Inkblood
As I dip my weapon into the blackness
of the inkwell and draw up a chamber-full
of inky darkness and my memory spirals
back through time... I am sitting
in an underground cottage
pulling the syringe plunger
waiting for the ecstatic
rush of the galloping horse
through my turnequed arm
Now the blackness of ink flows out onto the page
from heroin to quink, from rocket to rotring
is a giant leap through the memory banks
once more I am free
Free from the nightmare of existence
free from the knowledge that here
is something else in the ink,
in the silent white powder
in the empty eyes of the world
in the stinking electricity
which pushes the ugliness
of our species through the useless centuries
which dons a black cap of death to our dreams and aspirations
the venal blood in the chamber
ink the link between the syringe and pen
overlooked by the professors of linguistics
the critics of literature, the empty eyed poets
knowing the rules of verse not the empty heart,
true loneliness, who apply blotting paper
to the ugliness of life, tapping their keyboards
searching facile rhymes amongst the detritus
of broken dreams and wasted lives
searching that elusive couplet
that forgotten quatrain of joy
and expression of the hearts desire
So inject my veins with black, black, bible black ink
and fill my pen with blood
there is no going back
all that we seek is all that we lack
