The Ugly Truth?

The truth is like a blanket in the dark
We feel the soft cotton on our skin, it
shields us from the cold, tricks us into believing
That the night is warm.

Perhaps the pagan gods and myths are
Not so terribly far from reality;
For we say that we now know the truth -
But what if the truth is but an artful lie?

We could reenact the bloody battles of the ancients
And perhaps the corpses on the ground are just an illusion
Hell within, hell without;
Hell is what the screams' about.

If I jump into a sea and cease breathing,
Will I wake up and find
That it was all a dream?

Lament On Life

Weeping, moaning and shuddering
Is there no end to this horrid night?
The last days of autumn diverge.

Always my lips tremble when
I think of the pithless drawl of my life
Until the end of days our spirits wither.

Love in the dead of night is
As love has never been
For the flame burns brighter under the moon than the sun.

But if the play is devoid of paroxysm
And the actors are of an anti-climax lieu commun
Then may death be the favour of us all.

That's Just The Way Things Are

When the sun rises from the horizon
Tinging everything in its path with a golden hue
And all of yesterday turns into dust
That's just the way things are.

I lift my cloak of memory - it is
A frayed fabric; moth-eaten and raunchy
The maelstrom of catastrophe struck; as if I were Napoleon in Waterloo
I lowered it and the havoc ceased; silence dawned again.

I ought not dwell in the malignant past
Where the remains of an unfinished affair lurks
Malevolently, seeking an absolution; hands curled into claws
To drag me under, never to resurface.

Suppose I drown in my own misery and no one even notices
But that's just the way things are.

To Estelle

Upon returning I
Turn back and gaze once more
Into the incarnate world

I once ventured alone.
With wings of a seraph, I flew
Before falling, feathers unlatched, like Icarus.

Sometimes I count the stars and wonder
If one of them will come, flying towards me
And crush me to my death.

Behind the mockery and the satirical repartee
There is the final grotesque joke of death
And it is in a constant arabesque, an undulating line between consciousness.

To Beatrice

The moon hangs herself
Silvery innards spill across the inky sky
It is not a happy night.

Sometimes the cuckoo sings in
Harmony with the crickets
While you danced, pale hair a ghostly sheen.

Anywhere else is better than
The little turret; filth and grime - now lies
A dreamlike substance in my mind.

And the mist drops surreptitiously
Like the scrim in my favourite operas; only it is so light
That I didn't notice until I'm enshrouded in it.