xx by nwlox
Dreams, mockery, delusion,
a world of swirling impossibilities.
But there it is, that cauldron,
a morass of confused symbols.
The jumbled mind conscripts thought,
pulling together bits and pieces.
Sometimes believing them – the pieces,
for on the whole somewhere they exist.
Moments from the refuse of living,
rotting, deteriorating behind eyes.
And yet, it grows, evolves, expands,
encompassing the mental infinite space.
The jackass of playful creation,
has become a horror show puppeteer.
Sitting composed in elision fields,
disguised, it is not what it seems.
A parasol of tattered souls shouldered,
dressed in funeral casual raiment.
It is known, abhorred, but, not to be feared,
these phantasm fragments are loaned.
The hands of time reach the end hour,
a gentle nudge from a wakening alarm.
Swept by a solstice of curtain filtered light,
reality reigns with the gentle dawn.
That which temporally was given,
canceled, reclaimed, shelved.
The play is over receiving bad reviews,
with the echo of a cynical bray.
Copyright: 2009, Donald Harbour
Donald Harbour Poetry 
donald this poem was right up my alley. the noir environment you set forth drags nicely from start to end. some very clever language throughout that entices the reader to press on despite the barrage of dreariness. enjoyed this.
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eerie atmosphere, but you still want to keep looking.
nice work!
~Angie
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Great work — the last two lines really create a fine ending.
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I like bete noir writes! This fits the bill!
equus asinus asinus
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I believe you are right. I did not think of the poem object as detestable however now that I read it considering a person bete noir, you have nailed it. Thanks for the comment.
Namiste
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Donald, lovely contribution to the prompt. I really love this entire passage:
The jackass of playful creation,
has become a horror show puppeteer.
Sitting composed in elision fields,
disguised, it is not what it seems.
A parasol of tattered souls shouldered,
dressed in funeral casual raiment.
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This is about dreams, ‘a morass of confused symbols’ and ‘moments from the refuse of living’. The narrator awakens with the alarm as it were from a nightmare of the macabre and morbid images…good piece of imaginative work Donald. Could totally identify with the end ..the bad review
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I love the title of this as well as the images you explore.
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