Krankenhuis Blues

I have seen behind the mask, behind the normal,

The shrieks and cries and gargled unexplained laughter,

The shouts of fury, spontaneous anger,

The fuel and the testament of supposed lost souls,

But who is to say where the line (zig zags and all )

Divides and falls,

Fright lurks in between the spaces of spaces,

And no man is a fragile egg shell shaped

Mosaic of plain old tomorrow in waiting,

Like an overcoat - too small -

And six taxis waiting,

Like a puddle of letters, all soaking and wet,

Mud and the ink of thought, circling like windows

Asbestos flies,

Looking for brothers, anonymous lovers,

 out in the dark and the cold,

Cold blue cold, with eyes shining in fear,

And an unsteady hand in unsteady hand,

Wiping clean tyres of emotion, and missing

The loss of the sand and the stone,

I am the writer of nothing but my life,

And ghost and presence of every stone and rose,

The ashes of bees, ants tingling my spine,

Caressed nocturnal love bite,

Infectious silence,

Like the drug of Gods and Angels;

Fallen Angels still dream of wings and clouds

Of sweetest blue,

And I of you, tonight,

A single red tear inked next to a black rose tattoo,

Reviews

[Eilis]

This is quite a moving poem. The weight of things shied away from, and the regret that comes to visit in the hours that will not bed down. There's quite a cinematic quality to it. Arthouse cinema. Following a wandering hero through anonymous streets as he has decided it is better to turn away than follow.

But the past, regardless of where we leave it, follows. And that puddle of letters, even in the muddle it has become, did exist. The mind holds it like a given name and we walk on. There's a lovely sense of togetherness here that turns to feather out to something more solitary. The togetherness can perhaps always exist in the mind and when those memories revisit become something so vivid it is difficult to believe it can not still be reached out to touch. Your final line really evokes that sense of both the palpable and the untouchable for me. The ways things can be here and not at the same time.

Poet to poet, I feel like this is excellent work. Something that I would read in a journal and then go search out other poems by the author. There are a lot of flourishes that give me that little brain buzz that makes me go and start writing. And there's a wisdom and dynamism that I just really like.

And here, I'll leave it at that. Perhaps to go write a poem of my own. The streets can be so many things, but their spirit follows and follows when we abandon them. Just rambling now. Excellent poem.

[gram linski]

wow, thanks, Eilis, don't know about the wisdom and dynamism there was a fair bit of unravelling going on, you are spot on about the past following, and things half dreamed just out of touch,, have just read it as an arthouse screenplay and can see some strong visual images, black and white,
poet to poet you've read most of my others so you're out of luck, could maybe write a rake more, haha, thanks as ever for stopping by

[Chris]

You asked of my liking...
this one I've lived and still do.
I awake with a smile
and earned my nightmares.
And she was drop-dead-gorgeous
and in the end - you let go
cause IT matters ...after all.

Good piece.

[gram linski]

And she was drop-dead-gorgeous but I didn't let go, I ran like a fearful fool, a poem in a review, I like,

[Chris]

It happens when you are understood...
somewhere in my own pieces I tell of what didn't matter that mattered afterall...

[jacob erin-cilberto]

man's fears, man's pain, unsteady emotions. The poets see between the lines of life...and write within that expanse...there is fear that others feel, and we empathize from our own...and we write, perhaps, for those who can't...for the anonymous voices who are silent.
j.

[gram linski]

glad you liked it j, we must write into the great black drunk of night, we must write, it is written down somewhere,