Wednesday, January 24, 2007


Under the red wavy circle in the harbor
Of an island tree in the sea of plain, his eyes
His eyes beaming a supreme sinister ardor
Away, the herds live in constant forethought surprise

Living sand springs from the high grass, it's him
A collision of enamel as his
Horrible canines sink so forcefully in
Scraping spinal column, killing as is

Fawn's complacent eyes widen and glisten
Like her soul departing, drifting away
So absent this moment of human superstition
Understanding dying, pinned as she lay

He cracks shoulder blades, crushes throat
Breaking legs, he's the bobbing thorn
Branch, tearing and bloodying coat
Sucking marrow, gnawing on horn

Straining in the wind, against its velocity
Flowering is his manhood and red, the stolen blood
Stains his snout, streaming, displaying alacrity
Immolating cycle like the jugular flood

His ferocity grows
Like his strands, striations
Of muscular neck, flows
In all directions

He runs toward me, our eyes
Lock, he's concentrating
On me, out with my sigh
My fear like me soon bleeding, seeping


Mookie W. O' Maolchathaigh-Fly said...

Good stuff Figgy...I need to read it a couple of more times but the imagery is great.

unruly said...

very nice mig. My creative teacher at county said poems are like popcorn. You can just read them and not get enough of them.

Do you have any funny poems?