Wednesday, 22 November 2017

Frogs, a Lovecraft inspired poem by Adam Common, poet

Nice things include sunshine and flowers,
Whose beams and petals can be poisonous
To both men and frogs.

Bubbling skin presents in the first case,
The light of day anathema to our lives,
Proof that open sky rejects us all,
Without preamble or prejudice
Shining on through matt or glossy skin alike.

In the second, the pretty leaves tempt,
Flexing those skin-like cups in mockery,
Welcoming us to touch. To taste. To swallow.
She mines the bowel, growing roots that corrupt,
Branching out her death elegantly.

This way, I appreciate my enemy,
His glazed, inhuman eyes familiar
Through our twice shared vulnerabilities.
Somehow, it allows me to kill him better,
Knowing just how very alike we are.

Saturday, 18 November 2017

Click, a poem by Adam Common, poet

The night ends with each sombre click;
I am blighted; hung up on, sad and sick.

They tumble around the tenebrous muck
That clouds the evening; giggling kobolds,
grave goblins all gathered among my junk.

There, you doze. Right there, swimming in it.
Madness abundant, and you're sleeping as if
Nothing is happening, because
Nothing is happening, and I find that
So hard to understand.

Your fingers curl around the sheets,
And your breath comes deep and heavy;
Growing peace from peace
Like it's so simple to do,
Like tiredness means closing your eyes
Can make it all go away.

They twirl.
One of them laughs suddenly.
I jump.

My brow is plowed earth cresting a rise,
Mouth pressed and pursed in to the mattress.
The tingle and ache. The cold air.
The cringe inducing touch of wet hair on
My back, my neck, my face, my thought.
The all-overs leak all over me.

My stomach criss-crossed with the map
Of creased and crumpled sheets.
Still, nothing is happening, because
Nothing is happening, and I find that
So hard to understand.

They tumble around the joyless dusky mire,
That shades the morning, cackling gremlins,
Simpering sprites, digging through my clothes.

The morning comes with a sombre click,
And I am sleeping; exhausted, sad and sick.

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Bit Bleak, a poem by Adam White

I fear
And the fear is an endless thing
Spelled out with the first letters from all the lovely names
Twisting uncomfortably back into memory
With a pointed, corkscrew tip
And so ruined
Ruinous?
Ruined.
That I don’t know if any of its smeared curves
Are forged of the real or the false
So rapt
Ensnared by the wonder of it
I carve and scratch a listless evening away on paper
Twisting uncomfortably back into memory
With a pointed, corkscrew tip