Peak noir (Poetry)

[grey helm]

Walking down one street while my mind is in another
The old stains of plastic trails leading me like a clock tick tock
Far fetching every day I awake to the sound of cigarette wrenching
My throat telling me in no words at all that I am suffering my sins
My eyes aching with the images of a night spent from the head of a goat to two old fiends with hands assumed in a praying thought in hope that they could be saved the white powder amusement.
The days change the faces change the grass gets greener
The ways and waves and betrayals become all the clearer
The supermarkets give out make shift last suppers and the church men grown vein as they feed out their uppers.
The fat woman strains a breath but loves the thorn like rose scent that I humour her with
She wont be loved but mocked she like the masses crowd in their flocks.
Ever divided
Universal equilibrium charades
Ive become autistic in my obsessions
Past life and no life regression
Im in one world but dream of some other.

[Stohornugle]

I found that this bothered me, It is dark and not pretty but life isn't.
It made me feel that the person was in a dark place externally, but longing for the bright, clear, fresh, colourful place of his internal reality.
It made me think . Well done.



In Peace Shapara

[Jeb]

I love your poetry grey helm! This one is especially good. I stand by what I said in a past thread... your work is very Dali-esque. To me this is somewhat surreal... but not without real-life meaning. I love the rhythm in places and I find a freshness in this style that really appeals to me.

Sorry, but I just gotta say this... I imagine you in black leotards standing under a spotlight on a stage, perhaps holding an apple or a skull, reciting this poem. But since the only image of you I have to go on is your avatar, hee hee hee, well... can you imagine Sauruman in black leotards!?

[Arden]

It's like a man wearing a long coat and a big top hat walking down a foggy, wet cobblestone street ... leaning on his cane ... all at once hoping nobody tries to talk to him, yet hating that he feels so lonely. A potent piece.

[Robb Hawklord]

Jeb said that your poetry is Dali-esque, I agree, yet differ - this is more Jim Morrison (The Doors) or Michael Moorcock in one of his more sombre moments.

I have read this several times, yet cannot bring myself away from feeling that you, or maybe a close friend is screaming for help to rid oneself of Nicotine and the White Powder Daze, it does give one the autistic feeling, it does give clarity (in its own way) and when succoured by it, you do dream of the past life, that otherworld, where the grass really is greener, but one doesn't see that until they're on the other side of the fence.

I used to live on the 'Eenes' - NicotINE, CaffeINE and AmphetamINE, now its just the first 2, and boy would I give anything to be shut of the nicotine.

Hawky