As a kaiju rumbling
and spewing dark fumes,
a massive mouth grumbling
beneath ashen plumes,
rising up from below
its armored shell plates:
mindless, heartless, aglow
while its fury waits.
To be as water
on the lake— cut yet healing,
sealing without scars.
Falling block improv
sometimes stacking perfectly,
The Happy Trickster
The tanuki smiles
despite two black eyes, knowing
life’s a happy fight.
Fed on fat, the djinn grants the desire
for light and warmth oft together,
guiding and guarding with haloed fire
in the night or in bad weather.
The sweeping shadow is so sweet
as the wind sighs through the window’s veil,
cool and soft as the silken sheet
and the dreaming mist which we exhale.
A train of fairies passes by
amongst fireflies at a merry pace,
the stars mottle the westward sky
as the freckles on a lover’s face.
Like dawns over worlds never known,
dreams come gently through the inner night,
but waking from what dreams have shown,
waking eyes are full of fairy light.
From shadows fallen come the fears
which shroud the mind and make it shiver,
the dregs of life distilled with tears
in a bowl, the brain, all aquiver.
A dark sea lay below a bluff
brimming with the dead, draug and wight,
the froth flung upward, fierce and rough
with the strife of Nix—an endless night.
And over this the wan moon glows
like the blind eye of a ghoul in search
of graveyards with their stones in rows
where the ravens and gargoyles perch.
And the stars are a crimson swarm
gathering in the funeral cloth
while clouds roll past, a Sluagh storm
passing through, faces twisted and wroth.
Like a facehugger on your mouth and throat,
it penetrates as a parasite would,
but it keeps you alive, breathing by rote
while you are cut open for your own good.
They are only phantoms in the brain,
data within a computer drive,
a song with an echoing refrain,
the buzzing bees of a mental hive,
a book inscribed with pleasure and pain,
the retro slang from yesterday’s jive,
apparitions which we clutch in vain,
both the ripples and the deep-sea dive,
graffiti sprayed on a passing train,
the postcards from the place we arrive,
a shroud moth-eaten around its stain,
the remainders of those once alive.
With coils of electric wire
entwining a column stack,
its capital stands higher
when upright, stretching the back.
belly bloated with ideas;
stillborn on the page.
road rash from cynical grind;
Fisher Price concepts.
Black and white worldview
and monochrome characters
streaked with red crayons.