A Fresh Endeavoutr

A Fresh Endeavour

By: Mark R. Slaughter

So now I've taken leave of life,
I thought you'd like to know, I still
Possess a mind in love, oh wife;
A soulful eye to catch a show of
Silent beauty - ever yours;
An ear to pick the metaphors
Of tonal dance in words you say,
Grasp a thought in verse you pray
Inside your head, bemused of mind,
Softly mournful, intertwined with
Understanding tears.

I'll drift a whisper o'er to you
To tell that I am quietly calm;
Keeping time till your adieu
To flesh, upon the carol of a
Psalm of consummation. Now!
A fresh endeavour - we're forever
One together, resting yonder,
Cross our open plane of blue.

A Dying Brain

A Dying Brain

By: Mark R. Slaughter

Do you recall how I was once your fire -?
And we, a regal cloud of unity
Meandering through the closing blues of night,
Commanding stars to glitter;
Dawn to blush?

Your answer comes in ever-blanking stares:
A wall that blocks the know,
Damping down the glow that used to emanate
From clear and lucid eyes.
They've lost the will to recognise.

But hear! We are fifty years together -
And once we writhed in pleasure -
Drowning in emotion,
That which was our prime.

You don't recall.
You only lie as vegetation
Scattered on the ground:
A living mound of flesh,
Devoid of any neural mesh
To let you say 'I'm sound.'

Don't worry Dear,
For I'm aware with memory!
I'll tell you how we were.
We have our right of history!

If you could just concur.

A Dream of Angelina By: Mark R. Slaughter

A Dream of Angelina

By: Mark R. Slaughter

  Angelina Jolie pulled me down and kissed me slowly
As she ran her hands all over lucky me.
She whispered in my ear: I want you naked, do you hear? '
And then mutated as she spouted: 'ere's yer tea! '

Oh no, it was a dream, so very lucid and serene!
And me missus goes and wakes me just for this:
A bleedin' cup of tea - yes I know, ungrateful me -
I should be thankful for my years of wedded bliss.

But this was Angelina, not a bowl of semolina -
We were getting hot and steamy on the sofa.
Her lips were all a' pouting, Angie, Angie! ' I was shouting
And my hand was moving in to flippin' grope her!

Now every night and every day, I would beg and cry and pray,
Angelina please come back - look just don't quit.'
So did she? Don't be daft! And my wife? Well she just laughed!
Cos every night she dreams she's bonking Bradley Pitt!

A Country Path in Late Spring By: Mark R. Slaughter

A Country Path in Late Spring

By: Mark R. Slaughter

The path of mossy ground nestled
In between maternal hedgerows,
That overgrew atop, dimming down
The brilliance of the day.
Embosomed, a calm-cool vision -
Abstract takes of nature, in
Leaf-spattered green shades;
Stem-speckled brown hues;
Shards of sunlight percolating
Through the random flaws to
Up glittering sprites upon the leaves.

And avian chatter bounced along the burrow,
Smattered by the crosstalk
Of busybody insects;
But outside the green comfort zone,
Other worlds of other sounds of other life
Otherwise gave a hint of
Other dozy goings on.

Hawthorn filled the air,
Filled the nose,
Filled the head -
Pungency had overpowered all -
Gave the late-spring-early-summer haze.

Here and there a break of colour:
Odd bluebells - escapees from nearby woods -
Blue-blushing bell faces glancing down,
Aware of their erectness in the stem;
The flaming wing of red admirals
Broke through a hedge hole to
Break up the calm backdrop,
While flitting blue tits gave
To greater-bodied animation.

Nature's warm narration -
The undertones of life.

Alcoholic By: Mark R. Slaughter

Alcoholic

By: Mark R. Slaughter

Red bled the sun upon a dying day.
I was red across the dial – in denial –
Purple bags bemoaning alcoholics’ eyes –
Blind, they still portray a depth of ruin
You’ll never understand.

I boozed away until another trial,
Always doing wrong inside a wrong
Inside a wrong – forgetting all the rights –
Fretting, drinking, pinking up, stinking:
Ah! the meths; I drank another round.

Red eased into the night; black scoffed.
I was black across the eyes – no surprise!
Ethanolic fumes resumed their nightly play.

I couldn’t pray,

So crimson haemoglobin gave display
Of flush as vessels opened wide.
Red gushed – oesophageal varices
Teased, eased the endothelium;
Brought it all to split.

Erythrocytic fire flared across
A park of haggard flesh.
I choked in red; died like a fish
Ripped, stripped by a shark
Artistically in dance through
Gritty clouds of death-blood.

Red spread the cold and solid ground.
I was cold – a deathly mound
Surrounded by an audience of shuffling feet.
Replete, my corpse had played its role.

No more the alcoholic porn;
No more the savaged soul.