5 Poems

 Unhoused by Dale L. Sproule
 From 2 AM, Spring 1988
  
 Doors are portals to your fears
 and so you hide
 from doors and sky;
  
 until they subdivide
 to drive a freeway through you.
  
 Walls and floors and ceilings
 now rubble at your feet
 Leaving you empty 
 in the empty street;
 crying in the ruins,
 digging in the ruins,
 ruined in the ruins.
  
 Until you finally find
 a hiding place, 
 deep, so deep inside 
 the ruins of your mind.


  
 Zeno Cide by Dale L. Sproule
 The Nightmare Express Mar-Apr 1991
 Like the proverbial fallen tree
 some things you neither hear nor see;
 The guns roar at the base of your skull,
 brains erupting from the shattered hull
 of your forehead.
  
 Your careless red signature on the floor.
  
 Will your scattered thoughts quiesce
 To dwell on a final sticky question?
 With no recall of the eruption…
 Are you really dead?
  


 Pick-up Artists
 from The Nightmare Express Nov-Dec 1989
  
 He screamed when it came at him in its rough, 
 humanoid form. It took advantage of the
 opening,
 reaching
 its whole wiry hand into his mouth to the back
 of his throat
 and down.
 Searching out vital organs from the inside
 His mouth clamped shut 
 around its shoulder. His eyes bulged. It grinned,
 clutched for his heart. But the expression changed – 
 worry draining all vestiges of humanity from its features
 when it felt the acids claim its groping limb. And burn.
 “Oh shit!” it thought, having fallen for the oldest trick 
 There is. And then his mouth opened wider to embrace
 Its bowing head
 And everything.
 It’s final thought, “Just like a goddamned human!”
  
 A few from my blog:
  
 Breakfast of Heroes by Dale L. Sproule
 Jan, 2019, Psychedelia Gothique Blog
  
 I awakened as the muscle-bound hero,
 having ravaged the gate and infiltrated the city.
 Still carrying the darkness of night
 under my heavy cloak of responsibility
 I stumbled down the hall into the kitchen, my bristling weapons
 knocking over knick knacks in my wake.
 My swollen pecs and biceps made it awkward
 to butter my toast and fill the reservoir on the coffee machine.
 And I barely fit through the bathroom door
 when I went to brush my teeth.
 Shaking my great, shaggy head in front of the mirror
 I peeled off my armour as I bent forward
 To inspect a spot on my forehead
 No contusion, this - merely a new liver spot
 I sighed with relief, as my proportions deflated
 in the triple glare of the vanity lights
 and I finally washed away the dream with soapy water,
 smiling as my Herculean task swirled down the drain.
 My belly and receding hairline suddenly didn’t seem so bad –
 my wrinkles and imperfections being infinitely better
 than bloody bandages and slings, scars and mended bones.
 And as I dressed, I hummed an old song
 And revelled in the freedom to be me.
  
 
 When Nonsense Rules (with thanks to Yeats, Nash and Carroll)
  
 Ululating out at me 
 from the branches of a tree
 a loon’s voice screamed
 in fractured cries
 Something here is not quite right
  
 I peer through darkened canopy
 For water birds, I cannot see
 Forsaken now
 by lake and sea
 And stranded on a blood dimmed tide
  
 Whales drift like clouds through clotted air
 While slithering down the thoroughfare
 Songbirds writhe on filthy wings
 And from the hedge a wart hog sings
 Nothing here is as it ought
 With nightmares, our paradise is fraught
  
 Cars and trucks dance down the street
 With ominous and warlike beats
 Fenders clashing on concrete
 Wheels spinning skeins of lies.
 And the blood dimmed tide does rise.
  
 All the world is on its head.
 All our politics are dead
 The populace has lost its voice
 We just sing lyrics in our heads
  
 A chorus line of rough beasts shifts
 In a can-can-can’t with slow limb lifts
 While sense and language lose their power
 Through this dense, long-scheduled hour
 And there’s nothing left to do
 – but dance.
  
 To the tremulous shriek
 of the stranded loon
 Playing out its melancholy tune
 Let’s gyre and gimble cross the boulevard
 to join the mome raths at play.