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B. Joseph Fitzsimons Poem
Once the night had fallen upon a sleepless slumber,
Whence the winter woke me when the third was three in number.
I sense that a wince doth lurk and wear which wicked gaze,
Of conniving shadows cast between my bedroom windowpanes.
I try to sit up from the fluff of foul feathered pillows of goose,
Yet they hold me down as if they'd grown on my neck to form a noose.
Shadows are simple reverse reflections of what's been left behind
A thing when sight can see what light has yet to hit the mind.
They pirouette as silhouettes upon my wall and in my eyes,
In which I sense with worry why I'm frozen and feeling tied.
As I'm laying locked in horror I look through the window’s diaphanous glass,
And see that in a tree there floats a fluorescent face in a mist of brass.
It floats aloft the frost of the frigid Winter floor,
Stirring cirrus shadow limbs of the moonlit sycamore.
An incandescent twilight cloak, illumes the timber's lattice,
Where shines this cryptic spectral glow akin the ignis fatuus.
Abrupt by insanity as I fancy this fantasy, surely born by a brief hallucination;
Optic inventions craft in confusion surely conjured such nonce observation.
A peculiar perched mask seems to hang disguised within the wintry thicket,
“An illusion,” I suspect “my percipience deceived, by a dubious false exhibit.”
Two holes are dug beneath rubbed bone, bleached white in wan complexion,
Masquerading to mock the missing paired two eyes of aesthetic perfection.
“Indeed,” I thought, “These staring beams appear as do a pair of eyes,”
I try and descry the light from which they shine under a gleaming guise.
Purloined I’m poised in a lucid melt, tasting a poisonous pure oppression,
Wrought by this face that haunts my view through the lens of my fenestration.
Shifting my view to find fault in my faculty,
I sought salvage in sight of such psychic insanity.
My fidgeting efforts prove futile, the carven masked eyes fix upon mine still!
Incessantly I’m stunned in speculum, boiling in a benumbing brisk of thrill.
Alas, my eyesight: no longer the sole sense of this deville,
What once was mere vision hails now my ears with a trill.
My breath and pulse waxing slower, and waning ever faster,
Aghast by celestial sounds from a susurrating mask of plaster.
Whence from my vision avowed, to the vacillations I succumb,
Of undulations the mask strums, moving inside my eardrums.
Who brings to me this apparition, arisen from perhaps an adumbration,
Of a visit from he whose grim reaping, lends to the living certain cessation?
And then in reminiscence, to my mind arrived the anamnesis,
Of the shelf that shelters a book one might otherwise dismiss.
Within its parchment pages, whence in refuge resides a clue,
To what this mask is made of; when, where, and why; by who?
Pins prick from prior paralysis, upon my dermis disguise of bone,
I shiver and grab the book and beg, bound reason to me be shone.
Within this covered lexicon read acrylic words in arcane diction,
Which most readers would anthologize, as ancient artifact and fiction.
The first supposition tis true, that this book was bound in the archaic ages,
Amiss the latter assumption that fable unfolds by the turning of its pages.
In my desperation I stir commotion, reading over every turned folio,
Longing for light in yonder window break, as did Shakespeare’s Romeo.
Yet each passage read of occult sorcery, or a variety of mages,
No line of a white mask, appeared to me on any of these pages.
All hope seemed to escape with passing page, turned by my flustered fingers,
Then a sudden zephyr blown ingress to the page on which now I linger.
On the bottom right reads in numeral: “Nine-hundred and ninety-nine,”
On which reads the magical recounted chronicle of myth upon its line.
The fluorescence of the pallid mask that posts upon the tree,
Shares the ashen-sheen on a face seen afore, on this page by me.
An oblong oil-painted portrait, white and blush of reddish-pink,
Its caption reads: “The Mask of Alabaster,” inscribed in faded ink.
To the left of the ghostly image reads a paragraph like a spell,
A warning of dark wizardry, which concocts white masks in hell:
"Animated by a wizard whose avarice bears blithe the thaumaturgy,
To forge a warlock’s soul inside a gypsum stone,
This augury and the legerdemain required of such magical metallurgy,
Siphons a sapphire from the fire inside his pelvic bone.
His soul is trapped in a putrid shell: his very own decapitate skull,
On which will gleam a glowing garnet, glimmering gold and scarlet,
His eyes shall cry with weeping, sunken, hollow two eyeholes
Luring any victim to view the red of this lustrous target."
Such dread and morbidity of a lost soul; ‘tis most tragic,
When trapped in a mask made by evil mischievous magic.
What malice must succeed from such a tumorous terror?
And what reconnaissance be sought by its hidden wearer?
Returning my gaze to the wraith in the window,
I remember that it has my mind muddled in limbo.
This mask of cadaverous complexion,
To my horror, mine own reflection.
Copyright © B. Joseph Fitzsimons | Year Posted 2017
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B. Joseph Fitzsimons Poem
You found me in a shadow,
By chance alone, and still.
Within a hole I came to know:
A burden; can't fulfill.
Buried nether stories,
I've welded to my spine:
Biopolitic territories,
Ancient ruins, un-divine.
I floated in that shadow,
Embracing darkness wet.
Drenching moisture—catacomb—
Until endured my Privyet.
Flickered 'hind the window glass,
Your eyes puckered in the lime,
To return and pass, iconic sass,
Greet, regurgitate its rhyme.
You saw me saunter by.
A passing pigeon cull,
Lulling dull, unknown to why,
My eyes, by yours, still pull.
A less than pass for fancy:
American tell-tale trope.
Annotations, future necromancy,
Proof for school: A dope.
Until I knew I wasn't still.
Like you, a passerby.
You—the moon—light could spill,
On I, an unused satellite.
We're meant for darkness,
Designed in light,
To be without its touch.
In spite of sight that drives our might,
Yet without you, I don't see much.
Copyright © B. Joseph Fitzsimons | Year Posted 2022
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B. Joseph Fitzsimons Poem
Being gay is a nightmare,
Yet not for what it's worth,
But for the social wear and tear,
Of not fitting in on Earth.
Does my taste for men inflict upon you,
A pain so great with which you cannot stand?
Does my choice for which orifice I go through,
Neccessitate legal and righteous bans?
Love is but a shadow,
That fills with what might is missing:
Obsidian sands of another's soul,
That blend with light while kissing.
Is it right for us who are named demons and pariahs,
To live under the pallor of an unlit umbra,
And forever feel trapped in Sitri's grasp on gaia,
Who holds firm grip upon those souls he has encumbered?
I think not, for I am a flame that flickers in the darkest of black nights,
Whence no candle nor lantern is 'round I'm found within the whitest light.
Say what you will with your silver pious tongues,
But you who demonize the denizens are the abominations,
For any being who wishes to see another hung,
For love can be found in Hell's Grand Central Station.
Copyright © B. Joseph Fitzsimons | Year Posted 2017
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B. Joseph Fitzsimons Poem
The era of catatonic self-destruction has risen yet again from boulder-blocked caves,
Whose cavernous stalactite incisors drip with the blood of thorny crowns,
Worn in punitive irony for the subversion of fertile inferiority,
Which, like rabbits, duplicates and hops about in trouncing contentment.
Yet despite the grin stretched beneath empty eyes,
Which are eclipsed by dilation of cimmerian shades poured from tipped inkwells,
Darkness ripened by age has inflated its penumbral grasp upon the solar plexus.
Hearts beat now to the false circadian rhythm of telemetry.
Screens fueled by waves polluting the air scramble for attention;
Screaming as if the spotlight has slithered away from their thespian heads.
But even so we watch as if waiting for a nothingness we know.
Petulant performances pretending to perfect the perception of reality persevere,
Despite their lack of empirical validity.
Our bodies and the space around they occupy have become irrelevant.
Experience and physical stimulation have been replaced by mirror neurons,
Firing incessantly at the sight of electromagnetic facsimiles,
Which are vomited in projected disproportion into our unwitting faces,
From nauseating mouths of those whose disease has spread to lower echelons.
And so we sit and stare upon the square on walls and in our hands,
As the prefrontal cortex and its dehydrated lobes succumb to the reptilians.
Another era of lack of mind borne from the fruitlessness of parasitic seeds,
Planted by the pretenders who swim in the wealth of our applause.
Clap away, we will, until we collapse in the arthritic solidification of redundant repetition.
Welcome to the show; a televised apocalypse of thought.
Where worlds were once created in cognition,
They're now created in the lenses of cameras.
When worlds were once refracted light coruscating from the eye,
They're now flickered in slides reflected from the television.
Copyright © B. Joseph Fitzsimons | Year Posted 2017
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B. Joseph Fitzsimons Poem
A psychologist is a person who decided to spend a lot of money,
To recieve a piece of paper that says they know everything about me.
Sure I'll talk, but they won't listen for anything but a hint,
Of reason to recommend a psychiatrist to deal me another script.
Psychiatrists are glorified drug dealers hired by Pfizer and their friends,
Who experiment with legal crack and meth to try and make the suffering end.
I studied the mind as well in school, recieving awards and honors,
And learned that western medicine is but a corrupt business at its core.
Psychiatric doctors convincing customers that their minds aren't right,
Ignoring the syndrome of society and its environmental plight.
Pills are but a capitalistic product of this terrible medical field,
When plants can cure what ails us with each season's yield.
I studied government as well in school, recieving awards and honors,
Learning that one reason pot's still illegal is because idiots deny it as a cure.
Sitting in school eight hours a day for eighteen years,
Is what an IBM machine is for, which won't be robbed of human cheer.
Four years of pretending degrees will reward us for our studies,
Left us indebted to unpayable loans and jobs whose minimum pay is cruddy.
So if you want to think my problems stem from a disease inside my brain,
Keep ignoring the economic ties and lies that are making me insane.
Copyright © B. Joseph Fitzsimons | Year Posted 2017
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B. Joseph Fitzsimons Poem
"They call us the edibles," said a cookie to me,
Whose eyes were chocolates and chips,
"Your mom shaped us into people, as you see,
And now sound comes from our liquorice lips!"
"Yeah, and it seems my lips are liquor-ish as well,"
I said to myself and not to the dessert,
Whom I tossed up and when he into my mouth fell,
Began screaming, "Is this what I deserve?!"
I quickly pulled him out of my mouth and when,
Asked why and how he had just spake,
He responded to that right there and then,
"Because like you, we had just got baked."
Copyright © B. Joseph Fitzsimons | Year Posted 2017
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B. Joseph Fitzsimons Poem
Once commenced the fest of feasting and giving thanks for genocide,
‘Tis the season to be jolly to replace our thoughts of suicide.
Santa claws his way into a child’s mind insidiously,
And the air begins to reek again of yuletide idiocy.
The bliss of belief in an ancient hippie turned into a homeless wizard,
Adjoins the joy of gifts from an obese geriatric myth flying in a blizzard.
Eight deer reign behind his ninth whose nose an eightball thaws,
Fa-la-la-la-chainsaw-sounds-that-make-me-gnaw-my-inner-jaw.
It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas,
It follows us everywhere we go,
Take a look and ask like Jack, “what’s this?”
And see it’s but blinding capitalism aglow.
Copyright © B. Joseph Fitzsimons | Year Posted 2018
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B. Joseph Fitzsimons Poem
Am I vomiting?
Or do I throw down instead of up.
Singing with a sudden frown,
In barf upon a promised gown.
I wore it to prom as a virgin.
I wore it on my wrist.
A flower wrapped around the list,
Of ankles cankled ‘neath a face unkissed.
I’m a pimple.
Pop me till I puke.
Until the thrill of the up I chuck,
Quacks like a drunken duck.
Or high like the school?
Drooling with the fellow mule.
Assing through town unable to procreate.
The father’s horse and mom’s whatever.
Hybrids are for textbooks.
Useless as the diploma.
I forgot the words to the theorem,
I forgot the words above them.
Am I vomiting?
Am I poeting?
I threw down instead of up.
Copyright © B. Joseph Fitzsimons | Year Posted 2019
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B. Joseph Fitzsimons Poem
"This is mine, and this is mine, and so is this,"
Says my unfixed dog, Willy, on all he does piss.
Copyright © B. Joseph Fitzsimons | Year Posted 2017
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B. Joseph Fitzsimons Poem
I see sun,
I see sorrow,
Mingled on the floor,
A cracking egg, a knocked door,
Mangled wealth and poor.
I hear sound,
I sometimes smell it,
Synesthesia knows not whence,
A response received to transmit sense.
I feel proud,
I feel pity,
For what I cannot tell,
Determine, please, what I should do:
Be sick or kind of well?
Copyright © B. Joseph Fitzsimons | Year Posted 2023
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