Box Full of Ghosts

I was dying on a London subway train,
When a bright light grabbed me
With unecessary force.
"Come into the shit"
Spake the Voice.
A horrible she-voice
Of octaves and decibels
Unknown to most mortals.
Pandora's box is open.
"Go ahead and take a look"
"Fall into it."
"Whatever you want."
I did.
I fell into my ancestors
Briny brains and
The tax collectors'
Handbag which smelled of
The worst sort of dreams.
An ancient sort of man-
Or not a man,
In the eyes of those bloody briny ancestors.
Told me,
Take this for yourself.
Hold it close.
Don't put anything in it.
I did. I did.
And I didn't.
My own box full of ghosts.

Youth

Back in my youth, my youngful days,
I could fell mountains with my nonexistant tail.
You could often find me, and call me His Ebulliency.
Then a banshee came
and stoled my spark away.

The Great Man

A great man once strode here.

An astronaut-farmer by trade,

his fists were great ham hocks.

His voice: a great, trembling fuck.

He spake,

and the huddled huddlers huddled at his leather-clad feet.

His ties, all 1,001 of 'em: the innards of italy's finest silkworms.

Every day, he wakes,

pours himself a big mug of knowledge,

and eats a hearty helping of refinement. Beasts, dragged up from the earth,

dress him merrily. He cleans his commemorative Obama plate;

his mother taught him manners. Then he

kicks down his and our doors and goes to scroan the world.

Orchestras once

followed his every booming footstomp, but

now they don't. these were

the times before orchestras went extinct.

Before you went extinct. Before

I went extinct.

A great man once strode here.

Then he killed us all and left.

Hump Day Haiku Vol. 15

I slept in the trash,

Under moonlit overpass,

and spoke to with dog.

Hump Day Haiku: Vol. 15

The janitor sneaks.
Mopping around his mop, he
hopes to kill again.

After the Hunt

You can find me in the scriptorium,

Smoking a Woodbine, reclining illustriously,

Effortlessly sporting tweed.

Landscape of the Grampians blesses my eyes,

Old Wellesley, Duke of Wellington, stares at Time itself,

The quiet dignity of Apsley House, suspended in respectful silence.

Charlemagne, West Springer Spaniel,

Sleeps by sconce-lit fireplace,

Tailing dreamy pheasants.

If you need me - give a ring.

You can find me sleeping soundly,

Boldly doing nothing.

The Unbroken Arc

Three prophecies the ancients told,

descending basements caked with mold,

our hearts are lost, our souls are sold,

Lamassu wakes within the fold,

to eat the sweets the dead controlled,

Papyrus burns, the Dead Sea Scrolls,

Illusion.

Oh, lamentable confusion!

Elysian fields upon the cliffs,

a lifeless plunge into the Styx,

the Shades' defeat inscrutable,

with Delphic signs immutable,

Oh, tell me where the tides will swell,

and crash upon black waters still.

Overshoot me, zenith frozen fate,

your prescient spear is sharp.