Thursday, October 15, 2009

Thoughts of Edgar Allan Poe

A Night With Poe

and so it goes like the syringe deep into the woods vein
carving a delicate swath into the never-ending night
ravens eyes copulate and gather around the bend
waiting like vultures for this parched frail figurine
to abandon what little hope their is left,
dusk spits black powdered rain upon these thoughts
spilling like an eviscerated tongue upon the forest floor,

I took a wrong turn left a half mile back or so
approaching a light vague in the distance, hoping
hoping for what I have no ______ idea,
abysmal my attempts to deduce anything by reason
my compass has veered north magnetic, lost
these are nomadic thoughts, full of decaying foliage
rusting and seething like over steeped black tea,

you would be right if you said it sounds dreary,
the pulse faint and barely breathing, chilled by a cold
blue wind, howling like some deranged banshee,
it is nocturnal, blood letters tracing the night,
searching for some sort of respite oasis in the shadows,

everything is coming down like crumpled mercury drops
leaking collusion like a bad transmission, stalling and when
it couldn't get any worse, lightning boomed announcing its
bitter arrival, Poe would be in his glory tonight, dancing
on tombstones with bones as calcified drumsticks,
chanting some mystic voodoo song in a language
fit for pygmy dwarfs crossed with Orcs,

I could feel the soil grabbing my tired ankles
pulling me closer like gravity had hands,
this was a night from hell alright, spinning a web
all its own and waiting for the end with a sarcastic
vampire laughter, Poe would be in his glory,
dressed in a bright red cape on his throne, calling
come closer you are almost here.

Kevin Harling.


You tried to peddle your pieces but they don't fit anymore
your disengaged fingernails, your disclaiming eyeballs,
you minion, as motionless as the flowers.

You left me like carry on luggage, waiting for your arrival
like a disheveled waistcoat thrown on the ground in a heap,
I grind my teeth like a tambourine, spitting ulcers instead
of bullets.

Its over, your feet are invisible now, you are a scallop
lost in your own greatness.

Kevin Harling.

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