flightofthesnowgoose

We swap camp fire stories, Under cinderous cravings and affable addictions. No flames to ignite, Except the inflamed esophagus and clammy hands Fingering and thumbing palmed paper. We talk prescriptions and piss tests turned positive Crossing paths in cartography by mapping our obsessions. This adulterous group is a rite of passage To new found recovery.

The gull strides with ineptitude, Down to the lock and bay. Scouring for fish with black beaded marbles, Rotating like compasses lost at sea. No grace for the gull as she lands lewdly Amongst the Thomas’s eating ice cream; Between the deckie lowering crab traps Into the shallow, sea weeded harbour. A cacophony of cries reign in from the sea, Colonizing the shores with precocious mobility; Plumage camouflaged with the ivory sky, Harrowing the herring with screwdriver beaks The gull isn’t a model of modesty But she is firm- No escape for the earth worm nor offal, Air, water and land is where the gull patrols

night out; brushing up against black fur The dog leaves bloody footprints on Race tracks numbered with thoughts day after; hair of the dog prescribing enlightening ideas inside intoxicated verses later my sweat, buried in fibres comforts poisonous skin with   drops of absinthe still shining through the glass

Misanthropology, you study? These days yes. My contempt for humankind Has gathered, no less But one conversation, Humanized in a gallery, Can transform my outlook, On a promising humanity.

Nurse’s eyes slouch off her face, Cushions puff out of her sockets. “Name, Address and Birth date please?” (ejecting a pen from her pocket) Vials fill up like flooded wells, While bags rise up like juice packs. Friendship is a curious thing- There is Nothing in Death that It lacks. Ushered to the seat, I recline, My arm becomes a punctured vessel. A streamline straw of blood flows forth, I lose nothing when I give up the wrestle. Saints are not found on marble podiums They sit in rooms modestly waiting Supplying strangers with their vital substance Something somebody's debating.    

November stole my last gasp Unearthed roots split in the decay under A pitched black tent No festivals, but 30 days of senile longing Vacuous starlit gaze importing its silence Into a socially constructed cave I have made for myself

The earl grey hairline Used tea leaves without aroma Can we insatiate our lives with lust, Before fallen into coma

To my fellow insomniac with the nightlight on, Do you look out the window at this industrial complex a midst one tree And pine for a time or a place to be free? Do you think of the plains and the place where we would hunt? Digging dour graves with an ancestral grunt Do the prisoners in jail reflect on their deeds? Or are they wound to tightly to instinctual needs? Are the heart machines in hospital chiming in sync? Does the incessant beeping send them to sleep? Or maybe you fell asleep peacefully with the light still on And I've been awake like this for too long.