—what is thought of reality through rose coloured glasses has lost its novelty . . . . . .
I truly despise the animals running amok among us that others call fellow human beings. These are the misguided and blind that stuff their personal essence with cobbler and self-worth. Washing the glob down with ego and lies.
A novice practitioner of pagan and ritualistic arts, he also spent time studying Chaos MagicK in Salem Massachusetts. His first book of original poetry of the occult, pagan gods, as well as MagicK has been well received by patrons all over the globe.
“Poetry is but a vehicle of the muse, from which we define ourselves and reach out to others by means of archetypes and symbolism.” (Matthew Bowers) ~93
What the drugs do is render you hopeless then helpless till you spell nihilism and ennui backwards in your sleep. When your real thoughts come primal as beatings in high school or at home, where the drugs render you numb enough to stumble through the lost and preconceived until bloodied fists in a botched drug mugging go worse than sideways. Sirens swallowing your Fate while guilty and unclean you watch the ambulance cart your victim to hospital. The cop says get in the car, headed to lockup straight wishing you were high or could afford a good lawyer, but you’d buy your high first and save your life second. It’s what the drugs do.
From Lower Depths
Too many ways to drown with someone you can’t save.
Wearing as much sadness as any beautifully masked face.
While getting high in alleys with others who’ll fall as hard from the lower depths.
Yet with each unwrapping she still remained outside the box.
Her bordello smile welcoming me to lies I preferred to truth.
Until she stole from me precipitous amounts too often not to be for narcotics.
I left her to memory unable to forget all she wanted me to. I stay now in shadows dreams telling me I’m closer to finding a new lost cause.
Of Joyrides
Her loud carpenter, with hammer driving nails tells me the sex will be hot.
She takes her shirt off slower than most strippers do With the same junkie marks.
Pierced in more places than the slain matador’s bull before the dying red sun..
Her conversation excoriates ex-husband who stole her car.
For a meth fueled joyride ending in a crash without insurance or a driver’s license.
Her lips do their worst and me no good, as much as I like it.
No preliminaries like we’re used to avoiding.
She wipes black lipsticked lips with back of her hand.
After swallowing there’s enough truth between us for a false confession.
Count my twenties, like a pit boss, says “later baby.”
When she leaves I can only think later will be soon.
The author has been published in The Talking Stick, Open Arts Forum, New Verse News, Waymark, Tuck Magazine, Dark Sire, the anthology Moving Images: Poetry Inspired by Film,upcoming in Anti-Heroin Chic, and frequently in his favorite daily breakfast treat, The Drabble.
In school, teachers always said, “Work hard, be honest and You will succeed in life.” Work hard and others take the credit. Work hard and you’re kept in that Low payin’, miserable job ’cause you work. Work hard and get scraps tossed At you as your reward. Work hard, wear out, and die poor. Be honest and you’re taken advantage of. Hard working and honest, you’re A target for bad women and conmen. Work hard, be honest, be righteous And Jesus don’t even care. Next life, don’t take those lying bitches’ Words as gospel or guides for life. Next life, look out for yourself. Next life, be your own master. The truth be told, nothing is so Satisfying as burning a village.
Daniel S. Irwin was born, raised, and is back in town at Sparta, Illinois. His card reads: Artist, Actor, Writer, Soldier, Scholar, Priest. He has won awards for his art, acting (over 100 films and 30+ stage productions), writing (nine books and work published in over one hundred magazines and journals world-wide), retired military (Air Force and Army), graduate of Southern Illinois University/Carbondale and has attended four other universities), and is an ordained Dudeist priest with a Ph.D. in Divinity (not bad for a heathen). Once worked as a medic in an institution for the criminally insane…but didn’t notice anything strange about the inmates. Latest on-line work can be found on Horror, Sleaze, Trash Magazine and Beatnik Cowboy. He would love to move back to Europe but fears the plague.
