Outer Cirles of Hell

held up like a token
of gothic madness;
that teenage night
reading Muldoon’s astral projections,
I set sail for a peripheral sea

Never making landfall
thrice capsizing,
sinking into pelagic dreams.
Like spilled black ink,
my phantasmagoria
permeated waking life

Hospital corners or
Anafranil couldn’t calm
incessant numbers, or
raucous monster-tides;
I made a mescal-pact
To climb the volcano

with a demented Lowry –
of course he bailed;
the crater an irony
of moonlit extinction;
darkness alchemised to
sunlight on safe havens once more

Patrik Gryst (nom de plume)


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