The Sound of sirens

The world is round, the world is round.
Grip a hold, secure yourself.
Flowers bloom in these bones.
A bedding of chalk and soul.
Humming on this planet.
Ringing in the ears.
A silence of absence.
You, no longer in the atmosphere.
Broken, that miracle was not enough.
Heaving as we go, waiting for the buildings to crumble.
For the moon to fall.
Surely, this is the apocalypse.
This noise, this pain.
Must be the end of the world?
Cut out the plants from my skin.
The decay from my eyes.
That taste of death from a last kiss.
And set alight to this terrain.
Where sirens only indicate another wave of chaos.
As I crawl through my current calamity.

12/03/2023 by Mark Ryan Categories: death, fire, flowersTags: art, atmosphere, chaos, crawl, death, decay, end, flames, flowers, loss, plants, poem, Poetry, sadness, world 3 Comments

Revelation

Show the world who you are.
Dripped in honey and absinthe.
Hovering by a flame.
All parts, never the same.
As they try to push you under a reason.
A statement, a label, or part treason.
When you smash the brackets of age that constricts.
And you pull down the gods for a closer look.
They’ll see you reflect in their eyes.
Please, memorise their apology.
And wave as they pass you by.

08/01/202308/01/2023 by Mark Ryan Categories: age, apology, godsTags: age, ageless, apology, defiant, flames, gods, labels, poem, Poetry, society 5 Comments

Cremate

Break these bones into splinters.
Snap the spine and suck the sap.
Throw the pieces on the fire.
Douse it all with distain and detriment.
Do not handle me with gloves on.
Touch me deep.
Treat me like a firework, ready to alight.
Burning through like phosphors.
Strike the match on my skull.
Crinkle and crack such emotions within.
Burning down to my heart, sending my soul to embers.
Floating into your lungs to dwell forever within.

05/11/202228/05/2022 by Mark Ryan Categories: fire, flames, hurtTags: burn, cremate, disaster, emotions, fire, flames, love, poem, Poetry, skull, touch Leave a comment

Salvus erit

A coldness there.
Darkness, placing a hand on my skin.
These eyes close, transportation to a familiar place.
Touching me, the lonely.
Wanting to make an everlasting connection.
It swamps my lungs, and cradles me in arms of hollow bones.
Comfort in this awful place.
A room where I chose what fits, what goes where.
The ghosts mingle and float with intent.
Then a call, a gentle pull.
Like a vein slipping across a bone in motion.
The sounds of the desert, a shofar calling.
It’s triumphant song barrelling over my eyes.
Calling me like a flame.
God needn’t reside in the hand that pulled me out.
Nor in the eyes of the person offering hope.
For they are  the same, they are myself.
Smiling and pulling on the little red thread.
Lighting the way forward with tiny sparks.
Saving me from the depths once more.

03/10/202203/10/2022 by Mark Ryan Categories: hope, light, lonelyTags: art, darkness, desert, flames, ghosts, god, hope, hurt, light, lonely, lonilness, music, pain, poem, Poetry, pull, spark, vein 1 Comment

Gonna get burned

You’re the one who comes between us.
Coughing out your IQ.
Slipping your hand behind the couch of the night.
Always slipping away.
Leaving me choking on spent haemoglobin.
My mind is wild and my eyes are wide.
But they scarcely see you.
The black bruise of loneliness settles all around.
Weightless and bare.
In the dark, it all looks the same.
Then you set this all on fire.
Warming your hands by the great destruction.
Casting on gasoline comments of indifference.
These words from you are vulgar.
Yet I thank you for your time.
Breathing them in and setting up homes for them inside of me.
Precious fragile fragments of attention.
Your racing heart surprises, it brings me back.
Brings me down.
Simmering into something else.
I come back to you again in little pieces.
Littering your soul.

10/08/202213/05/2022 by Mark Ryan Categories: fire, flames, heartacheTags: art, blood, bruise, burn, dark, death, drugs, fire, flames, heart, hurt, IQ, lonely, lonliness, love, night, Old, poem, Poetry, sky, spark 11 Comments

A Tragic discourse in a glorious demise

Tip the ghost honey, it likes to attract the bees.
Distracts from the different coloured tears.
That run on invisible cheeks.
Where were you when I needed you the most?
Negating our history and the whole of the 21^st century.
An incredible void, you chose not to cross.
The chasm left when you moved our luggage.
Years of mangled words and old Christmas ornaments.
Rolling around and cracking, fragile to touch.
Treasured with limitations.
With these thoughts, who needs enemies?
The echoes act like heroin.
Dipped in paraffin.
Taking me up.
Leading me to explode.
Covering you now in glitter and sad reflections.

28/05/202228/05/2022 by Mark Ryan Categories: flames, flight, hurtTags: 21st century, art, bees, burn, christmas, drugs, flames, flying, ghost, glitter, heroin, honey, hurt, love, poem, Poetry, sad 4 Comments

An aftertaste of paradise

Missed the miracles, those saving graces.
Little wishes that burn and sting at the end.
For what could have saved us?
In the face of the insurmountable.
Of turned cheeks and empty pockets.
The eucalyptus chokes my lungs.
And demise weighs heavy on my soul.
Call it all what you want to.
Tack it up to the wall of my new prison.
I couldn’t belong, I didn’t believe.
The land beneath my feet felt the same as any other.
Yet the sky burned with dreams.
And the rains washed my history away.
All with you by my side.
Now a million miles later I ache for those memories.
To never fade, but to only remain unchanged.
The tangled touches of a life that was beginning to build.
Brick by brick, though the floor was made of sand.
A piece of that bliss is caught between my teeth.
Stubbornly it refuses to move.
A reckoning of intent to stay or go.
When these eyes close, it is love that coats all I see.
Housed in a land beyond the equator.
Rustling in the leaves of my disposed days.
Calling like the kookaburras tapping at my mind.
Crying out to visit once more.

17/03/202216/03/2022 by Mark Ryan Categories: disaster, dreams, fireTags: australia, bushfire, death, devastation, ending, fire, flames, heat, hot, love, memories, paradise, plans, poem, Poetry, trees 1 Comment

While i slept

To collapse but not to shatter.
Yet veins of the break spread deep.
Frozen in the reckoning of our time.
Managing a mosaic of madness.
Fleeted days, encapsulated by hurried tensions.
Pickled in the wine of the year.
Sadness stalked my fields.
You set fire to my home.
It burns still, the flames will not recede.
Your words breathing oxygen to its devastation.

01/12/2020 by Mark Ryan Categories: death, hurt, loveTags: burn, destruction, fire, flames, havoc, house, isolation, lockdown, loss, madness, poem, Poetry, tension, wine, year 9 Comments

Pyre

The flames of life can lick and scold.
Turn the flesh from young to old.
But love is an equally dangerous fire.
A self-sacrificing, deadly pyre.

04/03/2020 by Mark Ryan Categories: fire, flames, love, PoetryTags: art, burn, death, fire, flames, hurt, love, poem, Poetry, rhyming 5 Comments