~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