The Will.

My favourite shirt that holds secrets
I’ve yet to share,
the white one with embroidered lace
you cherish,
one thousand and fifty six records
not played since 1999,
the books owned from age fifteen
collecting dust

And spider’s webs
are yours to keep.

My written words of capitulation
hide my true worth,
the sudden depths of loneliness
you will search,
the music of my mind disguised
in free form,
your tears tattooed to your face
freezing in time

Lullabies confide
mine to keep.

The sound of all your tomorrows
withdraw to slumber.

© 2009 Michael J. Earnshaw

The Grasp.

The flicker of the television
siphons the subconscious
weary of tomorrows viewing,
the flower wilts with irony
embossed on my fingers
control, out of reach
inhibitions inhibited,
outside a tapping at my door
an intrusion of humankind.

The gas man needs to screw
me for the bonus of a life
time bought and sold
down the gutter of convenience,
construed from paper talk
tattered and torn, the grasp
lost, inside are my waking hours
vanquished from a loved heart
bereft of compassion, empathy gone.

© 2009 Michael J. Earnshaw

Exorcised

My chalice trembles at night
As the chink of ice resonates
Around my arid mind
Immersed in babble

Conflict of being
Surrounded by the chimes,
wretched words wake me
from my stumble, my Lord

Reds invade the blue hues
Acid rain cleanses
Partisan warriors
The suits and all who dine

Unrepentant, reaping
Revenge, the hand of God
Echoes of Ezekiel.

© 2009 Michael J. Earnshaw

Gone.

The devil stared from the sky
Our reflection splayed
Across the oceans,
Laughter strangled
By sorrow’s persistence

The final tick upon us
With the tock long gone.

Mercy held at arms length
For no-one could beggar belief
We were one with insanity,
Smiles felled
By tomorrow’s regret

The silos driven by hate
Silent. Gone.

© 2009 Michael J. Earnshaw

Long Dead.

Long Dead.

Estranged obsessions collect
Possessions diluted with every breath,
Time eludes insanity
Begging relief,
Wretched nuances accept the end
For what she says
Is God, good yet long dead.

© 2009 Michael J. Earnshaw

Curtain Call.

I step outside

Sunshine blazes over the bar
raised on a cold winter’s afternoon,
she mocks with the left while the right
teases with the warmth of a boxer
entrenched, tides roll, seize the moment
beneath the willow crying on each corner,
sign of the times as snow falls in spring
wets the appetite of sinners distilled with pain,
delirious at the second coming of an end.

Lighting a cigarette
I watch the lights go out one by one.

The curtain falls, I pray.

© 2009 Michael J. Earnshaw

Skin Storm.

Beauty only plays at night
when lights are dimmed,
perpetuated by lover’s blindfolds
longed for in dreams
rapid eye movement stifled

Lines carved from age
crease the tear’s reservoirs,
clotted nails strewn across flesh
aching for touch to embrace
pity born of the reflection

Virus like it crawls beneath
scurries from left to right,
wields ten knives reaping
the reward, layers of meat
the pleasure endorsed by pain

The sheets are a murder scene
rippled in rustic red,
encrusted to the torso,
limbs like layer cake sliced
freshly fried upon puss pots

With dawn braking I lie tight
motionless and tired,
solitary droplets sit fully formed
atop my bloodied craters
eager for the night.

© 2009 Michael J. Earnshaw