Who needs drugs?

Let’s go on a day trip.

To the country?’

No, not exactly. We just nip to the place

where the very walls vibrate their way

from being oh-so-matter-of-factly Georgian

and into a realm of bristling auras and dizzy spells

and sages who know there’s a very fine line between heaven and hell.

.

The Beast lurks in every corner,

the carpet waxed while the moon is on the wane.

It’s hard to feel relaxed

when the Eye that Sees All is upon you

in the name of the infernal Pantheon,

who shall remain shameless

but who we all know and love

as they watch from above

the chess-ridden hall of nameless pawns

who were shot down in flames.

.

And the Book of the Dead teeters

on the brink of a shelf-ful of dust,’

while Madam Blavatsky, screwed to the wall,

struggles to think.

Tales of alchemical lust in the back rooms linger ….

Here lies deceit – and exploded hearts,

every …

so often …

missing …

a beat.

.

It’s not very hard in a place such as this,

to enter the twilight,

cross the veil into the Abyss,

beyond the pale

where devils kiss.

.

Copyright Morgan MacInnes (c) 2000

The Poet

I follow the path of poets of old.

Their voices beckon me into the fold,

Many cut short in the days of their prime,

but nevertheless remembered in rhyme.

.

For somehow in the throes of death,

They cry out with mortal breath

“O kindred spirits, living or departed,

carry on the work I started.”

.

For aspiring poets share a trait,

a common tendency to emulate

to the point of near obsession

those who leave the headiest impression.

.

Now inspired to the point of distraction,

I write of comrades wounded in action

of rescues effected in countless battles,

mothers and children herded like cattle.

.

I do not know from whence it comes,

the cries of the dying, the pounding drums.

These are the things that came from before,

days long since gone, ages of yore.

.

I have no desire to write of such things

as flowers and trees and tiny birds’ wings.

In poetry books they have their place,

but me I will write, by the gift of God’s grace,

of karmic desire and brave young men,

journeys beyond and back again.

.

Written during my Wilfred Owen phase!

Copyright (c) 1998-99

Kiss

kiss

IT BEGAN with a kiss. Not a passionate embrace but a soft brush on the cheek.

The feeling of warmth and love from an old friend lingered on beyond the dream and well into the following days …

Like a little seed, the feeling grew and grew until I longed to be with my old friend. All the while, I thought to myself how sublime that Cupid should strike without even so much as the presence of one who I hadn’t heard from in years …

The phone call came three weeks later. He came round for a few beers and we shared stories. He’d sent me a distress flare of sorts three weeks earlier, he said. Yes, I definitely got the message, I said. And then the rest was history.

Copyright M K MacInnes 2018

Kiss

lips

IT BEGAN with a kiss. Not a passionate embrace but a soft brush on the cheek.

The feeling of warmth and love from an old friend lingered on beyond the dream and well into the following days …

Like a little seed, the feeling grew and grew until I longed to be with my old friend. All the while, I thought to myself how sublime that Cupid should strike without even so much as the presence of one who I hadn’t heard from in years …

The phone call came three weeks later. He came round for a few beers and we shared stories. He’d sent me a distress flare of sorts three weeks earlier, he said. Yes, I definitely got the message, I said. And then the rest was history.

 

Copyright M K MacInnes 2018

Weejie

Five curious students that should have known better perform a séance. It seemed like a good idea at the time …

“… I LOOKED for the tell-tale signs of white on the end of someone’s fingernails but there were none … [The glass] darted from letter to letter, spelling out words that did not make sense. [It] moved with such ferocity, that I could feel the centrifugal force of it being pulled from under my fingers. With each successive direction it took, it followed lines that were so straight, and ninety-degree turns so sharp, that none of us could have been the cause … When the speed reached a level at which none of us were able to keep up, we all broke contact at the same moment and screamed …”

Extract from ‘Weejie’ from Close Call: Short and Bittersweet by M K MacInnes. Available now as ebook and paperback on Amazon.co.uk or Amazon.com.

Who needs drugs?

Let’s go on a day trip.
To the country?
No, not exactly. We just nip to the place
where the very walls vibrate their way
from being oh-so-matter-of-factly Georgian
and into a realm of bristling auras and dizzy spells
and sages who know there’s a very fine line between heaven and hell.

The Beast lurks in every corner,
the carpet waxed while the moon is on the wane.
It’s hard to feel relaxed
when the Eye that Sees All is upon you
in the name of the infernal Pantheon,
who shall remain shameless
but who we all know and love
as they watch from above
the chess-ridden hall of nameless pawns
who were shot down in flames.

And the Book of the Dead teeters
on the brink of a shelf-ful of dust,
while Madam Blavatsky, screwed to the wall,
struggles to think.

Tales of alchemical lust in the back rooms linger ….
Here lies deceit – and exploded hearts,
every …
so often …
missing … …
a beat.

It’s not very hard in a place such as this,
to enter the twilight,
cross the veil into the Abyss,
beyond the pale
where devils kiss.

 

Copyright Morgan MacInnes (c) 2000

The Poet

I follow the path of poets of old.
Their voices beckon me into the fold,
Many cut short in the days of their prime,
but nevertheless remembered in rhyme.

For somehow in the throes of death,
They cry out with mortal breath
“O kindred spirits, living or departed,
carry on the work I started.”

For aspiring poets share a trait,
a common tendency to emulate
to the point of near obsession
those who leave the headiest impression.

Now inspired to the point of distraction,
I write of comrades wounded in action
of rescues effected in countless battles,
mothers and children herded like cattle.

I do not know from whence it comes,
the cries of the dying, the pounding drums.
These are the things that came from before,
days long since gone, ages of yore.

I have no desire to write of such things
as flowers and trees and tiny birds’ wings.
In poetry books they have their place,
but me I will write, by the gift of God’s grace,
of karmic desire and brave young men,
journeys beyond and back again.

Written during my Wilfred Owen phase!

Copyright (c) 1998-99