Archive for March, 2019


Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on March 31, 2019 by dc

Smothered with doubt
But seasoned with age,

Full on the tongue,

I was consumed
By just the thought.

Apostasy Flush

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on March 30, 2019 by dc

They faltered around town
Like their lives depended
On heathens and histrionics,

There were too many distant dreams,
Too little time to gather their thoughts
Or soothe the pain in their hearts
And sit back in the warmth of each other;

They broke their hopes
Under twisted skies at night,
Covered the streets in light,
And just rolled around in the dirt,

There was something forever wrong,
An awkward, disjointed hush,
All thirsty for curses,
The apostasy flush.

Your Applause

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on March 26, 2019 by dc

You create
Not statements,

Iterations dressed
And wrapped
In messianic cloth,

Retellings cursed
With hands washed
In reverance,

Replica relatives,
Elegant yet

A primitive skeleton
Stripped of flesh
Then fed again,

An arched fabrication,
All eyebrows
And fuss,

Your whats, wheres
And why nows
Are gilt edged,

Your applause
Is just echoes
From the last act’s


In Incoherent Jibes

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , on March 23, 2019 by dc

Ill educated punching cards,
Unrighteous in the eyes of God,

Playing possum in the devil’s yard
With forced families and faith,

A make shift bunch of dissidents
Circling dreams of fallen governments,

Drunken spit and feral punishment
For all the idiots they choose.

Meat Windows

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on March 16, 2019 by dc

As I walked through the garden
I saw a small child
Throw a tooth
Over a wooden shed roof;

Red ink on my fingers,
Instructions in my back pocket,

I hurried to the greenhouse
And there it sat

Shimmering in the gravel
Under a bright autumn sun,

All speckled brown,
Chest peppered iridescent green,

A single stone on it’s limp,
Lifeless chest,

Shining like a long,
Painted pine cone,
A sycamore leaf
Curling to sleep.

I bent down
To pick it up,

It was oily to the touch
And light in the hand,

I felt my pulse
Through it’s rib cage,

Today is about deconstruction,
Tomorrow’s its noble rebirth.

An Unemployed Journalist Speaks

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on March 6, 2019 by dc

There’s nothing
Plucky about
Bucking trends
That bend
The truth
And smooth over
Examples of
And stressing
Like sleuths
Who struggle
For clues,

It’s just a job.