Bowie

I'm a phallus in pigtails
And there's blood on my nose,
And my tissue is rotting
Where the rats chew my bones,
And my eye sockets empty
See nothing but pain.

-From "Unwashed and Somewhat Slightly Dazed" 

Oops

OK, so the poem everyday thing didn't work out. Surprise! Oh, well. Something is coming soon, though.

Days 4 and 5

I've already missed one, so I will write two today.

1.
A creaking mess invades my sleep
Lying like stone, rigid, unmoving but awake
A blank wall, unbroken until now
Silence like a deep river, shattered by a groan
Only a little like a tramp, fallen from the train
Less pathetic, but more worthy of pity
But, I do not rise to the occasion.

2.
However it may be
On and on
In and in
Inward and outward
Alone and crowded out
A universe, rattling and teeming
With a single thing

Who knows the self
Knows the rest
Who resides in knowledge
Knows how to rest
Call it what you will
Power or repose
It is a response

Day 3

Spittle in the road
Only a bit
Glinting in the fading sun
A tiny, wretched prism

Silence falls slowly in the dusk
Missing the point
And night receives
The final toast

Whisked away by new glow
Filling the wisest course
With tiny hazards
But just for a moment

Second Day

Dusty ray of sunlight
Makes a phantom reality,
Thinly veiled as truth
An open trough of shifting
Light, a seeming lucidity,
Broken streams of awaiting
Laid low by technicality,
A deranged blowing wind

A Poem A Day For 30 Days

Let's see if I can do it. Here's the first:

I lie in a stone chamber and wait
Unsure of myself
Less sure of you
Only a little convinced of the light beyond

Shadows flash across the figures on the walls
Leaving nothing behind
Giving no explanations
Barely registering with you at all

Drip, drip, drip of water, mineral rich and white
Hammers my brain
Is lost on you
A light caress of lunacy showing through a lie

From the Mouth of the River

It is from the mouth of the river that the sea takes its sustenance.

You sit at the table, cigarette in hand, drink before you, and you watch the door. In time, and in libation, nothing begins to matter to the exception of all else. There are comings and goings, conversations and arguments about less than nothing. It is the way of things. It's just you and the six billion. There are too many, you might drown in them. Closing in, they menace with yellow teeth and the sweet, tempting breath of the dying. Where does the time go?

Heading for the door, the poignancy of the scene left behind is not lost on you. Men and women, happy, enraged, sad, delirious, all sliding to their fate, slow as hell. You and the six billion. Where does the time go? The fresh air changes your direction. Suddenly, everything is fresh and clean. Now, its you who are menacing, belligerent and deadly. You see faces, repulsed, amused, fearful. Trying to become invisible, you trip on to your destination, such as it is. Rushing water sounds in your head.