That lonesome,
Long distance
Kind of love.
Shared through
The microwaves,
Images he will treasure
In the darkness
Of his motel room.
They will be his only
Flicker of light
For the next 5 days,
His own solitary pleasure.
He will gaze into that full
Bright handheld moon
And imagine
Floating gently into
It’s haze, losing himself
Slowly, bit by bit,
Measure by measure
While she waits
Patiently on the other
Side of the world,
Assisting,
Offering,
Pleasing
At his leisure

Copyright Marc Hawkins 2017

The world closes in.
It feels like the unwelcome hug
Of a person you cannot trust,
Whose physical presence
Wanes and fades to invisibility
But whose hug remains,
Stifling, suffocating.

They and others
Stand around you, mocking,
Narrowing the circle
As they step towards you,
Haranguing then jostling in unison,
Leaving no route of escape,
Tight in their cordon.

Heaviness falls,
A solid lid to seal the enclosure,
Negating light and
Squeezing out air
Until you crouch and kneel,
Curl like a ball
And throw sideways glances.

It seems never ending.
It seals your confinement,
It steals your will.
The circle disperses
And they leave you huddled.
And you wait for silence
Before unraveling.

Copyright Marc Hawkins 2017

She is a hologram
That flickers between
Light and dark
Offering glimpses of
Her form
Of her beauty stark
Teasing me
With cool invitation
That summons
The strongest
Of temptation

My heart
Like a burning mass
Bursting through my chest
Igniting and
Scorching all in its path
Leaving behind
A cindered trail
To follow
To lead
To her image pale

But on arrival
To discover the vision
Now dissolved
Leaving possibilities
Unresolved
And that she
In reality
Was never there
Just a reflection
Through the rainfall
Of a full moons glare

Copyright Marc Hawkins 2017

CURRICULUM

Blood seeps
It curtains their eyes
Rendering them
Temporarily blind
Semi-scalped
Skin folded back
Exposing of skull
Ready to crack

Holes drilled
An access to the mind
Pumped with liquid knowledge
Which then solidifies
Conventional learning
Soft subjects barred entry
Too fluid to be controlled
Deep fear of creativity

Kicked into touch
With confined education
Sent into life
Into great expectations
3R certificates
Irrelevant to some
Force fed on dictates
From the seed to the crumb

For some who think outside the box
Of the language of academia
Why have knowledge forced upon
When it’s free on Wikipedia?
Stifling ideas
Kettling free thinking
Those and more values
Lined up for the shrinking

You will think in the ways
That we want you to think
You’ll sink into rules
And you’ll fall into sync
You will follow the norm
You’ll adhere to the rules
Of stagnated teachings
In stagnated schools

Copyright Marc Hawkins 2017

The crew of ****** all hide their own secret loneliness. At every port the deserted dance halls beckon, and there they dance with familiar ghosts. At twelve midnight sharp the spirits disappear along with the tuxedoed band and the music dies leaving red white and blue tinsel, miniature plastic flags, and balloons that glide and bounce to a solitary, prolonged note.
The sailors cease spinning and their arms drop to their sides. They drown in bottles of *** in search of solace. They rarely find barely a taste. And so, in frustration they fight and draw first and last bloods. Now, in scuffed shoes and torn clothes, with damaged pride, they stagger arm in arm back to ship.
The water laps and licks it’s tongue like a cat at cream and the crew whisper breath rings in the chilly air.
Master Chief Petty matron mother waits on deck, rolling pin in hand, kicking backsides into cabins.
The ship bobs and dips in rhythm to sailors heaving snoring chests, and there they sleep, fly catching open mouthed, hugging their pillows in desert island dreams.

Copyright Marc Hawkins 2009

Did you remember to breathe in your sleep?
Did you, upon awakening,
Look to the ceiling and, in doing so,
Was greeted by the image of your own face
Descending toward you?
Pausing when close enough
To be face to face,
Nose to nose,
Eye to eye,
Breath to breath.
Then falling into you
Like water into a pond.
Indiscernible as you become one…
A mirrored image absorbed by you,
For gain or for loss,
For the greater good
Or the despicably bad

Do you have eyes in the back of your head?
Empowered by your future vision
Which they have stolen and twisted in reverse position,
Watching a trail left behind
That should have been lost
In the blaze of things to come,
Of promise and ambition
And the journey to success.
Do you have a contrary voice?
If so, which speaks clearest?
Which do you believe?
The angel or the devil?
Which overtakes the other?
When the words become intertwined
And in-separate
Like an image falling into the real,
Which sound do you follow?
Which turn do you take?

Somewhere at some time
A mirror cracks.
The image passes through
And is lost within the fabric of your pillow.
Lost in feathery down.
Choking on its guts.
A black gloved hand reaches down
And sweeps your eyelids shut.
Like the image reflected in the shards of mirror
You become fragmented
Before sinking into the numb relief
Of nothingness.
Lost for a time in the suspension
Of temporary death,
Hoping, upon awakening,
To find reconciliation.

Copyright Marc Hawkins 2017

Don’t ask me where my mind is
It has sworn me to secrecy,
Instructed that I shut it in a case
And hide it away from view.
All I am left is a dark expanse -
Blind nothingness
Stretching on and on.
I am a fish never to be landed,
Hooked on a line and pulled
As if drifting to far galaxies.
A pointless mission on a loop
With nothing in between,
No planets or stars
No life
No light.
Situational dormancy.

I think I see a light in the distance,
Or a spark
That flickers for a second
Then recedes again into the dark.
A flame where no fire exists
Snuffed and suffocated
Within clenched fists.

The sheets soak up the sweat
And in the morning it is always cold.
I am alone.
I go to the case and try its lock
But my mind is adamant,
It is not ready for me yet,
I am an annoyance to it.
I am left to self administer,
To self heal -
A lesser seen form of self harm.
I am a fish that has slipped its hook
But not one that is free,
One that is lost, a dead planet
No light
No life.
The nighttime is always cold.

The light flickers again
But I am too late to see it.
A moment of heat, I feel its presence
Then return to inspirational vacancy
Where time in space is ever missed,
A beginning where beginnings end,
An end where no beginning exists

Copyright Marc Hawkins 2016