Poem for a dead romance

June 23, 2014  :: 0 comments

Our love, my dear, is a corpse.
The stench assaults me every morning when I wake.
The putrid smell haunts my nose as we lie dormant.

My muse, we share a cadaver.
Beauty drained by a tirade of mistakes.
Love lost, lacking life. Hewn by a cold scythe.

Shall we co-author the obituary?
Or is it for me to pronounce the death?
Even from the grave it tortures us both.

Maggots in the bed,
My erection rigour mortis,
Necrophilism each time we kiss.

Something amiss,
There’s something I miss,
Fuck me harder. Maybe I could love you again.

Fallacious Belief

featured in the poetry forum June 23, 2014  :: 0 comments

We believe it’s a disease,
And slagged her off because she wouldn’t give him pity.
But really we’re falling faster than faith,
And drowning in murky waters of no self-discipline.
But we were born to shine.
I was born to shine.
Turning points reap ambition reclamation.

editors note:

We all float in the same free fall; fallacies abound. – mh

The Setting Son

featured in the poetry forum November 4, 2012  :: 0 comments

A spoilt soul,
A burning hole of darkness,
Smouldering fire of yesterday’s innocence.
The portrait is black.
Take it down, paint a new one.
Blackened again.

The secret’s out,
A mother mourns for her loss,
A blue eyed boy, gone.
Sheds tears, the years have changed him.
Remembering a child she loved,
Seeing a man she doesn’t.

How the high star falls,
How the day fades,
Until after just two decades, night reigns.
The Dawn seems distant.
Potential pissed to a cold wind,
The only son, prodigal.

Too many raised voices,
Too many sins, consumptive nihilism.
An implausible saviour, fiercely desired,
Suspend your disbelief and make Pascal’s wager,
Though it defies all logic.
Why would a good God give me life?

There is no end, yet.
The final verse unwritten,
Suicide or salvation,
Damnation or deliverance.
The moment is crucial.
All bets are on.

editors note:

Stakes are high at the cosmic casino. No tellin’ whether Pascal went bust or ran the house. We’re all in; rollin’ for 7, bettin’ on 00, pullin’ the handle; but, really, there’s no tellin’… – mh

Checkout Blues

featured in the poetry forum October 4, 2010  :: 0 comments

Just think of the money,
This the people say,
As I sit here on the checkout, and scan away the day.

Just think of the money,
Yes, that’s what I shall do,
As I sit here on this checkout and scan away my youth.

Just think of the money,
The cash, the greens, the swag.
I’d rather have a life sir, now would you like a bag?

editors note:

Givin’ it up for art, for freedom of expression, for not selling out. Givin’ it up for the little guy we see in the mirror. Now, will that be paper, or plastic? – mh

An Ode to (formal) Education. An Epitaph to (informal) Fun.

featured in the poetry forum July 29, 2010  :: 0 comments

Tick, tock, goes the
Your futures in your hands.
Tick, tock, goes the
It’s time to be a man.
Tick, tock goes the
They say we’ve got it easy,
but tick, tock, goes the
And this pressure’s got me queasy.

editors note:

By golly, that Master’s Degree better pay off with the big bucks – unless it’s an MFA, in which case, keep writing and submitting and starving, but feeling good about your art. Yeah! Love artists! – mh