Words of a world, strange though wonderful.

Psyche of the Dark Poet

Sanity is an unsympathetic creature lurking in our blind spots.

If the dusky rays of Gothic art can’t cast out this relentless foe,

Then our gift of imagination and will of expressionism

will ignite its stalking shadow with a vengeance.


I’m proud to be of another psyche.

Without it, would we write

with such metaphorical beauty?

I think not.


In fact,

all these words

would be ordinary.

The hell with ordinary!


I want my head to whirl around without the sense

of what is in front or in back of me.

Can a head spin 360 degrees?

Imagination could.


It can turn this head again and again

until it screws off its spine and lands by my feet.

Even then, I’m not spitting dirt,

I’m chewing what the world has discarded,


Whether it be taboo or the unspeakable,

it belongs to me.

My words, my feelings, my thoughts,

there’s no defined script for imagination.


Latch the hooks into our mouths

with what you think is true

but they will not open for you

or in a way in which you’d perceive.


The distinct silhouette of reality will be within sight,

the metaphor, however;

will have a shadow which blends

into the most potent of light.


Wherever the creature may lie,

its white eyes illuminated in some dark shadow.

Now and again

its claws sting the outer reaches of my body.