Pollution

Broad Lane in fog

 

The demons came again last night

traipsing through the virgin forests of my head

all dark and quiet, unsuspecting in repose

when I lay all the trees to horizontal so they can rest

before making a canopy for the day

that place of safe passage for journeymen

and people with business and clear consciences

to perambulate, perhaps not like fawns in a sylvan scene

but far off,  in soft focus, on a good day

How often must this happen? How many treats du jour

come curdled back to me

writhing dishes in the bleak moments of darkness

where death rehearses the curses over my cooling form

and I, innocent and possibly snoring am violated by my own ghosts

so I am minded to erect a one-way street

from one ear to the other actionable only at night

to see if I can divert this filthy traffic

Unrest

Unrest. A poem

those waking dreams like scum, no

like napalm

 come, stripping me from sleep

I wonder if it is some kind (wrong word) of retribution

for past behaviours

or those that are still within.

The nomenclature of faith

that wrestles, by proxy, inside me

ill advised and ill informed

and thus

 powerful in a morbid way.

The furies in cloisters collude

to pull the sheets sharply across my eyes

and let livid colours settle

on daylight

like toxic chemicals in a sneer

ready to swirl and coalesce

in a dazzle on the surface

confirming all the worst weather reports

unsettling me here, on the shore

where I most want to be

still and calm.

Last night’s dream

Last Night's Dream

Last Night’s Dream

Last night’s dream

 

Tight

Then running

Into water

A fast flowing weir

Danger

Fully clothed

A man passes me in evening wear

And enters swirling waves

I see him from the bank

Lit, as if on stage

And he swims

Until I know

The water will get him

And I watch

As he goes under

So confused

And then he is propelled

Torpedo-like into vacant air

Again and again

His corpse

A plaything

Of some hidden deep