where no light shines
shall flicker the lights of bones ungodly will.
too dark each metaphor that shapes the mouths
of all who stand before the crimson moon.
too soon the shallows rise as antlers fall.
it is fall. it it is here.
it is here too many bare there ill's.
there are butterflies and waterfalls
each more prehistoric than the serpents in our lungs
that bellow louder where the grateful dead shall rise and live again.
yet still the still-born moon
shapes our thirteen lemons through the citrus to the fog.
a vomit of carbon and all are at peace with themselves.
Sunday shelves it's dishes for the Monday morning curse!
we are all but rags and dolls and trolls
when each day at 2 O'clock our speckled hens
shall lay there eggs beneath the ruby red
of waxwork dummies dumb enough
to chime with the chattering teeth of sentiment;
the alien gods in their cold voice cheer
are we single or just ordinary men?
four hungry men in tandoori mood
watch us smile like kings
and laugh as brothers do;
-
Author:
Melvin James (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: October 31st, 2025 12:08
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 17
- Users favorite of this poem: Cheeky Missy
Offline)
Comments3
A surreal poem with puzzling's images that shine where no light shines
seiously brilliant. Great work.
Well, I rather fear my folly in daring to read this invocation aloud, the damning nature thereof too evident. You take me back to high-school and having to listen to Shakespeare's Macbeth intoned, the witches' brew not able to hold a candle to yours. La dee dah. Beautifully rendered with exquisite imagery and a most frightening poignancy. Thank you for sharing.
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