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Dean Drinkel Poem
Cerberus bleeds through copper tablets.
The red skinned angel spews the truth
Of ages. Of wood: we sing hollow
Hosannas: too many fragments
Of light – flutter past the eyelids.
I wait. Impatiently – push stones
Through needle eyes. Honey
Combed monsters breath deep. Mimic
Lies told by cloaked creatures living
On shadow time.
The flesh forever green. Pillars of fire
Illuminate infinity. Here comes the
(dis)believer of the free word. Those
that stain us – rule. Hypocrisy of the
one that deigned himself God.
Later, the fly awakens. Time to leave,
The dream has finally run out.
Copyright © Dean Drinkel | Year Posted 2008
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Dean Drinkel Poem
In that mouth: gravity hides. Weaves
A brand new world. Broken millstone
Wrapped round the ankles. Tortures of
A sepia vision. Forever there – eyes
Glazed and the lullaby of sleep.
Radio waves creating distorted spectres
On the membrane. She cooks feasts. A
Detour through lazy days and nonsensical
Drawings. Harps play in funeral pyres,
Ashes relaying messaging to those across the sea.
Screaming manifestos uttered by the false prophets.
Echoes of former time – dusty skin, rabid and raw.
Eaten in carved dwellings with parched lips.
Falling from rocky deserts, broken hearts
Captured in purges. Modern economy.
Nameless ghosts tickle this side of reality.
No, divinity. Degenerating woman grips with
Painted fingers to the ledge that’s close to
Breaking. Flesh petals await her in the
Abyss. She smiles though, adores.
And falls.
Copyright © Dean Drinkel | Year Posted 2008
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Details |
Dean Drinkel Poem
Open your eyes. Reinvent me. Heaven
Sent. Flamed teardrops die gracefully
Above your heart. How I hear the
Footsteps of the dead trample over us,
Yet we are both powerless to breath.
I fall from the face of the planet.
Reaching out for a passing star to
Catch me. Oceans laugh at my plight.
Hide in the darkness, then turn their
Backs on me. Offer themselves to
Red-robed warriors.
Swallow that anger. I know how it
Tastes. Chambered sorrow vented
At the frozen children. The frenzied
Touch of ebony as it touches your
Face, like snow, it knows us all
Too well.
Thirteen
Copyright © Dean Drinkel | Year Posted 2008
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