Author: Dan Verkys

Australian visual artist and dabbler in music and literature.
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Thoughts better left unheard

Certain thoughts
Invoke a sense
Of sickness in my stomach.

Nausea embraces discomfort,
As words from memory echo
Their mantra of self-loathing.

They churn in my gut
Like a coiled serpent
Moving its body,
Pressing my organs
Into negative service.

These thoughts
Sit and percolate,
Slowly fermenting
A thick noxious
Syrupy gloom.

The essence fills me completely.

I feel submerged,
With my eyes closed,
And holding my breath,

I feel my ears and nostrils fill
And I eventually succumb.

I can no longer breathe,
I’m drowning,

Alone in the dark
As the black void
Swallows all colour.

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The End of Dreams

Far away through time,

A deep, resonant blast
Of distant horns sounds.

Rippling like thunder
As it peels across
The night sky.

Is it a calling,
A summoning,
Or a warning?

The source of the sound
Is unknown.

The depth of that single note
Leaves all dreamers
Cold as ice,
And still as stone.

It heralds
The end of dreams.

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The Race

If I close my eyes,
I can visualise it,

As though
I’m in the same place,
And yet everything else
Is peeled away.

All those layers
Of pointless toil
And torment,
Gone in an instant.

Leaving everything
That is good and now,
Remaining the same.

The march of time
Seems to be
Increasing its wretched pace,

While I’m beginning
To slow,
To stumble,
Beginning
To question:

Why am I in this race?

If I stop now,
The spectators will follow
The leaders,

And I can slip away
Quietly from the track,

Silently fall
Through the cracks,

And no one will notice
I had gone.

What a comfort,
What a joy,
What a moment
of complete bliss

It will be,
When my mind
Can finally stop running.

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The Secret Library

There are rooms within Nocturna
That even Nocturna
Does not admit to having.

Rooms whose doors
Have never been recorded
In any architect’s plan,
Nor mentioned
In the club’s oldest ledgers.

One such room may be found
In the library.

Or rather,
Behind a bookcase
In the farthest corner
Where dust gathers
Upon forgotten volumes,
And the gaslight
Seems always
A little reluctant to reach.

Read the full story here

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Where am I when I dream?

I’m within a dark dreamscape.
Far away from
Any streetlights.

Beyond a rotting picket fence,
That seems to smile like
It is missing several teeth.

I sit, head in hands,
Beyond an unkempt garden
Of grass and brambles.

Behind thick vines
That grow and twist,
Sealing the entrance,
Where my mouth
Lies silent
And boarded shut.

My eyes,
Are cracked windows,
Painted shut with time
And stained with
Memories and detritus.

I am incarcerated,
For the term of my natural life,
Within this skull-shaped cell.

Propped up by hands,
Reinforced by rope,
Hope,
And rotting dreams.

Nursing
My aching bones,
And my scars
of grief,

That line the walls
Within dusty,
Broken frames.

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Hindsight and Judgement

Two days ago
I became overwhelmed.

The cause of which
Would affect few,
My mind however,
Found it impossible.

I began that day
With my mental cup
Already full
To capacity.

Two days later,
In reflection,

I feel foolish
Small.
Angry.

Disappointed with myself
For failing
Where I once
Would have endured.

The reflecting me,
Sits now with the arrogance
Of logic,
Hindsight.
And self-judgement.

Where I should
Be showing
Compassion
Understanding
And care for myself.

This,
Is the price
Of self-loathing.

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The Dark End of the Street

At the dark end
Of the street,

There is a place
I wander to
In my mind.

Away from the houses,
The people,
The noise.

A place that avoids
The amber glow
Of streetlights,

Where open fields
Lie either side
Of the road.

I exist
At the dark end
Of the street,

In the silence,
Where the wind
Blows whispers,

Looking back
At the light
Of those warm
Within their homes.

The dark end
Of the street
Is devoid of
Life,
Warmth,
And hope.

An oak tree grows there.

It is from its fine branches
That I look up this evening,
At my own corpse,
Swaying gently
In the night breeze.

I must wait here,
Beneath the oak,
Until my work
Is discovered
In the morning light.

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Call of the Currawong

You announce
Your own name,

My beautiful black
Feathered visitors.

Your loud,
Ringing,
Deeply resonant call
Echoes through
The country air,

Heralding your arrival.

The garden awakens
To your presence,

Trees and beds
Fill with flocking
Ebony energy.

However,

All other birdlife
Falls silent,

Either mesmerised
Or fearful
Of the sound,

“Curra-wong.”

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Back to her

Can the night become
Any darker?
The morning
Seem so distant?

My mind feels cold.
Closed.
Numb.
Intentionally distant.

Why do I feel
So locked inside?
As if this is
Who and what
I am now.

Some days seem
As though
There is no way out
Of this grinding,
Destructive,
Sickness-inducing
Life.

And then
Without warning,
I smell the eucalypts,
The touch of summer rain,
The warm sun on my face.
The call of songbirds.

The voice
Of my wife calling,
Me back to her.

And suddenly,
For a moment,
The night seems
A little less dark.

The morning
A little closer.

And it feels
Like I might just
Be okay.

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But when?

The morning feels
Impenetrable.

The night unsettled,
The day uncertain.

When will
The seasons change?

When will
These winter snows
Finally thaw?

When will
The flowers of spring
At last bloom,

Heralding an end
To this time
Of cold desolation?

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