Mark R Slaughter


Along The Promenade


Over there
In parallel time,
This brain -

Neuronal palimpsest
In striptease
Blood-red dawn to dying dusk;
The husk of bone
Stays the swelling
Of the soul
Within its hellish crypt -

Ironically dimensionless:

Dark deep,
An independent entity
Perambulates
Along the promenade,
Boulevard,
Tacky yard of tacky lives
In non-existence,
A shard of me in tow,

Then scurries back to
Promiscuity -
She drools, anticipating -
Poised legs of cogitation
Tingle, brim, desperate -
The imminence of dreams
Palpates.

Such a well-warn bed,
Where fucks with notion, thought,
Imagination,
Spark an orgy
While the conscious blacks in head
And eyes;
Mulling making sense
Beyond the lies against
Reality - whatever that might be -
(But matters not
In abstract dreams) :

Forebrain greys in waking;
I've not a word to tell it! -
Where's the poet?

Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2012










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A Drifting Trail of Dreams

dream dream dream dream dream dream dream dream dream dream dream dream dream dream dream dream dream dream dream dream dream dream
dream dream dream dream dream dream dream dream dream dream dream

Submitted: Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Edited: Sunday, October 06, 2013

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  • Diane Hine (3/21/2012 7:18:00 PM)

    Oh yes- the price of daytime sanity is the curtailing of our fabulous night-time imaginations. Brilliant! (Report) Reply

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