The Esoterics

The Esoterics

regard them

brusk quittance

biting bark

stark gaze

harsh play

blood flesh

the

esoterics

blanketed laps

vast breathing

rousing a low grade

                controversy

raising Poets from the

                dead

pressing you to choke

inside a mottled gulch   

                of despair’s

tragic pitch

under rucked

night-glint

their eyes narrow in

suspicion

while we wade

through

budding fog       

                at the void’s edge

a banquet of grate

and sand

to guzzle

                all contingent on

 which of the poets choose

                to lie still

**

This poem materialized from the ether today, out of the wide blue. I was busily champing figures, evaluating, altering; all things to do with numbers, when the Esoterics prodded me. Who am I to deny them their poetic fifteen?

 I am moody, grey and restless today, all in the sunshine. I admit, pecking helped but then it always does.

In propinquity,

Nic