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.
I will take
whatever relief there is
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!