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"White Noise and the Mother Load of Dark Matter" 

underneath the static
what exists 
is never seen nor heard

for what it truly is 
the eyes and mind 
retaliate in the deciphering

the invisible return 
each night and day
to speak their voiceless peace

like morse code 
forever circling 
in purgatory, non-replete repeat

bats that are not bell free
chasing nightingales 
and bluebirds from their keep

owls hooting forever 
flocking souls speaking
wondering jibberish, non-replete repeat

like wretched pantoums,
twisting verses in poetry, yet, 
interwoven quatrains

never best for 
suites of 3, the delivery
never quite complete, non-replete repeat

when the view
is really 2

what was begun
never finished
until the kalashnikov is held 

by 1;

seldom do the sounds rhyme
but they are coloured 
deep red bells, resounding and on fire, 

almost always
ringing like alarm bells, 
sirens anti-clockwise, 

it visits the nightmare
in reverse, a funeral in ghost's brain
gone off again with Death in Dickinson hearse

unheard, ignored, 
as ridiculous, never quite believed, 
for it's thought as too absurd

the jury in,
the verdict passed,
tucked away, non-existent, they think

ghosts in a good haunting
mostly never ever do retreat 
evidence suggests, daily 

they need to imprint
their glowing vespers 
versatile and explicit

pushed 
through a wall, 
that leaks and bleeds

the translation of it all 
eventually arrives as seen
terribly memorable, and concrete

some say they require
an exceptional exorcising, and
a rollicking good feed

silent wars 
thought dead and gone 
are never soundless, they never sleep

for eternity in expulso, 
is granted, hell,
it's never ever neat

while 
on the outside
tap dancing demons 

keep under the radar
their physical existence 
untainted and treacly sweet

they smile as if they 
will never die, nor their 
tawdry actions and a maker meet

that which doth review
and eventually questions
their right to a blessed seat 

in that golden place - 

Hotel Pearly Gates,
a table away from brimstone
lavatories and boiling sirocco heat

demons hide in their 
camouflage, versatile
personalities psychopathique

blooming in dung
cultivating flying monkey screams
yards of ingenious lies

selling their souls for freedom
sweeping truth underneath
well-hidden carpet crimes

along with its companion,
covetous buzzard 
that, which in its reptile beak

stole something 
very precious
from benign bluebird’s retreat

the buzzard, seen for what it is,
two faces and snake eyes
making noises like a Lyrebird

is through the flimsy veil seen, 
at last by the unseen,
for what it truly is

true medusa, barren monster 
sitting in its nest, obsessed, 
possessing its long-wanted prize

what it never is 
nor was, 
a hellish story this,

of rotting skeletons, 
ghouls and goals, 
and true Queen, robbed

a nightmare 
in a 
living dream

the usurper, 
sits planted in artificial turf
polishing its lies with Mr Sheen 

it wears a sainted halo,
of no great worth, 
so well-worn, it’s bent

the one, 
that isn’t 
the other

takes the true other’s 
sainted dream, but this sad truth, 
is seldom ever seen 

The Lyrebird 
wears its fool’s gold halo
like a well-won paper crown, false queen

in reality,

it is a circus ring that slips,
eventually the noise of truth 
will wear its grasping fakeness down

sought to be seen as 
holier than thou, 
oh no, it remonstrates

it never did transgress
finding homes for the homeless,
while the other goes without 

kicked to the curb 
and left rotting 
on non-replete repeat

graces once given 
by the ghost as gift, 
for all the forsaken good it did

underneath continues
the brashness of white noise
a relentless harbinger of poise

messages 
each night and day, arise, 
indistinguishable at first 

but one way or another
the haunted, make their voices
clear as a resounding bell, 

they most always will eventually, 
with or without Pentecost, 
have their call for true justice heard

the truth, that long-time kept
in locked dungeon released
by destined fate, escapes non-replete repeat

it’s seen and known 
by those it's meant to 
touch 

there 
is a moral 
within the story, nightmare

music never sits alone,
while white noise 
crushes dark matter

to move miracles
through suffocating 
concrete walls

white noise befriends
the mother load
of dark matter

it's never 
gibberish, nor
empty purile chatter 

always - 

this ghost story 
for all good 
boys and girls, that matter

and, 
a neat serving 
of Hell, 

for black-listed, two-faced
snake-eyed buzzards 
and soul-sucking vampiric ghouls

(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)



Dungeon Ambience/1hr/Loop
https://youtu.be/lnJNkjORboc





Mr Sheen 
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mr_Sheen

Lyrebird 
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lyrebird

White Noise/EVP/Dark Matter/Haunting/Ghosts/Demons








"Ghost Wiring" / Neko Case. 
https://youtu.be/uvHAnb7z2jM


"Things that Scare Me" / Neko Case. 
https://youtu.be/EBLI9jq6tUY


"Black Listed" / Neko Case. 
https://youtu.be/AMgkop02h7s


"Deep Red Bells" / Neko Case. 
https://youtu.be/ScT9eo5cljk





Emily Dickinson 
"The Soul Has Bandaged Moments"
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/56453/the-soul-has-bandaged-moments-360


Emily Dickinson
"Tell All the Truth but Tell it Slant" 
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/56824/tell-all-the-truth-but-tell-it-slant-1263





Broken World
https://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/broken_world_1372090
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