The Mess Around

Bright smile. Her left hand tipping the ashes of a gloving cigarette,

fingers rapidly kneeling to the beat of the whistlers.

Her right hand holding a tall crystal glass,

it’s bottom coloured sunshine from the reflection of her painted nails.

Gently she wrapped her lips around the glass and dared a sip.

It tasted of music flavoured by youth and expectations.

Instinctly she emptied it, downed life in one go.

She staggered and moved boldly towards the lights.

Today only a single drop fuels her delight,

beauty fading like make up after a ball.
Her muscles tired of movement, mind sicken by changes.

Yet sometimes she smiles, feeds her desires,
moves boldly towards the lights. She just can’t do the mess around.

    

The Field of Reeds

The son of Patrick De Ville
Never grew up
He spend his life in indecision
Always looking for a new plot
He ever wanted to be a catholic
But never learned a prayer
Now he sleeps in the Field of Reeds
For no one to care.

Atomorpд

 

   Here death has been accepted.

   Words have no tones to play with.
   Wind leads the conversations.
   Snow falls in icicles.
   Frost blurs pupils and sets fire to throats.
   Marshes give birth to stone.
   Bright red dust spreads over the icy dames.
   To this place no God or Ferryman owns the key.
   Here walks Virgil with no eyes.
   Here lies Thurkhill with no tongue.
   Here is no stories to tell.

   Here is nothing
   without nothingness.