Mark Allinson

Dialogue

Oh let me rise and fly to the ideal
Platonic realm of touchless mental-space
and leave this swamp of flesh which makes me feel
such ugly muddy moments of disgrace.
How perfect life if science might replace
these organs with a laser drive to run
in deathless cyber-space without a trace
of blood-bone murmurs subtle minds should shun.
Hush now, the night-dew falls, thought’s day is done.
My melatonin waves will wash this mind
back to the marrow where this mind’s undone:
the cyclops-eye saw far, but now is blind.
Hear the surf, breathe darkness, die, be sane,
knowing thoughts bubble from the blood-swamp brain.

Dialogue II

My being is a light, a wind, a fire,
an eagle with the world within its eye;
a passion, spear-keen, a sharp desire
to fly toward the sun beyond the sky.
I keep my self clear, detached and dry
and like a demiurge above the flood
I seek forever ever asking why
this world of mine has worms in every bud,
and every hope, and every drop of blood.
And you below, the source of futile pain,
a swamp of filthy waters, flux of mud,
must I too rot within your dying brain?
Come. Put out your light. Fall into the deep
night and practice death with a little sleep.