Broken Lance

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Broken Lance

“We should just love, not fall in love, because

everything that falls gets broken.”--Taylor Swift.

There is only one door

to Dreamland,

so we all sleep alone.

This morning I awoke

costumed as Mister Flop Sweat, 

as I staggered

toward the toilet in order

to piss my dreams away;

that place where a legion

of Crusade Templars galloped

over an unknown landscape

in pursuit of godless heathens.

Pilgrims,

we are all

pilgrims,

moaned the mastiff mists

hiding the dark dunes;

because with my lids closed

I inhabit a sunny scenario,

where I have blond locks

and can race the wind--

rather than the light of day

where i belong in the

Army of the Disabled.

not the King’s Guard.

I have noted that

I am never alone

in my dream state--

no, I cavort with the dead,

and travel with faceless figures

from past lives.

Deja Vu is my frequent companion

on many macabre adventures,

where Fords have Hudson grills,

I gobble platypus 4-egg omelets,

and my python speaks French;

and there is this crowded port city

that always feels so familiar to me.

I never know, or can recall,

the city’s name, but oddly

I know all the shops and streets

While in that city,

I clearly have a plan.

If I am broken,

I feel confident

that I can complete

the alterations before

the lightning strikes.

But when I rise to leave,

there is this troll that sits by the door,

saying: You are a tree of broken bones,

with withered limbs, fruitless loins, and

a rotting core--so that when you fall

not even a sparrow will notice.

Liar! I spat: I tell you, your fetid words

shall not shower cremation ash

on my poetic parade...because

I am the one with the pen

and I can write you away!

and I did,

and I do,

night after night.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at d'Verse Poets Pub