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.