Poetry (selection)

My words are always inspired by moods, dreams,

past experiences and inner complexities. As the

seasons roll by, the concept of time appears of

less importance to one who judges the moment

as timeless.

 

The Shell

Unearth the segmented sheen of memories,

Captive on disintegrated celluloid,

A life once exploding with passion,

Now buried in a forgotten dust of ghosts,

 

Split the air with vicious charge,

Raise the absolute,

And rise to rampage all that informs,

Complete, perpetual.

​

She Is Cut

Hazel brown iris, open her mind,

To comprehend all that survives in both worlds that must fail with time,

Until she greets whatever may come to her,

Or leave her to be.

 

Let her fill the goblet with rhetoric feeling,

And drink to something lost.

 

Ivory skin parts to expose olive sweet sap,

To submerge madness and dilute memories of the calm waters of childhood,

Only then can she be at one with her nightmares.

 

Exempt from physicality,

Touching another realm from the inside,

Always returning to her dizzy addiction,

She is cut.

​

The Chaos Of Cupboard Coma

Dried is the pulp in preparation of a new dawn,

Following all paths,

Red balloon smiles warmly as the black joker infiltrates,

Under the guise of experience untold,

 

Lights blur the saliva laden streets,

An early death awaits within the cracks of mentality,

Situated between polished metal and rubber,

Penned in by naturalism,

 

Words lose their labels,

To become noise filtered through mechanisms of flesh,

Intent on drilling deeper into this newly developed form,

Open your subconscious and experience the show,

 

Whirlwind of colour, meshed brick and paper,

Music man with black top hat,

Tiger-sized vampiric cat,

Hold my frailty tight,

 

Prophetic journey finalised,

Remaining fragmented in shadow,

Membrane tossed into the oceans of familiarity,

Crushed yet still reflecting another life lived briefly,

 

Will I ever return to the chaos of cupboard coma?

​

Artefacto

Rope twisting, like a snake around limbs,

Holding tight, an S&M dream,

Separating the body from its brain,

Once more, debilitating bone under guise of sexual pleasure,

Release thine grip, this beast of beauty sinned,

Cast the veil of love aside, to see that all is simplified,

When blood soaked soil does come to rest,

Within a land that does not exist (and never did),

Caught forever in a lapse of time,

In itself, constructed by wheels of fate,

Laid bare when seeds are spread in prisons of seasons,

Rotating since the rains began,

Tears flow through fine threads,

Wrapped around false deities,

Trading thus on nothing much,

Yet, this is all we have,

And can expect no more.

 

WORDS COPYRIGHT David Cave 2016