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Max Gatrell Poem
'Twas my decision to depart,
Delude myself I can't.
No flagrant town or cedar horse,
Scourged at heels to hasten.
No burnished son of Amon-Ra,
Embossed his seal upon my cheek.
Chased through channels I was not,
Beneath the Sea I went.
Prospect, guiling motivation,
Subtle was thy goading stick.
Naive were my intentions,
Quixotic thoughts of mastery.
If will could spur this planet back,
Would I my own extend?
The answer is uncertain,
for time we cannot bend.
A lover's mouth, firmly closed,
'Tis like the verdant grass I miss,
Or long dead friend, I'll never hug,
Amnesic our companionship.
Mortal lustre loses shine,
Flesh depleted by and by.
Revoked is our replenishment,
But landscape shall endure.
Though many shades of green exist,
Only one I yearn to view.
Others are the same as mist,
Compared to thee my homely hue.
Copyright © Max Gatrell | Year Posted 2009
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Max Gatrell Poem
Much is said in cultivation,
Shallow words spent with seed.
Empty vows between the sheets,
‘Of course I love you baby.’
Toxic ailments of assurance,
Commitment breeds dependency.
This sepulchre I designed,
Where walls of doubt incessantly shrink.
A tomb which dims with every glance,
Yet limpidly I sit and think.
Prognostication is a ditch,
Living with Cassandra’s Curse,
To view before events unfurl,
These augurs indisputable.
Predictions based on things I’ve done,
Games I’ve often played and won.
O dilemma, consort of quandary,
Why does ambivalence prevail?
A heart divided cannot love,
Ergo romance is doomed to fail.
‘Tis strange to thirst and then to drown,
Dropped within the sultry water.
Petrified I couldn’t swim,
But in the depths I belong.
A Shark of Love once was I,
Domestic nets now thwart my flow.
That I may roam this ocean free,
And hunt the seas I used to know.
Copyright © Max Gatrell | Year Posted 2009
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Max Gatrell Poem
Perusing the tomes of esoterica,
One truth I've learnt indeed,
Not one book contains it all.
There's always more to read.
Axiom mixed with allegory,
Abstract salt and misty sulphur.
Is this that famous alchemy?
I'll find the quintessence myself.
I wonder will my pupils burn,
Ere I see the salamander?
Peradventure I'll go blind,
Gazing at the flame.
Kundalini's far too painful,
No snakes I'll squeeze from there!
Keep the stick; I disdain your wand,
And those dowdy robes of rite.
You banish nought excepting creed,
So your mind can play in circles.
Dr Dee, did you notice,
Darkness in reflection?
Enoch's sigils say no more,
Arcane shapes that never shine.
Antiquated and obscure,
The like of which I can't define.
No Angels tap upon my pane,
I think they've lost their wings?
Or John and Eddy were insane,
Who can read their mirror?
I covet a theophany,
To behold an avatar.
But none have manifested yet,
Perhaps they are asleep?
I heard the Masons in cabal,
'Find the tent within thyself.'
Alas their holy pillars crumble,
When their master's meet.
Will I become the charioteer?
And overcome my obstacles.
Maybe the Tower's drawn for me,
'I'll see you at the bottom.'
To then be threshed by death himself,
Though his charger l won't fear.
Nor that upon his hasty heels,
For death is only transition.
A torchless Hermit I'll remain,
Engaged in futile rumination.
The change I will, will not occur,
Therefore the Fool forever I'll be.
Copyright © Max Gatrell | Year Posted 2009
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Max Gatrell Poem
Subjugated by a Muse,
Who holds me in her grip.
Before too long, I'll blow a fuse,
Whilst biting off a lip.
I sell my soul but once a day,
By night I thus retract.
To the Dweller service pay,
Providing what I lacked.
Overridden by this thought,
From which there is no cure.
Grinding gnashers into salt,
Until my gums are raw.
At last a means to ambulate,
Abscond this mental cliff.
A Hell where hornets congregate,
Vanquished by a spliff.
The pain of living I shall numb,
By sitting on the fence.
That fabled day will finally come,
Which Proffers consequence.
Until the month of burgeon verse,
Because it feels rewarding.
I'll advocate this hate I nurse,
And bleed these words I'm hording.
Copyright © Max Gatrell | Year Posted 2009
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Max Gatrell Poem
Embitterment is adamantic,
Contritely it binds us to banality.
Why so perplexing to commend?
Compliments coloured profane.
Fawning bravo elucidates,
The wax before the wane.
Inadequacy, scourge of all,
Comparison should be banned,
Rulers immediately burnt,
Thus measurement will cease.
Envy is our burden,
When weal should be the cheer.
Sore it is to adulate,
Inswathed by constant fear.
But paragons revolve like signs,
And Excellence is exceeded.
With each distinctive aeon,
Beauty dons a different skin.
Copyright © Max Gatrell | Year Posted 2009
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Max Gatrell Poem
A demographic donkey-punch,
Has choked us all, the Credit Crunch.
Percent reduced by 33,
Of Style of life and Luxury.
No more loans, no more lending,
Forced to earn what we’re spending.
Gripped by servile deprivation,
Ripples of the World inflation.
Decadence at its peak,
Necessities once everywhere.
Advent days appear so bleak,
A smile a week will soon be rare.
Destitution for the rich,
Paupers in a flash.
Many opt to eat their guns,
Or instigate the slash.
Some Produce, all consume,
Slaves before we leave the womb.
Walk the walk, tow the line,
Influenza, bird or swine?
Tyrants born from jackals torn,
A nacient Reich shall have its dawn.
Consummation of an era,
Armageddon getting nearer.
Copyright © Max Gatrell | Year Posted 2009
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Max Gatrell Poem
Within the Hotel, all were at rest,
All except one, one lady guest.
This lady asleep, swiftly awoken,
by something unique, her slumber was broken.
The lady sat up and guess what she saw?
'Twas a band set of ghosts, fiddlers four!
Yet as they played on, no tune was endured,
No glide of the bow or pluck of a chord.
What was this terror, deep in her room?
Was it a sign or some omen of doom?
Infact it was neither malice nor gloom,
Just four that were free, free from their tomb.
This was too much, she started to shake,
At figures transparent, but darkly opaque.
Unfazed by her freaking, this devilish throng,
Proceeded to play, enslaved by their song.
To those in their grave, the sombre is merry,
The requiem is gay, the dirge is contrary.
Just plucking away with a smile on their face,
Oblivious to time, done with that chase.
Finales performed, they hence disappear,
Finished they are until the next year.
But soon they'll be back, same as before,
To play once again, those fiddlers four.
Copyright © Max Gatrell | Year Posted 2009
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