The Poisoned Poet

Intoxicated infused tears;

French Martini and raspberry liquor fears,

Faint into invisible ink

As gothic goblets clink

And souls sink

Into the River Styx.

Sober-induced anxiety.

An anaesthesia of curiosity

Administered by Viktor Wynd,

Manifests in emerald pools of Absinthe;

Manet’s portrayal of ritualistic consumption -

Grotesque gumption.

The Last Tuesday Society;

The antithesis of piety.

A satanic Singapore Sling dances

Ritually with John Collins;

Caresses of corruption

                                    and

Daiquiri’s sweet, sadistic destruction.

A Bowler hat adorned man

Breathes as though a backfired Bentley

Sitting sublimely on the streets of Soho,

Overreaching as though

                                    He is

Ted Hughes’ hubristic crow –

A dangerous ambition

For a macabre magician

                                    Of money.

Wealth.

Sexually stealth;

                        Avoiding his intense love of

Literature.

He is the The Giver,

An accomplice of Lois Lowry;

A beastly

Banshee;

A shadow bathing in the depressing

And delightful hues of a summer night sleeping

And weeping

Over a White Russian,

Before sauntering into the sleazy

Speakeasy

That smells of old chardonnay –

Becoming hollower every day.

Under the fleeing shadows of

Summer Cascade River Birch

Spectators stand by Whitby’s ‘Dracula Church’,

And witness the movement of

A Sriracha-infused spectre;

Ascending from Hade’s haven of anonymity;

An affinity

With Charon.

His ‘keen gaze’

Ablaze

With the sonorous echoes

Of Hell.

A Corpse Reviver No.2.

Conscious truth says that he simply walks

Whilst his mind warps

With the insanity of Icarus -

Too close to the sun;

Elation;

Eternal damnation.  

The Crow falls

Into the bliss of

                        Oblivion.

A brave decision

In relinquishing his body

To an omniscient, occult painter

Personality trait:

                        Campaigner.

A king of karma.

Cosmic dharma -

Castrated by Cronus;

His co-conspirator,

Bleeding Crème de cassis.

A catastrophic epitasis.

Lingering in Lincoln Fields

The faces of parched pansies adorn

Dark hanging baskets of hope,

Who once did elope

With Eris

To haunt the battlefield

And harm those healed

By humanity.

Sunflowers smile in opposition

To suicide -

Mourning Hercules.

“When I am Dead, My Dearest”

And haply may forget,

The frightful fancies

Of evil fairies at Farringdon -

“Neverwhere”,

But everywhere

In the underworld of

                                    Life.

Delusions;

Merely induced illusions

In Sainsburys;

Ghastly groceries

Rotting in time.

Dark ‘n’ Stormy imbued lime;

A poetic paradigm,

Of the perfect fall

From grace.

A space

For the alchemy of Hermes

To thrive

And survive Sirens

(Seductive and soaked in Sea breeze).

The crazed eyes of 

                            Doctor T.J. Eckleburg glimmer in truth,

As he continues to drink Vermouth.

A poisoned poet,

Without his tonic,

Suddenly slips into a catatonic

Cradle of

Demonic dreams,

At the mercy of insanity’s schemes.