5 Poems by Heath Brougher

The Fury of Night


The fist of the night smashes

the dusk into faded flamed-out pieces

that fall below the horizon.

The darkness is here with

a vengeance. The darkness

is prowling the newborn night

growing darker by the second.


The sky is black

as a hole.


The trembling moon hides itself

behind the clouds, not wanting

to feel the wrath of that furious fist.

These are the hours when the cold night wind

rips the leaves from the trees.

Bats asymmetrically fly as the raccoons

scamper and rummage through the garbage.


A revelry among the simultaneous cantankerousness

and sleepiness. Deeper and deeper into night it goes until…

the omnipresent shadow reaches its deepest

depth of darkness and dies off

so surprisingly sudden and powerless as the blades

of a newborn dawn begin to spread across the sky.

For the broken light has repaired itself

and has come back to show the night

that violence springs only from inferiority.



A Poem for Those Shipped in Boxes


I call this poem the unspeakable poem.

I think a big black X should be written over it.

I think it should be scalded, erased, burned at the stake

or maybe frozen in the quivering moments before it’s lit into flames.

I think it should be drowned, its breath taken away.

I think it should be erased so the page remains white and lifeless.

I think people should turn their heads, not read a word,

for an uncouth sentiment may run through the ideas herein contained.

I think it should be censored, prodded by evenists, automatons,

razed of all its meaning or theme to fit the standards of convention;

stripped of any straightforward truth and coated in cuddly falsehoods.

I think its content should be altered so as to not offend.

I think it should be a disgrace to poetry and to life itself.


Almost Curtains


I will take

whatever relief there is

from these

searing nerves caused by this overdose of reality;

endless miles and unending fields

of worry crawl out before me endlessly

endless; the heart raises, races;


there is no tunnel—

I see only darkness ahead;


this is just poetic lamenting;

this is just rotten verse;

these are just brain-cysted croonings—

I cannot fill a page anymore;

I cannot even move.

The Mechanics of Madness


Looking out the trapezium-shaped window

I notice the postman going from house to house,

so heavily steeped in the abstraction

of Humanity’s tar pit of false realities.

The predetermined societal trappings

have consumed him.

He knows nothing of actual Truth.

He is just another lost cause

among the masses massive disregard

of the omnipresent Universal Truth



Once you reach the top of the world

that’s when you realize


just how big

this Universe really is


and how insignificant

you Truly are!



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