Poetry by Michael E. Swain

Black Claws Splatter

Windows of an exiguous pupil pique hands to build temples out of smoke, gouging out trunks to pack the past away at the end of a bayonet. The conveyor belts run like bees in a jar, selling flashes of hope of a future with legs to stand on. And the Cicatrice’s that flows with the wine through this prism known for its teeth.

Frothing; Kicking and scratching at the blind mans feet, send the ravens forth till the crops are all barren and limbless sacrifices upon the alter of the moon. Tumultuous corpulence risen to glide above all others, shitting faces on the backs of the weary. Woes sing like prayers as they burst into empty galaxies surrounded by black holes and cheer.

Whispers of teeth that know like knaw like the nails, a shovel to best the most cunning of flowers. Chattering tears run down the tendons of terrible thoughts that gently rock you to sleep.

Black splatters rupture branch’s under the archway, lights drip as I stumble backwards. I thought it was a dream but the evidence lay scattered. A throat filled with razors, guts of needles. A glint that watch’s the eye, where did i put my phone, I guess ill make one instead.

Rubble on my focus, debris of the gaze of this fucking disingenuous maze. Before what that silhouette to the point, cracked hands and blood spilling noise out of a vase. Trumpets raised clowns to grace seared and hardened flecks sink deep retreating until the rocks are all gone all the corners out of sight.

Michael Swain may be reached at mswain1984@gmail.com.

A Night Without Sleep

To dance the sky, manifest fire, touch the stars the slate of clean. The metal clank of the war drums of oblivion pray for mercy on the alters of blood Smoke fills the room till eyes melt like the candy that grows on dying suns. Meow at the cards that fall from decaying remains of gods once adored. 30,000 lives and only one thing remains the same; never enough time. Losing yourself to find that blank canvas.

Nostrils flair under cushions of tentative disrespect. Your lower eyelid betrays you to thorns and thorns and thorns. The sun is warm, one piece of the pie is all that’s left. My clothes are to tight, the sweat makes them sticky. But its all to late and to soon everything is still yet to come and never will already passed.

Cold nails of entropy reach to remove my rubber gloves. A cup fools the beads a glint of a fraction its breath. To hold in awe a heavy sound around the windows that crows have nested. Their young whistle like harpy’s in the nether of inferred infections. Circling masses gather to find loneliness in a world they cant recognize or recall. A squeak and a slash, you awake once more……………………………….

The finality of the river startle the fish swimming up stream.
What tender demons delight at the perception of liner time. Malevolence, sheer malevolence, fractal and shiny beasts whose bodies stretch beyond eternity and infinity. Not quite a laugh or a scream but expressing both simultaneously at the sight of you. Skipping, skipping, skipping, skipping, skipping, skipping, skipping, skipping, skipping, skipping, skipping, skipping…………..
It finally breaks when they’ve got you. Limbo you first arrive to purple sideways nothingness. After that you only have horror and grace.

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