The Time Of Tigers

My favourite time of morning is morning,

My hair still wet from my dream ghost hangover,

But mornings grow cold, get old fast.

I can barely hear the inside voices tell me stories.

My Mother’s voice comes as a flavour in my mouth.

Her cold dead hands placing a cloth on my fevered eyes,

The time of tigers burning bright, inside out.

She whispers Belinda was brave,

Chasing lions down the stairs.

She says, Remember the time when there were tigers?

We said they were the biggest cats of all.

Now they are almost gone.

You can count them on your fingers

Everything gone prehistoric while we stumble like drunks

To a Best Before Date with the Devil

The Devil can’t afford the rent anymore

Lives in the dirty details.

Probing the corners of the dark web

Sees many people huddling for warmth

Is anyone still listening?

My voice rattles on regardless,

My wires dangle. My connections loose.

My pants fall to my feet, still I fail to rouse the dead.

Take me now O lord, I am ready.

The dead grasp for words finding only dust.

And the names from the time of tigers

Lost in fuzz, threads, and shadows.