Chartreuse Glow

A chartreuse glow in a disused store,
crystalline shards of torchlight
caught on dust motes make
cubist ghosts; silent witnesses
filter the remnants of a scene.

He was tied to a chair,
two men blew smoke rings
as a flyspecked light bulb
swayed to the rumba strains
of a thirsty wind, he hoped
he’d have the courage to evade
the questions, the inevitable
probing of his marrow,
palpating a point of penetration,
offering salvation through betrayal …
A Mesphisto bargain, tell us all,
and we shall set you free,

tell us all, knowledge shall be yours,
tell us all, we shan’t harm you…

whispers in his ears

and then the blindfold
and a single shot.

He slumped, thudding
to the concrete floor,
the chartreuse glow
gleamed redly
spreading in a slick.

 

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Cutout Whispers

whitesmoke vapours
slither from a silver exhaust

drifting crystals churn
to a distant wind chime tune

secret fireflies dance
in a maelstrom of moonrain

gardens sparkle in champagne
while rent ghosts roam
dazzled by periwinkles
fractured on bisque pots

cutout whisper motes
float in between
mint and lady bugs

 

 

 

An Exhalation

And so …  an exhalation,
almost a sigh, a silent sigh,
anticipated moments pass,
a mic stands in the centre
of the theatre in the round,
an invitation to exhale, express
words with air,
to splash words onto a screen
with fingers
into a stream with bodies here,
some bodies over there, somewhere,
seen, read out loud, performed by other
tongues and teeth, silently consumed
like little quail eggs rolling
in your mouth,
and yet
a question still remains,
a lingering afterthought,
what is the collective noun
for poets, after all?