Lawks, is that a pustule?

Dragons, knights and bewildering sub clauses. What more could you want from a Thursday evening?

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Rag and Bone

Dawn scatters these abandoned skies, cankered in memories of bone and burned outcast grey with the clinkers.

I say do as you’re told

Reborn days blink ashtray eyes, another nightlight outgrown and called into flesh by the fragrance of stinkers.

when you’re alone with the enemy

Torn dolls in hearsay lies, tales of rag and truth postponed and woven silk into the control of blinkers.

dance on the stolen road

Worn blank the replay dies, futures carved deep in headstones and riddled into the moss of night thinkers.

kiss away autonomy

Sworn to betray goodbyes, the rise and fall of empires condoned and sealed tight in the crushing of whimpers.

drink the lead in boiling gold

Mourn away doomsday cries, hopes flee overthrown and we who would be gods go crawling with the death of drinkers.

and find nothing but the silence of alchemy

Silent howling

The sullenness of blue holds tight to the moon today. A jackal sketched transient, I am tied in orbit just the same. There are tales they say, of a darkside that no one  but distant explorers would be surprised to see. Truth and territory, staked in tricoloured folds and pinned to look like the wind. And I wander in the silver of spent firelight, waiting for the storyteller. Waiting for the story. Something unfathomable to hold between my fingers. And the satellite of sunshadow, breathes silent answer with the death of words. Child. Walk with me. Dream with me. Come taste the chalk dust that falls so softly between the pillars of small steps and giant leaps. Damn moon, always was a troublemaker.

©2017 Jac Forsyth

*moon image courtesy of pintrest.com

Creepers

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Creepers stand silent in white nightdresses. And I have wished for sharks in this lost at sea.

My skin peeled back to bone, are we born like this, forged again in the honesty of dragons?

Life is not a choice. Death is buried with the boxes. I count its intimacy in raindrops.

On days like this I would surrender to the fall of familiar fever. Overrun with shaking, heart racing, sweat dripping.

Even now I taste it on my lips.

Hell is patient. Spike another drink. Deal the drugs of madness.

Creepers stand silent in white nightdresses. And deep underground, a self prescribed king double drums and dreams of quarantine.

 

©2017 jac fosyth

Gunsmoke

 

Truth is a cunning dancer. Smoke over fire, its drums beat out my heart. And I quantify my verdicts with the naivety of their restless pounding. Armageddon was scattered once, dismantled in the bunkers of preparation. I drive this life hard. Peace is not enough, sleep is not enough, death is not enough, for those who chase extinction. The gunman pulls another trigger and a dozen night-birds corrupt with the echoes of my lament, their feathered artillery dragged out across the silence of 3am skies.

And wrapped in the blankets of my insanity, I divide by five and measure their distance in lightning storms.

 

Wilderness

You who are wild with soliloquies, bring me the silence of your dead. See, my doubt snakes through the contours of this inimical land. Where are the pacified? The litter of this city? Carbon in moonlight, the song that won’t sing rips out my throat. Sometimes I dream that I am born under the flow of continents, entombed in citadels where land and sky fold with the relics of my mind. And when I wake, when I wake…

All I want is oblivion.