Grant Tarbard

My Own Beautiful Wreckage

I am not alive.

I am a skeleton with

a bluebell growing 

out of my rib cage,

there is life in my decline

the anglerfish light

tempts the marrowbone 

in the soil surrounding me,

my soul to die in.

My icon carved in

soft soap, my own beautiful 

bister cartilage 

brunet memories 

percolate out of my skull,

the spectrum of light 

is an illusion,

black and white resolution

resolved to undo

to make God anew.

My skull is a trinket box 

a garland in bloom 

with snowdrop, crocus,

bright red osseous matter

and pearls of the dead

--

Grey Tones

(I)

Distance is in my 

Eye, the viewing not

Restricted to make

Believe borders drawn

Out in the design.

(II)

Wagnerian grand 

Sweeps. Grey tones, garnet

Relished in flesh, in

The blood pools of a

Sorrowful moonscape. 

--

 

Sea of the Hanged

Rag dolls hang from the

Telegraph poles. The 

Wind blows the only 

Moving parts on these

Flesh marionettes.

Protruding tongues, white

Bait for the vultures,

Terrorists for the

Groping Eye socket,

Open palmed flowers.