February 13, 2017

Having no star to reach for; nor no landscape of a sake;

No avatar to preach over, hence no scope to cultivate;

Failure cuts up desire; forever Christ hangs-on His trace

A portent daily

A social whirl redounds applause; its danse macabre pastiche

Of scarecrow partner existential fairy step and creep

Propels each man alone into a cinematic dreamed

Digital heaven;

Mark solo beats:

Here is no ground for measure, bar a single clef; on rope

These vagrants wandering, gaze unsighted, vainly grope,

Their heady persons spinning, ancient introspection pooped

Within them

All stars in the high sky, are pointers each, and sold and bandied

A birthday star for someone who is happy being stranded

In a fifteen minute lifetime like autonomic silo

Someplace somewhere

Every pointing finger on the sky dome’s deemed to mean

Because and simply otherwise stands meaning rather lean

A starveling enterprise with an abysmal self-esteem


A handmaiden of surface under whose facade men weep

Beings of beef and chutzpah, whilst the girls are sparkling teeth

Daring in scarecrow ballrooms schemes to one another greet

Yet never meet

Surface is all their tyrrany which guilottines the real

Smooth movers bearing war wounds, who are desperate, down-at-heel

Under a suit of mohair; spray-on smells cannot conceal

Their devastations

Manacled features, gestures - transportations from bright lights

Become established news as cool as sticking-plaster nights

Patching a self together under bedsheets set to rights

These disastrous glamours

Screaming to be or not to be, to know but know not seems,

Harrowed excoriated by life’s everyday sweet dreams

Where everything’s something else and so has everyone a cover: Excepting Christ your brother

You can also find this poem at steemit.