Ayahuasca |
by Dane Cobain

Dry skin like lightning
chained to the rocks
and coming down
without a fight,
two-toned and terrible,
all-out, tired and never tested
in Bansai Kamikaze runs,
never surrender
unless the guns are outnumbered.

Solemn-faced heroes
holding their stomachs in
after shelling the home counties;
brutal nothings promised godless
falling down the stars
at oblique angles,
tins of food piled loosely
bouncing up and down
along the waterfront.

The longest wavelength
is the distance between two points,
post-coital and loveless
wasting lives in line
just to fix things
that can’t be fixed,
irreparably water-damaged
at the hands of a Baptist.

Human heads like tangerines
with teeth marks in,
uneasily bleeding
past participles;
sheep milk milked sheepishly
and screaming for tears,
all cooped up
in the back of an unmarked
police car.

Visions of death
and destruction
raining from the sky;
death metal bands
hammer sounds and
wear their frowns
like a dressing gown;
wildcats in the jungle,
sleeping calmly
with no remorse;
sleeping wildcats,
morphing into lizard men
before my eyes.

All I can do is tell the truth –
that’s it,
there’s no quick switch
and no time to quit
by the exits;

I have no filter,
and it gets me into trouble,
‘cause trouble follows me around
like an abusive boyfriend;

an abusive boyfriend
follows me around
like trouble.

Dane Cobain (High Wycombe, Buckinghamshire, UK) is an independent poet, musician and storyteller with a passion for language and learning. When he’s not in front of a screen writing stories and poetry, he can be found working on his book review blog or developing his website, www.danecobain.com.  His debut novella, No Rest for the Wicked, was released by Booktrope in the Summer of 2015.