Kill them with kindness

The wind blew her northward.
Desert dry and frigidly barren.
A mind thirsty for something tasted before.
Spent, but ready to burst again.
Like a leaf on the breeze, planted where she fell.
Pouring paint into the world.
Cracking open other skulls to sneak inside.
Planting diamonds.
She came like Christmas.
A Beautiful pageant of lights and colour.
Soaking up the grey.
Uprooting the cemetery stones that stuck up like teeth.
She polished them like new enamel.
Dressed in the same clothes she was to be buried in.
She was like you or I.
The same skeleton underneath.
Yet she was different.
Feeding the animals in her mind that roared at life.
Acting like it was all a circus.
Until she floated away again.
Up and out of sight, out of hand.
When her work here was done.

19/10/202218/05/2022 by Mark Ryan Categories: circus, crazy, kindnessTags: animals, cemetary, circus, crazy, creative, diamonds, fish, fun, grave, happy, imagination, kindness, life, nature, poem, Poetry, surreal, unique, woman 4 Comments

Sarcastic Simon simply says

Which parade set table are we dressed for?
Candy stars and sweet honey lemonade?
Goldfish trapped in tiny jars.
Blind me now, let’s play charades.
Cheating on the life we try to lead.
Hide and seek with death.
But such a sad face he always wears.
Covering us in black and liquorice lace.
Come skim the jellybean stones with me.
Jump the sugared rocks over the pool of irresponsibility.
We can talk to god at the end.
We can ask him how it went.
Whether our game was fun of failing.
Come on, it’s just begun.

26/01/202226/11/2021 by Mark Ryan Categories: death, fun, godTags: art, candy, death, fun, funny, games, god, happy, play, poem, Poetry, surreal, sweets, youth Leave a comment

Impression of normalcy

Strained and untested.
(You’re not the only one)
Friday night and frantic.
Planned to get arrested.

They’ll pick up pieces of you in the morning.
Who flew your sanity out of here?
Drunk without a warning.
Stabs at conversations so unclear.

Saints be praised such holiness.
Washes over these tired feet.
Picked apart then slowly undressed.
This divine and damaged piece of meat.

Yet I am not here for touching.
I am not here for loving.
The stains wash out in the headache of tomorrow.
And my heart yearns only for yesterday.

08/12/202107/10/2021 by Mark Ryan Categories: body, hurt, nightTags: city, drink, drugs, fun, kiss, love, night, nightlife, poem, Poetry, rhyme, sanity, sex, sin, time 2 Comments