POETRY

Back to Poems

Patterns of Madness

In a dream,
(or, more likely
a nightmare),
I walked among poets; 

a dangerous lot:
like sailors in port, driven
by boredom and 
booze to paint 
violence on the
canvas of night;
like junkies clawing at 
tender flesh, 
begging for the
soft seduction of that
poison kiss;
like jackals on a 
drought-riddled plain, 
walking in circles, 
patterns of madness
intensified by hunger.

“No good can come of this,”
I said to myself…

in my sleep