numb Neville Moore.

Neville wouldn't get promotion, Neville doesn't have much gumption.
Frankenstein's **** domesticus by design, Nev's a swollen snore.
Lice would have mocked, 'Call this living?' Lice is dead, would always give in
To windmills' wheeling withering, watched like a raven, set no store
In what life we have worth living, which is what life life has in store
For unquestioning Neville Moore. 

Neville, don't be snarling slave to snafus by another self made,
Be complete now the only piece is the missing piece of the jigsaw.
Radio receives no 'roger', they won't see Cobania as a toddler,
But for famalam, there's succour: lines left in indigo iron drawer.
For Lice did leave literally living will in indigo iron drawer:
Poem entitled Neville Moore.

Nev and Sybil will have ups and downs, in facades cracks gouge frowns;
Castaway's fury in his eyes curdles Florida coleslaw.
I don't need Sybil's mithering, I mean 'Nev' dint, thinking about writing
- did we do Jack Nicholson in 'The Shining', too nuts too soon in Neville Moore?
Polter-Lice rattling in indigo iron liar's den re Neville Moore's 
Writer's shock swan-song for Neville Moore.

And sweet phantom Cobania, I hope she ends up saner
than her Canoe Man old man, sent reeling by subconscious southpaw
Of split personality punch-ups,  one-man-band fight clubs,
punchdrunk on bad self burps, tho' he burped Cobania with awe.
Pneumatically patting doting dad, errant soon so overawed
By humdrum Heaven, Neville Moore's.

Witness protection program to hide me from self-hate's hitman,
But Miltonic Satan's heart held Hell, for killer within is law
Unto himself. Thus phoenix photo album of my alter ego
To ***-end before Year Zero was burnt down, act of soul at war.
Greener grass scorched earth, everyman Eden sacked by selves at war,
Lysander negging out Neville Moore.

His ship's sailed ment'lly down the toilet - can't see the dream, it's ultraviolet!
Sybil wagging her finger with ****** of a fishwives' wappenshaw.
Cobania's cantankerous tween, Nev hears fin de siecle scream
- call the toilet 'Kurt', it's flushing the dream! Behold:  tombstone beneath 
                                                        ­    a sycamore,
Man from nowhere nowhere now beneath suicide's sycamore.
Quoth the engraving, 'Neville Moore'.

Beneath me to quote Ocean Colour Scene, beneath sycamore willow-leaned,
But day I caught train derailed: no malaise of glory, Anon no more.
Cobania in black with ***** highlights will grieve Daddy on the quiet;
Sybil indignant that the senseless,  existential eyesore
Option all her lost-and-found, found-and-lost, haunted hubbie saw.
Quoth the engraving, 'Neville Moore'.

Nev won't see Cobania grow up: she doesn't exist - s' good job!   
Yet I'll miss driving lessons and wedding, even if shaggy dog's dewclaw
Scratched itself out, vestigial scythe: Neville was never alive.
But this 2.4, 2.0 narrative smelted indigo iron drawer.
Cenotaph recast as mask, new visage's vista dark as in a drawer
Now quoth the engraving, 'Neville Moore'.

After Poe's misnomer, well, misnumbered: one short, 17 stanzas  
Ironically encode birthday of old dud cub who overroars
Last-ditch striped leopard, tame un-me. Lord Lucan, he WAS lucky
-  there's freedom in fake ID! But Neville grew sick, sick of me no more
Now as one two selves expire, same sigh of relief 'low sallow sycamore:
Thank **** Lice is nevermore.
My birthday is 17/05.
Skaidrum May 2015
-
And it wasn’t nearly reality enough,
    So I skimmed this water of bone
Hoping that the blood beneath
    my fingers would only be temporary.

    

        But you can’t promise on broken love,
    Could you believe me when I say I’ve known.
        Lie behind your cheap lips and teeth
    Cross your heart and hope to die yet on the contrary.


Your empty threats of wishing to **** me,
    But darling I’m already dead.
You can hope on deeds of darkness but not anymore,
    It’s such a shame a poet must draw her scythe.


        So take a deep breath dear, inhale slowly,
    And don’t worry there’s nothing wrong with just a taste instead.
        I can’t help but smile as the ashes flood the floor,
    Such a beautiful way to die, letting a poet take your life.


Tonight she sleeps with the lions and like before,
    Dark as it may be she laughs when one offers her light.
“I sleep with demons roaming my skin,”
        “Beg your pardon I don’t need this pity.”


            And the truth was not a sin, she really had to pay for.
        A century of this and that really left without a fight.
    I haven’t decided on which degree of hate I let out and in,
But tell you what I digress this country and this rotten city.


    Mistake me for a witch, and how many friends will I lose?
I can hardly tell with all this nihility I now hold dear to me.
    Keeping words on chains, imprison me why not.
A bucket of silver is all I hold in my eyes.


    And keep the hounds in hell dear,
            Just let me say you are quite lovely,
    What can you teach me, what have you taught?
        Beware of the silver in the bucket child...

                      

Beware the poets eyes.
-
Letters to myself,
are bittersweet &
deadly.

© Copywritted.
JG O'Connor Jun 2017
Where is death today?
Busily hiding the bodies,
Or hunched beside a car loosening wheel bolts,
Placing a dark hand over a traffic light,
Squeezing the shotgun trigger,
Or strapped in a wheelchair
Disguised as a patient and wheeling rapidly around the hospital wards,
Removing the soap.

Or maybe cycling down the motorway
The large black cloak neatly bundled into the waistband
Right trouser leg tucked into a black sock
A bone poking out the toe
The Reaper strapped to the bicycle crossbar
Blade hanging to the rear  
But not obscuring the red reflector
Wearing Kevlar gloves when handling the scythe
And Vis a Vest neatly tied with a bow
At the very least a reflective armband.

Or possibly fixing a puncture on his way to my home...Bad form then
On arrival should I greet with “Come in, you look perished! ”
Discuss the weather as a distraction
I could offer new socks
Like every interview this might not go well.
zebra Apr 2017
kisses on your warm sweet mouth
tender lips caressed
exploring your ******* and raised ******* ..
belly and thighs enveloped
those eager dark delicious places that i covet so
your musk erogenous
the path to your hungry soul
eater of the poison apple
your eyes widen bright with delight
a strange synesthesia you say
your smile a hypnotic alter
you prone
back arched
belly willing
as i drag a curved blade slowly across your winsome flesh
worshiping you
breathing your warm breath into my mouth and nostrils
come now
you coo
i am sheildless

then little strangles that excite
to see how you do
will you love it
adorations twisted mind
she demon
a wizened dizzy Venus

please yes
her **** drenches the bed
a warm viscosity
legs widen
feet piqued
*****
exotic delicatessen

Heralded
i enter with long sweet butter strokes
the sabbath of desire
I swear
i wont let you suffer...
never !
why you say?
because i love you
lovely scythe you call
as if lulled to sleep
whispering dreadful incantations   .
i ache to close the curtain
to lifes scalding chatter
wrap me
in a raggy shawl
impale the throat
like ive alway dreamed
a last exhalation
flood gates pour forth
as deaths dark fold
dissolves all

i rock you drugged
absinthe and wormwood
a last ***** of candles flame
white gauze cinched
lips on a lost mouth
eyes a static pyre

i linger
wishing you still plush
an animated glow
so that i could feel your arms,
now milky white relics
only to take you all over again and again and again
dreamer of the abyss
yet you stand
aberrations, smoke ghost
sacrificially swaying your hips
calling from Hades
dancer of ritual copulation
i melt like wax in the sun
wither
and die myself
marriage Italian style
dead bells in love
blotted out by the Sirens of Mara
Mara ..Greek Damon of deception and distorted thinking
John F McCullagh Aug 2018
Uncle Sam sat down across from me and placed his satchel on the floor.
It was time to pay the piper; that is God’s immutable law.
I tapped my bony finger, impatient to begin.
“That will be fifty eight thousand, Sam, starting with Tonkin.”

From his satchel, that seemed bottomless, Sam produced the cash.
“Start counting!” I demanded, as I drooled over his stash.
He started pilling Franklins up on the table there between us.
Each “C” note meant one hundred dead Due to McNamara’s genius.

Fathers and sons had fallen; young men by the score.
Just think of the girls they never kissed; the children they never saw.
Uncle Sam doled out the bills until his thumbs were sore
When he finished I took out my Scythe and swept them on the floor.

I saw Sam’s look of horror at my eyeless, nose less face.
He had counted out a treasure that he knew he can't replace.
“It was a Pleasure doing business.” Oh, how I despised that man!
Still I was certain that we’d meet often,even after Vietnam.
58,220 American men and women, my fellow boomers, died during the years of the Vietnam war. Here I imagine Uncle Sam settling the bill with an unusual accountant.
zebra Jun 11
i fall and ascend in a sea    vantablack
spiral light
fire ghosts and ice
that cut the soul to pieces
like scissors
that split rabbits

industry of a hissing creation
polluted altar of sleeping lakes
and scythe
bludgeon and howitzer
prods of push and pull
in a grindhouse
necropolis of craters
scattering snake eggs and tumors

i am here born to you thin of bone
mother of catastrophes
on a colossal ball of scab and callous
that moves sonorous dazzling shapes
careening through
ephemera workhorse torches
of doom

you fill me with knots of terror
and desperate dreams of stairway wings
veils and glimmers
resolutions dissolving
petaled apertures of desire
and night whispers
in a spider web of sonic bulls

before undertows gravity
i was vibrant
but then i died into the rock ash of earth
they called it my birthday
my parents with party hats and balloons
blinked fetters
against nights of concrete and stone

i got deader still
until i was nothing
but an imagineless gob of mud and breath
an eye looking out
behind red nerve forest fires
and tears shook tambourines
down heavy lashes
cascaded fluttering  tassels  

i am born to you mother of senile seas
citadel of shattered glass
in a slate cube of cyclones
mute and screaming
my fate deep shock
encased in mausoleums led nautilus

blatting hells jaundiced shriek

Pluto conjunct Saturn
astrology
Donall Dempsey Apr 2018
LET SLEEPING PTERODACTYLS LIE


Rusted scythe
perched on a nail


high up on a wall
a sleeping pterodactyl.


I can't stop myself touching
it to see if it is - real.

Smacks its lips
laps up my blood


from my foolish fingertip
deceived by shadows.


It's grin glinting
the smile come alive.


The ghost of a horse
whinnies in the stable


that's gone long gone
the then merging into the now.


Or maybe Mr. Death
too tired to go on

hangs up the instrument of his trade
time to retire the old bones.

“No way to make a living!”

I back slowly away
blinded by the sunlight

that screams. . ."Run!"
Tom Spencer May 13
vast
infinitely vast

soft spring sky
calmer than a waveless sea

swallows arc
with scythe-like wings

distant flecks
vanishing

beyond
the beyond



Tom Spencer © 2019
Sutherland Oct 2018
Tick,
Tock.

The world goes round,

oblivious to sound.

We ride its spin,

until our sun goes down.

Tick,
Tock.

What have I done?
Rode the pillars of fun.

Spent my last dime,
should I turn back and run?

Tick,
Tock,

The scythe leaves its sheath.
What does fun equate?
It's the end of the world,

don't be late.

Tick.
Rich Hues May 14
Scythe across his knee,
Empty sockets
Stare at me,
While a shadow tiptoes like a puppet
Over tissue...
Stained like a ****'s gusset.

The latest...
A sister of no mercy.
A cross between Medea and Circe,
Headed to the King's Road with a mate
In the hour-glass... my last grains of fate,
Just wrappers in my dressing-gown pockets
No more Lemsips,
No more Locketts.

She leaves with Mr Amex
And a blown kiss,
My last words...
"No, not like this!"
Harriet Cleve Jul 2018
The past is buried in an unmarked grave

infinity x people lie amongst the mathematicians

the bankers, the capitalists, the communists,

nuns and priests from long forgotten orders

writers, poets, madmen

believers in Dostoevsky



politicians and soldiers lying side by side

Guevara and Kennedys

reeking of decomposed causes


their headstones inhabit this planet

struggles, dreams, poverty, indifference


Only the living remain to frighten young children

in gardens of festering weeds


Amongst the survivors walks the big ******* war

whose parentage dresses in many flags

holding hands with the spectres of illusion

in this calamitous circus of humanity


the past is buried in an unmarked grave

and still it is hunted

it's rotten body and brittle bones

clutching it's precious treasure


the future carrying a ***** and death still the scythe

eager for the digging

anxious to turn the soil


the past is buried in an unmarked grave

leave it alone

let it rest in peace
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