The god of lambs is the god of wolves.
–Dwight E. Humphries (from “A Certain Divinity”)

Everyman or extremist,
Saint or sinner,
Atheist or believer,
Cretin or savant,
Individualist or conformist,
Dreamer or doer,
Fighter or fatalist,
Sooner or later
Ewe and lobo,
Human and elegy,
One in dust.


Cursed is the fate
Of a shipwrecked life
Beneath the tropic sky,
Left like spume washed
On island speck as
The days nightmare by.

There I dreamt I
Dwelt in marvel reefs
‘neath the Coral Sea…
And in my mind,
My spirit woke and
Floated far from me.

It drifted the way
Of ghost white trees and
Gardens mad with hue
Into a place where
The living die and
Light cannot get through.

I screamed, awoke – then
Fathomed: minds do tricks
In life’s fatal spin,
As my soul escaped
While my body baked
Soaked to the skin.

Now my driftwood days
Are over as I
Reach the promised land,
Leaving naught behind but
Sun-bleached bones and a
Poem in the sand.


Writers who write for profit
Think “artists” should come off it.
Writers who write artistic
Smell pelf and go ballistic.
Don’t ask me where I come down –
I am Butt, a lowly clown.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s