Poetry
There's No Reason to Panic, My Blog Hasn't Been Subpoenaed.
There's no reason to panic,
my Blog hasn't been subpoenaed,
to testify before a Congressional Subcomittee,
and made to tell the truth,
about the whole sordid affair,
my keystrokes into that electronic air,
and I err if I say that my accuracy in fact,
sir,
in fact did lack,
prosaicly,
a remark or three that would suffice to be called fiction,
all for diction.
The events I've described in my mind,
may have had their faces changed,
protecting their identities,
and their names,
so they can stay unpaid,
and thus the Blog is laid,
like stepping stones between truth and lie,
barely submerged in a mist of barely attentive minds,
and only time.
The Floating Laughter of the Harlequin's Anti-Gravity Brain
being an examination of the fruitfulness of letting go.
Taking time to not skip the cracks
the midnight gone and into the kaleidoscopic dawn
finding the alluring of the stacks of books awry
the skies themselves cannot embrace her in their serious moods
the time comes with it's own freedom
to laugh the meaning away from the words
The House Of The Fallen Usher
Theatre is silent and boarded up
By still planks of sorrow lonely unseated crowd
Loitering misdirected remembers bullets
Striking these halls and their attendant's marrow ripe
Flesh carving criticism red usher dismembered slowly
Sinking in the tarnished rows of bloody seats
Reviewing miles of unusable footage for the framed
Celebration of carnage captured by experts
Completes this prosecution against fleshy minimum wage
Famed for murderous indentation a blur of shrapnel
And nasty notices doing more to close down
The house than trees of shuttering planks
The reviewer gives no thanks to vastly talented
Actors plumb wrong for roles with no meat in them
An author of poetry for over 25 years, Matthew delights in the fluidity of language's shoals and backwaters, currents of words as pictures, a music of verbage.