Illusions of Truth 3

susan-seddon-boulet-2

it’s complicated

 

Beyond your view of a worthwhile

profitable life, here is mine:

 

spilling grids of right and light

around the entire globe

night after night

every minute of the day.

 

Like the witches in world wars

I bleed my earthy soul

transfuse this tragic timeline

try to make it heal.

 

In the dark, silence is free of you.

Your wretched fallibility

and greed gone viral

cannot touch me in this cloak

though I may yet have to let it fall.

 

 

art: susan seddon boulet

Illusions of Truth 2

mechanical heart

mechanical heart

it ticks and tocks and counts

relentless

every death by abacus

 

solitude or suicide

noted – ticked and tocked

relentlessly

the unpaid cost of every

life unopened

 

shoved beneath

a shabby sofa hidden

in the broken stuff

papers burned

in the yard

on the balcony

 

unaffected it continues

counting tick-tock

death

relentless

 

 

art: Kurtssingh on DeviantArt

Illusions of Truth 1

cliff dive

leap of faith

 

Fear can make out-spaced fools of us all

in a fog, fragile numbers spliced with death.

The thrill of a wild cliff dreaming sunset

and gull cries; adrenaline fires crazy breath.

 

Yearning swells, a weightlessness on wind

(bets laid with reverence on warm sand)

tips us blindly over summer’s edge into fall.

chaos

Diana Turner

Tonight, magpies are on one with the starlings.

Dusk is noisy, battered by self-righteous

claims to air. Trees support them all.

Blackbirds scatter thoughts, wild chaotic dreams.

 

It will be dawn before I’m done with all the hate,

collisions between light and dark shading

into one disgusting mess of crazy bird shit sticking

to my ribs, tongue coated with the startling aftermath.

 

Waking is a tangled glitch of sheets wound round

and through the echoes of birdsong.

Sometimes it makes sense but mostly I am lost

while robins tug my hair to remember.

 

 

*art: Diana Turner

freedom

fox in forest
Tears bleed your eyes. It’s a red moon, love,
twisted out of shape. Caught in the dying of a strangled knot’s
cloudy dream of freedom; choice lost. Cemented.

A grave sheds me every day, heavy with adversity, moments
born in wish-tanks full of touch out of touch with reality,
a million dreams away from peace. Starry.

Tears bleed my eyes for both of us. It’s a blood moon,
Love, we’re gasping under concrete. Dreams that don’t make sense
haunt obsessions, make ghosts of habit. Trail drag

to a dead end. Listen for wild birdsong, Love. Forget all this.

disconnected (draft)

j-w-waterhouse

my type, feather

light in quiet

breath, drifts

on a whim of fancy.

nothing

              but a song

half formed on a fingertip

dream in a mad breeze

              promise.

sent, like a road sighing

somewhere

             beautiful and real.




lying low, daylight hangs

between us

there is nothing but nice

chit-chat and the memos

that remember everything




                              but this.

changed

SoundArt - deviantart

 

every door slam raised voice barrelled in a fist,

every time you dragged me to the ground,

kissed me on the up-curve of a crippled howling no.

 

how long ‘til the echoes of your will crushing mine

say no more. say no more of bone or break

or song strangled in brief light. no. don’t touch me.