The Nightbird

It is absurd in a dubious kind of way,
the need to fit in with simulated norms.
I don’t care anymore if the jukebox plays
a re-mix of this fucked up excuse for a life.

The nightbird does not bend beneath such sorrow,
soaring high above the smoke-filled bordellos,
She knows no fear of being crushed beneath
the one-eyed monster’s armadillo-skinned boot.

I lay here all but empty – shamefully waiting
for the scent of homemade soap, and
the primal thrust of a hot starched pistol,
Though I’ve not a pound of flesh left to give.

I’m swept high upon a ribbon that swirls
in the turbulent eddies she leaves behind,
Catching glimpses of freedom in the pull of her wake.
Below my battered shell awaits, unsure if I’ll return.

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Credits and Additional Information

Cottage Country

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Credits and Additional Information

The Coming Storm

A weathered and worn windsock,
taut on the peak above.
An unheeded warning
to the hazy milieu below.

––

Conflated is the vapour
that escapes your cruel grasp,
devoid of oxygen we once shared.

Sharp wit and candor weigh ––
heavy like the suffocating
crush induced by the snake’s coil.

––

Panic bells chime within,
beckoning my getaway
before the coming storm, but
I cannot leave her behind.

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Credits and Additional Information