A season died this week
High-tailing into the past
Like the Lone Ranger without Tonto
Last night: stars hung on the sky’s scaffold
Over the rim of the Penumbra
Orion spinning through the predawn
Rising sun; unborn, primeval.

I reach out at full stretch
Craning my neck
Attributing change and coincidence to fate
Longing for words
Like freight trains
On cool blue rails of the after-dark

Morning clouds: billowing grey waves
A white cotton sea forever foaming
Tide after tide
Dreams fraught with menace
Burnt black and dissolved to darkness
Walking optimistically into rooms
Where sunlight pours
Like a treacherous golden draught
Already I have lost the day

Patrik Gryst


cold hands light a candle,
herbs brewed in a pot,
spit, bile and blood, mixed,
smeared over breasts and brow.

out, basking in moonlight,
slithering in the grass, chewing
on the numbing-weed;
babbling noctambulist.

intoning self-ritual, thinking
blood and wanting it, moistening
pale lips, setting teeth and hackles,
fevered glare sighting.

the kill, biting,
tasting, savouring flesh,
back buckling above soaked earth,
howling in ecstasy.

Patrik Gryst


Those foreboding clouds above‎:
Harbingers of all the doom that ever befell the world
Despite that we cast the lines that compel us,
Pull and push us on the days that test us
Every moment that completes us
Like the pin-hole stars; and anthemic hope
Distilled in bitter sweet symphony
That defines us

Patrik Gryst