PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

The black cat on the wall regards me curiously

His eyes are yellow fiery tectonic plates

Their shifts mimic my float, the ing-ness of it all

astounds me, the hairs on the arm of my comfort bristle

then melt.

            Becoming of molasses auditory hallucinations in the rigor mortis

of night and moonlight shapes

           Leave unsafe places and things and the trees of palpitations fly like geese in an echelon formation

These are the transitional stages between wakefulness and dreams

My one eye is dry and like grit beneath the eyelid something has been lost down the ribbed stony well

An indefinable outer entity has glued itself to my inside skin like a barnacle on a jagged rock. Able to mould itself perfectly to the pinny undulations and vague formlessness of whatever it is that gleams so brightly in the salt of the sunlight, zebra’d by the saintly gulls that skywrite figures of eight and the meaning of their cries resound around that sign of infinity for as long as it will take

To scoop earth and raid the graves of old men’s stories and dig out the sterile pips of what innovation is and more importantly, isn’t to a yolk without the white, virginal temptation of a man who scrapes old and peeling paint from a window frame and dreams of the day when he will find some sort of freedom and drift intangibly through the air like lacquer fumes. Until he snaps to cat-claw the thin edge of the dome of the world and boot-echoingly empty hallways with blue and red stripes on one side and treacherous caverns on the other. Each is numbered and there is no order at all. Just like the world- its heels

Those heels are worn down only half way and the peeping steel of the corner in the gold is only meaningful to a man who was never; sailed an icebreaker or staked out an opportunity to the very end of its starfish traffic circle. There a hitchiker of life will duck into one of the many Smarties for a ride back to the home he ran from and the punched and cracked duffel-bag of things close that he grabbed and ran with when he first left.

The thorny pools of water, he finds, have long evaporated and the red bugs that scurried between the bricks have been incinerated. The fish that were buried in the backyard now rankle between the sand golf balls like intuition but it is as nebulous as the tendrils of hopes and if-onlys..