If I close my eyes the memory's vivid -
screeching, circling, circling, screeching.
Overhead and all around is turbulence and chaos and turbulence
in a hellish cacophony that splits the night,
the night they came to caution me.

For no rational reason
an insidious seeping of terror and awe
slowly carried black, dank thoughts of impending doom
to exponentially darken the core of my centre

I did not then know who,
but I knew.

The Aborigine say the curlew cries the warning of death.

~

Moving through
night urban landscape,
taste of hydrocarbons
heavy from thick traffic
I exist within,

the glow of dashboard
blood-red
on my gripping hands
and steering wheel,

Slick music hard
and oozing heavy
from ubiquitous technology
to fill reality,

power windows down
to feel new night's fresh chill
left over from old bones of winter
moving serpentine around full moon,

trinket wound
this mortar blood that binds
a pretty mind
has spooled like ravenous silk
across the realm of dream

Broccare
awaken quick

there are fast wolves upon
the gate
and flames that gutter
shivering in their state

Narcotic wretch
hanging to limbs of treason
coughing black desire
while lurid stars
gape at the naked brazen
limits

Constraints, constraints
please don't my
ANONYMITY rein
kindly refrain
poetic lure is my domain
since eons
I'm not a poet
of what many think,
one of overnight
but still I'm learning
how to relish praise
and
abuse alike
let the venomous ones strike ..
Thanks I like your refrain
for many Neopoets
perhaps maybe disdain

Life prepares us for Death. "It is my hope that every human boy and girl can graciously learn some of the dark or scarier things in life. Bruce O'Ugie recalls: One day, not too long ago, i stood there with my children, and wife. All of us crying, all of us lost. Not really sad, just longing for that oh too familiar untainted, unconditional love. Hoping for her words of wisdom. Like life prepares us for death... I had this friend named Brodie. Our mothers were the very best of friends all while we grew up, since we were babies. More like brothers than friends.

flower petals
soft as velvet
caress this soul

paper lanterns
mystic as ancient scripts
entice these thoughts

cobbled streets
old as gold
form this physique

emerald eyes
deep as sleep
captivate these emotions

poems fly within this mind,
as paper lanterns in the starry night sky.

Sometimes I want to melt...

Melt into my bed,

melt into the background,

melt into your arms,

melt into myself.

Sometimes I want to melt

until there’s nothing left.

And their death came to them on horseback
After echoes of Halloween horrors
Roamed through their haunted village
Screeching like a witch aboard a broom
Jetting through their eerie nights
Sprinkling dread melancholy on their wretched souls

Call them corridors or halls
those spaces linking here to there.
Polished floors and bright glazed walls
which lead us to that next somewhere.

And the doors along each side
which one to open, which to be passed?
Once opened up and we're inside
they all become, in sum, our past.

Some of them we walk alone
others in a jostling crowd;
some are quiet as a long dead phone,
others are often really loud.

you get to know the neighborhood
bums
recognize their palms,
the misfits of the street in their
divestment of the American dream
holding tight to the graffiti of hollow men
and their wild wild west empires,
bullets in their pockets and weapons for sale
in always-shallow hearts;

you might blame the corporation elite,
its stock
and shareholders
for having their own way,
or the politicians bought and sold on the
auction block,
slaves,
rendering to Caesar his image