An ocean of panic swells in my chest
As senses shudder into another day.
No calm before my storm;
Only perpetual tempest.
I dread these tides of confusion;
Predictable in their power,
But incalculable of depth
And — no oil to pour.
© Mel Lampro
I am no stranger than the next person yet, I am far more flawed that the last. I experience no more, no less than any one of you; it is but a quarrel of proportions.
My sky is a lens that magnifies every moment into a monster; distortion thuds through my tongue and chokes the light into shards that bloody my sack-stitched mouth.
You only see the surface. Your view is the millpond that mirrors my eyeglass sky whilst I hide in plain sight, drowning beneath the unbroken surface.
This is about me.
It is not about you.
It is all about the dead-weight of me.
Me, myself and my eyeglass sky.
© Mel Lampro
Once apart from time there exists a second where nothing happens. Between every breath of life that begins, struggles and ends there endures one second of stillness that is darker than the farthest shadow of any conceivable star. It is younger than the universe but older than the ocean floor; quieter than a vacuum and more potent than blood. In that second where nothing happens there is no clock to be paused and no action to suspend. There is no wait, no before or after, no anticipation nor regret. Just one second, where nothing happens. A tic in time, the most valuable void, the vessel of my salvation and I am damned to an eternity of its protection because, I will never see the end.
© Mel Lampro
When I say that my heart hurts, I do not mean the stabbing, searing pain of injury; it aches in the way that hunger ravages the pit of the stomach. I can taste the emptiness in my mouth; sour and tainted, like the prongs of an old fork. My heart feels hollow, vacant; my heart is starving and I am fearful that if I open my mouth it will leap out and consume the world.
© Mel Lampro
I’m an artist, a dreamer, a drifter, a slave
To the pressures that squeeze me until I’m concave
Like a mirror that flexes away from the light and
Only observes what is written at night.
I speak the language of whomever is nearest
My chameleon tongue chides the hearts that are dearest and
Closest to me yet, I cannot feel love.
It’s the stranger who weeps by my grave, my dove
It’s the stranger who weeps by my grave.
© Mel Lampro
Wisps of day
Filter out the darkness
Chilling the tear-burns
To his empty face
Dry-lipped
And oasis-eyed
Crushed foetal
By the e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g-n-e-s-s
Soul-tied
© Mel Lampro
i saw the moon
tonight
a crescent sliver
silver
split
hanging
from the rent cloth
of the sky
Previously Published:
Wherever You Roam: Volume 2 (Slim Volume)
Edited by: Kate Garrett
Available from Amazon
© Mel Lampro
bane-ripe
this
glistening
blistering
pomegranate
swelling heavy
on it’s burdened stalk
pregnant
eclipsed in span-shadow
an arachnid
distracted
by the majesty of flight
ambles on again
perfectly
out of proportion
© Mel Lampro / Previously published: Route 57, University of Sheffield Online Arts Magazine [2006].
a
tiny
pink
quiver
of
life
clings
onto it’s sanctuary
as the sleeper
seals it’s destiny
with
every
heavy
breath
nosferatu
drains
it’s essence
it’s existence
denying any claim
on identity
on equity
assassin
© Mel Lampro / Previously published: Route 57, University of Sheffield Online Arts Magazine [2006].
There’s something happening in Winter Street
The caged garden springs in revolt
Against the concrete and the season.
Fireworks celebrate
Through a greenish sky
Their audible colours stifle the thrum of an August city
My eyes gasp and my mind applauds
Reminding me that it has been
Almost a year
And everything is still
Topsy-turvy
© Mel Lampro
D'emo 