~A Snake Smoking Soul~

The heavy soled snake slithers,
from the secret home of fear,
through the blood’s guilty river it slithers,
seeking the vein truth of a drug’s silken preface...
it stirs the silence from thought’s clamour,
turned in mind from congestive will,
to the night of freedom’s cool caressing winds...
shedding a skin of shadow between the ancient rocks of a paradise refrain,
imagined in whispers or whispered to imagination,
it sings, singing, singing, singing wild notes of forgotten torments,
as once more you feel your face in the sun,
freed from the grave of the flesh,
a sojourn in the spirit’s dance...
where the snakes waltz through infinite orchards,
under trees of infinite forbidden fruit,
offering the infinite naked Eve,
a bite of infinite sight,
in a finite cell of bones,
where the demons of temptation steal infinite finite wills of wax,
melting in the immortal flame of mortal mechanised madness...
unseen until thought of,
unthought of until felt,
unfelt until the heavy soled snakes slithers,
from the secret home of fear.





©David Nickle Read 2015
All  Rights Reserved By The Author

Disillusionment & Cigarette Butts - My latest book

http://amazon.com/author/d.n.read

~Corridors~

Scribbled poetry,
from crooked dreams of hospital pavements,
outside littered with spent cigarettes and scattered comforting daydreams,
inside they wait on time’s constant hand,
relentless ticking counters of life,
slow passing paranoia’s whisper,
hung heavy in corners as dusty factory cobwebs,
down endless shining sterile corridors,
flickering lights a mirror of life,
where one goes out,
another’s switched on.

Circles circles,
endless circles,
locked here in the desert cave,
things aren’t so different,
the shaman wears a stethoscope,
adorned in bright scrubs,
they dance with death,
stealing his glory where they can,
incantation’s of medicine’s tongue,
chanted over heart beat rhythms,
smeared with blood & enemies unseen,
count to ten Mr. Read...then dream.






©David Nickle Read 2015
All Rights Reserved By The Author

Colosseum Dust

They remove temptation,
the big, ever present, they,
the ones that watch,
vicarious vultures,
soul sucked through sex,
expectation's loosely vexed,
their beady jaundiced eyes,
drinking life from stranded cups,
washed upon forgotten shores,
distant and inviting,
far from the falsely adverse,
free from their jealousy,
wailed as a child's make  believe shock...

All so scurrilous and scandalous,
they'd dribble if they could,
but their nature forged an ugly cage,
a petty puritan's plastic smile,
all he wants he shall revile,
a thirst born of lack life dust,
parched of love and blood and lust,
they fear to walk the arena,
Colosseum of society,
cum stained seats of cinema piety,
burning piles of red tape lies,
to light the way of vapid collapse,
a flickering screen of arse prolapse,
as the apocalypse unfurls within steamy walls,
money, saliva, cunts and balls,
sail seamen sail...

In collusion with the night,
away from this shore of loved hated delight,
walk with anger's purpose until the blood has bled,
to be lost, alone, as good as dead,
head buried in the sands of dark forest depth,
forget me, so I can forget myself,
forget you,
forget the world of people,
forget the anger beneath  minaret  and steeple,
forget facades,
forget  to forget,
forget,
and see the truth of existence,
burning bright against social insistence,
just forget,
for now,
for life,
for growth,
for memory to make sense,
for the future...











©David Nickle Read 2015

All Rights Reserved By The Author

~A Very Human Wit~

The wit maniacal poured so darkly from his veins, born of the richness unraveled, by insanity’s black gift; it hovers, as the genius vagabond, watching from the edge of a plastic crowd...a crowd, wrapped in the pretense, of their own, sweet delusions of worth.

They’ll die one day, in golden ditches, but ditches they are, none the less, obvious, forgotten and lost...’The Vagabond’, soars for the sands of one breath, and is remembered, for an eternity of true human thought...’tis a very human wit, that elevates the Duck, o’er the Swan.

http://amazon.com/author/d.n.read


©David Nickle Read 2015
All Rights Reserved By The Author

~Before We Fuck~

Their cool night air,
attraction there,
lust dances invisible,
a gyrating pulse,
of ever decreasing circles,
inward, inward,
the dancer steps,
drawing slowly closer,
to the lover’s languid dreams,
a shaman swinging censors soars,
in mind whispering,
heady, honeyed vapours,
as spells seep deep in vein,
soul blood infected,
thought rejected,
now impulse,
is your sultry God...





©David Nickle Read 2015
All Rights Reserved By The Author

A Poem

More Paintings Of Late

©David Nickle Read 2015

The Ridgeway's Plain

©David Nickle Read 2015

Ridgeway's Woodland Nights

©David Nickle Read 2015

Moon Light Thorn Bright

Valley Of Ridgeway's Autumn

©David Nickle Read 2015

'The Fire's Wings'

©David Nickle Read2015

All Right To This Image Reserved By The Artist

~The Beauty~

The shining black snake,
monster of dimension’s loss,
tattooed with roman numerals of molten gold,
perfect in place, fluid and immaculate;
you are what you eat,
he devours time mercilessly,
it’s influence on the mind,
drifts ethereal,
whispering from the grasp of thought’s illicit and invisible hand.

The hour glass drips tears of fire,
flaring bright and disappearing without a trace of their presence,
the glass topples as the snake slithers past,
a three dimensional depiction of a twisted figure eight,
now lays upon my canvas...
we have only interpretations of breath;
within the stasis of our time.


©David Nickle Read 2015
All Rights Reserved By The Author

~To Read Beneath Trees~

~The Passing End~

Porcelain castings of death,
In the green house of dreams,
Stacked lonely on bygone dusty shelves,
memoirs of perfect life trapped beneath cracked glass,
sickly green and brittle broken,
dirty blood stained;
and no place for the Sun.

Tin pot tearing Brambles,
sever rusty watering cans,
thoughts of eternal desert torture,
dripping from bullet pocked troughs,
makes puddles of reeking straw rotting time,
where the Flies of yesterday’s neglect,
breed Maggots for tomorrow’s guilt,
in the village of bones where dust children play;
with the ghosts of forgotten Dogs.



~Old Road’s Prophecy~

I rode along decaying roads,
where steel once fled Elysium;
in White Rabbit delirium.

The Trees have claimed back their land,
tarmac cracked and flower filled;
rushing rails of time slow killed.

Horse Chestnuts fall where Squirrels run,
old highway of death no longer roars;
another age beneath the forest floors.

I lent my bike against an Alder trunk,
listened to Beech Mast drop,
within Ivy’s realm a sign said stop.

The carpet of leaves a covering,
hide Cat’s Eyes and long white lines;
following the clock hand’s tine.

Brushing the leaves of years aside,
a road written prophecy of the day;
it said, though never read...give way.

©D.N.Read 2015

All Rights Reserved By The Author

~Sea paper scissor stones~

If you go to the sea...
please throw in a stone for me...
for then the ripples that follow travel to where the earth bleeds...

They wash over the pain...
travel back around again...
coming back as the tide with lost souls of the slain...

I’ll carry them with me...
until the day that I die...
and that alone old friend explains the look in my eyes...

When you start to cry...
and your tears come like a flood...
let them fall into an ocean that pays for all the blood...

Sea paper scissor stones...
a game we all know...
but they’re playing with a hand that makes us all miss a go...

We are all to blame...
when the wild cannons roar...
if we really wanted peace then we’d open up that door...

We could one day stay in bed...
fill the money men with dread...
for if we weren’t turning the cogs the machine would lay dead...

Oh we won’t hear your lies...
we won’t care what you say...
leave you bloody in your sorrow praying for yesterday...

Now are you done making martyrs...
for a news paper fix...
as you twist the words of one who writhes on your crucifix...

No you couldn’t just hear him...
as one speaking of love...
no you had to write a book that rains down fire from above...

Yes you kill all our prophets..
and corrupt all their seeds...
no not a lot has changed since old Gethsemane...

But I know what you fear...
you can’t keep the soul down...
and one day in our voices your dark souls will drown...

I hope we’ll come to see...
that we we're all born free...
and all you’ve got to do to get it back is throw away your greed...

So when you’re standing on the shore...
watching the sun go down...
sing this song and throw your stone and watch the waves come back around...



All rights reserved by the author
©David Nickle Read 2015

  

The Butter-Wasp-Man Experiment

 

All Rights Reserved By The Artist David Nickle Read

©D.N.Read 2015