~Skin Tight Illusions~

The night left the world to burn,
a Human lament of time lost them the Moon,
as the neon dawn flickered into fossil death fed life,
the City heaved a leaden breath,
and false day began the harvest,
where into the seizure,
 light bright night,
sneaks the government agent 'vice',
seeking the company of human misery,
as the concrete lips of a metropolis whore clamps
down on the fetid cock of consumer greed,
that hungrily coaxes the Sterling seed,
as guilt shovels red tape turds into the gaping and expectant
mouths of the ‘Work Til You Dies”
pinstripe clones of the brain washed west,
conditioned creatures of futile drudgery,
the media drugged slave in his golden cage,
berating the ‘Free To Screw After Breakfast’ crowd,
brightly dressed and one third proud,
a rainbow cause, a black cause,
a white cause, a bored cause,
all causes of the causeless complainers,
dressed in pink skin tight branded delusions,
only the most popular and expensive will do,
slurping on high protein illusions,
of sculpted hair and orange tanned skin,
who’ll soon call themselves a race,
and champion their cause, to bleat blindly within the herd,
and fuck into mindless oblivion,
with designer drugs and cheap tasting pricey liquor,
two days of every five don’t think, the other five think just enough,
were you to think past money’s honeyed snatch, you’d be a danger,
stay numb and compliant buying false comfort,
as ‘The Man’ harvests another piece of your soul,
you spit downtrodden mantras daily at the free,
as you drown in mass ego jealousy,
cashing in breath and blood...




©David Nickle Read 2016
All Rights Reserved By The Author

~Corridors & Sewers~

The first of 2016

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

Night Study Sketching

©David Nickle Read 2016

~Last Night~

His fire under winter stars,
cobalt blue & burning cold,
vapours rise & twist with distant suns,
as the flooding Moon's silver sheen,
fills wood hill & river valley.

Where shimmering frost reflects the dancing sky,
and Sirius smiles a cosmic wink,
from distant frozen vistas,
to the little man of Earth.

He's gazing higher than 3 am dreams,
he'll catch a canvas night,
by oil lamps frantic flickering flame,
his thoughts in poetry he'll write.

His scribbled extension of soul,
in wayward season's bosom kept,
the drifting pain of tangled heart beats,
left behind on icy roads.

He's shedding the skin of social pretense,
thrown ragged to the gutter vile,
where the old blood runs as a ghostly epitaph ,
seen only by Owls & Vespertine wanderers.

How many have come before me,
who walk under heaven's fire,
searching a footstep's soul,
for the tarmac councillor's silent words.

A shooting star's blinding arch,
scars the eye of memory,
branding his mind with the vision,
of forces elemental.

They surround him with ancient whispers,
singing songs through soil & sky,
as the Zephyr bows to the north east wind,
he brings the night through ink...alive.




©David Nickle Read 2016
All Rights Reserved By The Author

~Thought’s Playground~

 My heart,
can you see me,
I’m way up here,
in safety I watch the dark & swirling turmoil,
within a river of confusion,
where thousands walk in chaos strides.

If I were one of them,
a face in a dazzled crowd,
would I perceive the maelstrom of my existence,
would I know better or worse.

If I witness the sea of light,
and hear the sound of singing stars,
would heart & mind’s waking comfort be undone,
a dawning sense of the surreal.

If I accepted all before me,
would I see my soaring soul,
way up there calling down,
my heart,
can you see me.




©David Nickle Read 2016
All Rights Reserved By The Author

~Tear Step Trip~

The long distance trip began,
soul sniper’s soaring bullets strike,
fired from the ethereal plain,
through root stem leaf & sap,
the infant rind of classic verse immerse the senses in a warm violet haze,
it haunts you from the indigestive thoughts of a library wholly devoured,
a third eye’s meditation sight, 
shamanic auguries that rend the walls of the timeless,
ancient garden.

Here the seeds of knowledge grow,
becoming the fruitful truth of clarity,
digging deep through concrete streets,
to awaken from tomb-land slumbers,
the forgotten farmland’s bones, 
where a river’s ghost flows through lands of shrouded genius,
it’s vaunted banks lined with downcast faces trapped,
society’s boot upon their gift;
held down by dirty plastic soles.

So their secrets they covet,
heart pressed and blooming,
flowers in the dark casting webs of coverts scents,
drawing night’s Moth where the Butterfly should reign,
and there she plays in silent strokes,
screaming unstrung violins,
drawing her bow of a vision held,
over ghostly quivering strings,
she hears the music in her rhythm’s heart,
beating at the bars of her paranoia’s cage,
she imagines flights of fluid dance stilling the ordered echo of her prison,
plunging scowling laugher's faces,
beneath the humming tides of sunlight.

She takes a Christ like step,
upon the sea of tears,
waves rise from her light skipping sole to break upon my wayward shores,
where the Seagull cries of the long distance trip,
from here to evermore,
drifting endlessly in the brink of perception,
to walk the event horizon of her dreams,
and whisper my name to her soul...






©David Nickle Read 2015
All Rights Reserved  By The Author

~Nature & The Machine~