Poems by moomin
S- sence of S
The stone serpent shape-shifts
and I shudder in this sterile , sepia salon
as scuttling things ,
swollen and succulent things ,
slither in the shelter of his shadow .........
....... his sable Majesty .........
......... sardonic Satan ............
I feel smothered by his sadistic scrutiny ,
struck dumb by the signature of his sinister silhouette .
Seduced into speech by the eloquence of his silence ,
I satisfy his septic soul with the stumbling shame of
small and sleazy , squalid and shabby :
I am without my shepherd and I stand ,
sickeningly servile ,
scalded by his stark solecisms ,
his snarling sophistry .........
He slakes his thirst with sleek suggestion ......
He stings me with his sinuous sarcasm ,
a shark , fed on a surfeit of sybaritic suicides .........
His somnolent spore , a Stygian-stinking smog ,
swarms all over my squeamish skin ,
a scorpion .... scratching at my sand...
and I sob inside my head at this unhappy symbiosis .......
He stifles this slack sound ,
soberly playing the supple sycophant at my shoulder
........ then shouts !!!!!! .......
a great , strobing sound of seismic proportions ....
.. scribbles on my face with steel-sharp talons
in a slow and scholarly fashion ,
slices this simpering servant ,
sunders and ,
suddenly bored ,
He snuffs my weak flame
I gaze upon this world with sorrowing eye
That sees the snarling dogs of fear
Snap and drool a hot death down
On prey all blinded by the lights
And hot winds blow 'til all is dust
and glazed with gore .
I've looked down through timeless corridors
And seen the final gasps of dying suns ,
The heaving throes of universal birth ,
The dusted cosmic colours clouding space
And the burning trails stars leave behind ,
an after image of their lonely travels .
I've seen everything and more than I
Could wish yet cannot close mine eye to
All the pain and all the beauty ,
All the uncried tears of aeons ,
All the weight of all the knowledge
That I have no power to intervene ,
Mine to bear ......
Mine alone ..........
For I am lonelier than Creation .
I am The Observer
my electronic worms pulse
at the speed of light
down threading wire
I seek you
tasting the ether for the smell of you
the spore of your words
that drip across the imagination of miles
questing to touch the electric author of
that flicker and flow
streaming across my virtual pages
I sense you
you don’t know me yet
but that doesn’t matter
we have time
but my impatience makes me eager …..
I want to swim upstream
in the cosmos of glowing particles
meet your fingertips as they touch
the skin of your keyboard …..
be absorbed by your flesh
your mind .
( untitled )
Your oblique voodoo is
The key to my hysteria , for ,
Like a thief in the night ,
You quench my joie de vivre .
I am but the object of your obsidian eyes
And so I am resurrected
To dance a minuet with treachery
While you tap time with your foot .
Nomadically I trek the wastes
Until your eyes call me back to you again
For we have an appointment , you and I
And I retch in anticipation of
The vivisection of my thoughts .
an unholy crusade
......... and with what rough work did you
Your king-blest , sweet-edged sword employ
Throughout this charnel-red of night ?
Bereft of sight , the sacked and burning city
Gawps and gapes , aghast as its streets run
With the blood of horrors etched forever on
The memory of stones within its broken walls .
Did your bright blade the skulls of infants cleave ?
And did the ancient , half-wit , blind ,
Cowering in terror 'midst the carnage , feel
The killing stroke that split her all assunder ,
neck to waist ?
Or the half-grown boy ,
( not old enough by years to bear the arms of war ),
Did he kneel in grace ( in the burning streets ,
The sounds of death about him ) ,
As you loosed his head from atop his scrawny shoulders ?
Did the tears of tortured mothers , as they watched their
Daughters torn apart by man and blade ,
Wash your knighthood clean again ?
And did your doe-eyed god smile
A benediction upon your deeds ?
Biographical sketch: 42 , married , 3 boys , 2 dogs and my
horses . I love to write but only began to do so seriously a year and
a half ago ..and I live on a farm on the outskirts of London .
Arthur Mee's Book of One Thousand Beautiful Things by Arthur
Reason: It's the kind of poetry/art book that you can pick
up and dip into at any time and you will
always find something new and wonderful to read whether you have 2 hours
or only 2 minutes !
Recommendations for writers:
imagination , truth and imagery .. together with a good dictionary
and a love of words !