A group of writers in Chichester coming together once a month for inspiration, collaboration and sensation
Stumbling, a dark star slumbering, I find you,
earth bound to a bed of feather green dew.
A lonely survivor awash on a stranger’s shore.
An odd outcast of some forgotten odyssey,
beached broken on the lawns of suburbia,
or just drunk, victim, heaved and chewed,
by inky nights neon lights?
Vice void, anomie folly, or pain,
do you know the tempest that charged and drove you,
that cast you from Mother’s embrace?
Out of grace fallen face,
flung forth or dropped, or leaping?
Wing’ed choice, impulse, fleeting flew,
into sparkling, stark raving fevered highs, and lows.
Rude red wine fingers would rouse you, but tickle in vain,
fickle wires cut, battery acid empty, you lie still.
A little worry kneads me,
but I cannot disguise that shrinking shrill I despise,
for calloused indifference holds back Samaritan hands,
and ware’s the pity, hark blinding at you, self inflicted wound.
Daughter of Bacchus I both love and loathe you, Delirium, spirit youth.
I crisp, clean among cobwebs, moth balls for company,
burnished lonely, yellow green, by a lazy sun,
compared to you, moth,
fluttering not with care, nor worry nor dogged doubt,
you joy, revel rebel in the crash and burn, blaze brighter, even still.
You bear your fallen face ragged worn,
with pride, though stained soiled and world torn,
a trophy, none the less, notched and scarred.
But in blinding flashing binge your destruction, goes unmarred,
you are the weary tallow phoneix, you will fly again, but on waxen wings.
Sleeping stranger I did not help you,
I turned from you,
I jogged on.
Though guilt’s stitch echoes in my side,
I do wonder, still stranger, what became of you?