Premature complications

They’re premature complications

And predictive stipulations

Of mentally strained gyrations

In infinite preparations

Overwrought and overthinking

Details sought and in them sinking

Not yet moments but in a blinking

Overwhelming disaster linking

Ever breathing, but forget to respire

So smell the roses, and duck the crossfire

Read the daily prompts and let them inspire

Then write this dumb poem so your brain can retire

#69

secreting a saline soliloquy
while the tambour calls to war
immersed in inferno insurgency
riding shotgun ‘bove rapid ichor

vaguely expressing the pressure
behind a stiff kamikaze gale
deters not the coming agressor
or the inexorable coffin nail

mannequin’d from mental vacuity
as the terror takes its toll
resigned to wishful torpidity
panic’s stealing another soul

the battlefield suddenly empty
waiting in a room now mine
until the counter calls to me
now serving number sixty-nine

Company

The inkwell tumbles over welkin and wit;
her seething susurrations invite slumberous disregard.
The puissant voluptuary,
the sadist,
the con,
swallows me with magmatic lips,
melting resolve and self-control.

Fervid angst transudes through saucers
into lacustrine stains
and chilling horripilation;
restrained by fists of silk and ichor ropes.

She chases me through my tenebrous id,
past the inescapable eyes of lecherous flies,
the cunning guise of treacherous lies,
and emotional moors of sanguinolent dyes.

Her torment reigns until sunlight laves the room,
and she discards the ossified remains
of this tremorous calyx.

I watch in awe, rent and raw, through smaragdine diaphaneity,
as others wake from restful repose. And I wonder how…

Yet,
ever alone,
I anticipate nightfall, lachrymal, and her unwelcome company.