Poetry by Michael Swain

Recital to the frost

Upon the alters of progress a recital to the frost unrestrained by the gallops of decapitated harmony. Shackled for procreation under bluebirds dumps and sun flower swamps with eyes like dying weeds.  A thousand squirming arms on the faces of dogs that didn’t oblige by the beams of a fading star. Liquid vertebrates shine’s longevity questioned by the flies glaring at the final breathes of the last King’s empire. Burnt skin evisceration tread soft prophecy trampled erased underscore last chance deep gasp rasp wrath beneath the keys. Trudge forth torch crust on the walls growing deaf to all the floating angels calls pedagogue’s preaching ritual’s to stand in line.


In the shadows of the library all the dead ask for ice cream. Smoke creeps off lips thats crack and crumble until they shine forever across a landscape blind to the countless admirers. Flickering gasps wretch forth a winded butcher past cobblestone arch’s, dripping relentlessly. Surprised by the sloth experience the dim light turns to face you vacantly it begins to laugh. Lilly pads that swallow family’s scream to the silence until the clutter leaves you utterly alone. Dancing we waste away our shame and sicken the decedents of ragged trophy wives dreams of ultimate creation. I can’t, why can’t we, We Can’t, why can’t I, saved, from what is run then stay go back fall down. Flecks of blood and salt roll like tumble weeds through the rivers that slither down children’s hands to murder the just righteous. The shadows like piranha’s gather and the books were all alive after all.

Slow children at play

Rotting teeth with no futures buried within tenements encircling moon craters that erode like so many sparks of a fire. Brilliant streams of piss and vomit rain down with a twinkle in the eyes of every laughing child that ever fell in front of a passing car. Bleeding pets and wet diapers fill the corridor with such sweet aromas you would wish a hammer hit your knees rather then another breath came creeping in. All the compassion in the world couldn’t soak up all the bits of broken glass left in your eyes from a simple moment of kindness, Wretched is that who crawls to aid! festering is one who longs! gruesome is that whimper of tender nostalgia!

But the dust settles and the lines all fade, the shadows you cling to reject a sense flips on its back and limbs a raised.

Michael Swain


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