Archive for May, 1987


Posted: May 27, 1987 in Poetry
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Wandering through a town at night
When lanterns provide an eerie light
That is when the spectres come
And beat upon a silent drum
Overall it is an indescribable sight.

For clarity in the air I wist
I am answered by a fabric of mist
Through alleys I wend
That twist and bend
Looking behind, they do not exist.


Posted: May 27, 1987 in Poetry
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Darkness embodied in failable emotion
Like being dragged down in a primeval ocean
When you’re up, you’re up, down you’re down
When I am depressed I become profound.
Astral blackness – a lonely sensation
Depression is far removed from elation.
Full of emptiness, my heart weighs heavy
No gleaming jewels wink from their bevy
Roaming disjoints of mental breath
Bordering closely on the pawns of death.
Though your life may be what’s in question
Don’t ever marry yourself to depression.

Dredged up from the foul slimy pits of the unconscious
Come the compost and seedlings of these poems.
The sunless quagmires of my nether regions
Unseen, unheard of, unpure, unwanted, unknown.
Grey sludge wends its way through towering pillars
Stalagmites, remains of what could have been.
Unwholesome creatures populating the pseudo-real
Slither between murky bog and decaying fen.
Oozing questionabilities of the sanity ungrasped.
Psychedelicity is achieved in shades of black.
A changed and twisted depressed mentality.
Phrases and ideas flit, cohesion to they lack.
Through my pen does the putridescence spill forth
But most is caught in the mesh of conscious mind.
In festering forests seen in a lurid light.
What hideous secret can I find?
Dripping, oozing monsters, bereft of sight.
Unearthly being composed of gangrene.
Grotesque mockeries within the fetid swamp
Shinily glisten with a wet, mucal sheen.
Ambulatory fungi, frothing with saliva.
Sporadic slurries of viscosity.
Living monstrosities of decomposing humus.
Warped aspects of mental perspicuity.
Anerobic things with myriads of legs
Accompanied by multitudes of gelatinous eyes.
A virtual abyss is present and evident
A rift unbridged, for its size.
Slavering ghouls armed with wicked talons,
Bubbling pools of superheated mud.
Toweringly infinitesimal gaps of pure voidness.
Cascades and rains of syrupy blood.
Sticky strands of cosmic material
Form webs to clog rusty machines.
Blurry images fade in and out.
So many extraordinary ideas, yet without the means
A chasm of despair and of morbidity
Makes up the majority of my soul.
Sorrow and idiocy rest heavy burdens
Upon a subconscious as black as coal.
Upwellings from a depth of a boundless water
Birth new ideas to multiply and flourish
But sightless, flapping, contorting myconids
Swoop in to ravage and demolish.
Flinching in terror, cowering in fright
Screams and shrieks fill the alien atmosphere,
For individual thoughts see their comrades die
And spend their short lives in fear.
Writhing their way out of the primordial soup
Flopping upon sunless shores of sand,
Rooting and grunting beneath moldering canopies
Agonized ululations echo across the land.
The stench of death, of rotting corpses
Permeates my mind and lingers there.
Insubstantial casualties form endless pyres;
Smoke and dust reek to fill the air.
Paroxymal tremors shake unsteady foundations.
The erosion and decomposition grows with each quake.
Whimpering and gurgling, vicious things strike
The supports of sanity – that’s what is at stake.
Stupendous castles built of flesh and bone,
Towers of veined sinew and gristle.
Flashes of inspiration silhouette these forms
Quenched as the armaments of darkness bristle.
A sodden mist lays over my broken mind
Soundless arachnids spin their silken webs.
Glistening foam glides through hazy eddies
Over clouded water, all consciousness ebbs.
Within these sluggish, merciless swamps
Contained in this subconscious of mine
Raves a maddened, gibbering, repressed waif
“Tween wits and madness, thin partitions align.

The Principal’s Remains

Posted: May 20, 1987 in Poetry
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I hope that the Principal spontaneously combusts
And nobody will rant and rave and fuss.
If she blew up while picking up trash
Whether bagel a-stomped or burger a-mashed,
Or violently exploded while giving a speech
Hanging around spying like a socialite leech.
Implosion to add flavor, it wouldn’t hit others
No blood splattered clothing, no curious mothers.
But the problem with this idea is simple, you see
‘Cause you know how awful the results would be.
The solution is apparent, yet the problem’s the same:
The next Principal would pick up the first one’s remains.