Oozy Sanguine Mud
They shed oozy sanguine mud
Faster than a mother's blink;
That flood, red and on phoenix wings, is
Submerging heads and cascading
Burning aqueous dirt past peeled tongues
Through constricted voiceless throats.
poem by Mark Challenger
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Mare Sanguinis
Unzipped and opened,
Her legs and arms
Are a glacier planted with
Rows of semi-molten poppies
Paying respect to living
Before burning to brittle brown
Tissue flakes that can't anymore be used
To wipe away her tearful circle.
poem by Mark Challenger
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Justaminute
9: 48
I watch the
Clock. Green
Numbers flashing
Past; my ageing
Eyes barely; if
Even, remaining
Alongside as the
Minutes roll on to
Hours roll on to
Months, years, decades,
Centuries. Already my
Life is eroded
By time's
Repeating, unrelenting
Fusillade.
I watch the
Clock.
[...] Read more
poem by Mark Challenger
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Barathrum At Night
When pyknic tendrils of sweat rack faces
And inebriated lips crack into sobriety,
Obscure night prophecies; life-forecast dreams
Insinuate images of imploding hopefulness;
The lonely pebble encased in a cacoon of vanity
Encompassed by an opaque mist of damning disparity
One sole solution:
Staring heavy into the black firmament,
Obstructing visions, hence concluding futurity.
We are acquiring the might to prevail then
Through the hecatomb of bloody day.
poem by Mark Challenger
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On Seeing Him Draw
Paper and pencil
And a blue-purple alma
Full, full and fragment.
Light grey
Same old spray;
Shadowed fainter on paper
That's your you,
Red-purple-blue;
Line, curve, angle
Depth
Depth
Depth.
Slumbering at solitude artery,
Taxied through limb and
Organ. Finally rising to
Centre Brain,
Motor neurones ringing,
Electerrific velocities,
Coursing down his fingers,
Transferring, jumping
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poem by Mark Challenger
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Long Sable Torch
I hold a long sable torch,
Currently dead to energy,
And put a stare into the mirror
Concavely doming the bulb;
A photonic dart in waiting to misanthropist quietus.
I tilt it up, then down,
Watching many mes extend into view
And gathering in centre to
Slip; battling each other fall
Back out of existence.
I repeat.
The third time I lay my distorted mutations
Circled around the dart.
He is subdued, he cannot shoot.
But yet it
Shot, expanded
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poem by Mark Challenger
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She Turned The Shower On
She turned the shower on
The sudden assault,
Molten iron spear-tips
Thrown from above,
Took her by surprise
And pierced through her,
Sloshing her young blood
Around over the battle scene.
She woke up out of her death
Just as the fusillades
Went simmering into cool blades
And then water pattered once again.
She stepped out and grabbed
A rough red towel,
Dragged it through her hair and face
And looked about
At the water mist.
The mist brawled infront of her,
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poem by Mark Challenger
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It Holds Nothing
My faint White wardrobe
Opened with two scarlet handles,
There my clothes inside,
Silk, cotton, housing legions of you.
I stand choosing, indecisive,
Combinations cluttering my mind;
Colours and kind blinding those eyes
That powder into black sand
And put space, that deep desert,
Between my right ear and my left.
My head a vacuum: death into life into death.
Frozen.
Meanwhile, yellow-striped moths
Crawl out your mouth and mine too,
Line after line, not a few; trillions.
They eat, feast on evening-suit to the right
And darned mottled cape on the left, even the least
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poem by Mark Challenger
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Mother And I
Spilling tea
As I pass this
Mug to
You,
I hear your complaints, you dictatorial
Eyes focussed on the
Diffusing scented patch;
Maroon liquid on pale rug-
'There is graffiti on your radiator.
Rub it off and don't dare do it again.'-
So soaking the sanitary paper
In chemically purified water,
I set to the extermination.
Beside my bed,
My metal canvas,
That afforded me
With consoling euthanasia each
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poem by Mark Challenger
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Feet
Listen you! This concerns us all;
Poor, wealthy, kind and cruel.
So necessary, yet so neglected;
Greatly used, poorly acknowledged.
Brain, heart, stomach and hand,
Eyes, Tongue and all manner of meat
Sacrifice your pride you lofty band
And pay what is owed to the working feet.
'Why should I hearken? ' remarks the brain,
'I am our memories, knowledge and power.
To me give your ears and from this foolishness refrain
Lest you should stray from hearing my answer.
I, the master, you, my slaves,
I am told what occurs, I tell you what to do.
Without me, you are useless knaves,
So I bid you, ignore that voice untrue! '
'Why should I care? ' purrs the small heart,
'I give our joy, our love and more,
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poem by Mark Challenger
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