Disturbing Signs

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Disturbing Signs

There are the other warnings,
I should have already seen
in the morning 3am,
on the brink of a drunken amen

dashed against the pavement
in a feathered decompose
an angel and the rusty splatter
of its bare, red halo

a city-garden gated
with chains of dark-red iron
under ‘no Trespassing or we shoot’.
the silhouetted ‘Cain and Abel’

and growing roots so soundlessly,
over the rot of yesterday,
the infamously Poisonous Pong-pong tree
masquerading the Tree of Life

‘Come in, come in’ the voices say
‘Step through our opened gates
In the netherworld of 3am
Cover charge? There ain’t any.

‘Come rest your tired face
against our soothing grass
while the cobra sips soundlessly
— from your thirsty eager ear’

So should I go or should I not
My feet unsteady and wavering
For all the warning signs
that glare at me

on the drunken brink
— I luxuriate

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Poetry Writing

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Poetry-writing

I fish in quiet places

Preferably from a desk

sea-wearied with scribbled notepads

and flotsams of Pencil shavings

 

My eyeball hangs from the hook

Descending into

The still white surface

that sticky, stubborn — impermeable even:

paper

 

Beneath the waters

the eye must look.

the eye must scour

 

Better yet,

the eye must plumb deeper

Where whale carcasses conspire

To sing insidious black whispers

out of tune with the ghosts

Of drowned sirens

 

The eye must gather:

The eye must bring up

The eye must remember

 

And then the work begins

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