Visions of Orion Poetry

Dying in Third Person

Dying in Third Person

He doubles as despatch rider.
blazing in with grim omens
squirming inside satchel’s womb.
2B pencil droppings – those faded
by the furore of fiery light,
mix with those of a darker ilk;
not for the eyes of another.

When the chosen appear above
echoes of fire & morning bells,
he reaches for sidearm & scissors;
spares no expense of thought
for the fallen, who always return
at the dawn’s last post.

Isn’t it bloody, my boy
When streetlights glow somber
beneath a broad light of day.
When sleep cycles twitch
like leaves before slow paralysis.
Isn’t it bloody, my boy
when words huddle in trenches
heaving under a pasting at dawn.

On changing gear, he curses at HQ.
Where Generals sip tea – bloated
on Belgian slice; their diverging
word threads propose
all in good time – as time itself explodes.

©️Orion Foote

Well Meaning

His words evaporate like fog
in mid morning on leaving his mouth.
I’d love to drop a few
micro hints over a lager or two
with him – quickly avert my gaze,
so as not to assume pontiff.
It would be over in a brief episode;
as quick & as painless
as a flick of the scalpel.

I’d pass him a slim volume
under the table, like in some
BBC espionage & intrigue drama.
Alec Guinness would chime in
with a few pointers to boot;
revive his signature role,
while smirking down the barrel
with a smug glint behind thick rims.

We would both hone in for the kill.
Share our little joke with secret
hand signals – at some point
we’d read him the riot act;
rearrange things as they are
to make them seem more real.
But I have to wonder, if he
would even notice the difference.

©Orion Foote

On Any Other Day

Perhaps it was no different
than any other form of misfortune.
Like waking up with a screamer
of a cold, or Bells Palsy on the morning
of a GQ cover shoot – bad luck,
but there it is in plain scrawl.
Died by the visitation of God

It was the accepted lingo;
a way of embodying the lyric,
a way of getting it off the books
before cracking on with parish
semantics and other dark business.

God likes to swing by unannounced;
straighten things out with a big
stick in these grave times.
He would have come a cropper
anyway – irrespective of the hour.

©️Orion Foote

Book of Hours

For an infinite second
there are two of her;

a bathing suited twin
hovers over shifting ripples
like a saucy double exposure.

Bullets of light shoot holes
through skin—piercing her
doppelgänger in lunch hours blaze.

The watery canvas dissolves;
waves distort her gaping
mouth – threaten to devour
my parched eyeballs.

©️Orion Foote, 2023

Rediscovered Episode

I moon over skin gradients.
Digits probe – bluff their way,
like it’s my debut night foray
on a fretless bass without dots.

Audio gibbers – it tracks the action
in a blow by blow commentary,
like a satellite voyeur on heat.

The universe falls apart – just
for a while – until it returns
to pick up where we left off;
rattling the bejesus out of us
when dawn gate crashes the room.

©️Orion Foote

On One’s Arrival

No doubt you seem bug eyed
as you wash ashore
towards starched sentinels
of five borough hives.

Your hopeful flesh cuts
thick air in quick strides
over silent ones below,
who dream through another lens
in the full light of dark
and who cannot see us.

Trundling forward with hope
carved from brownstone rock;
your eyes swallowed whole
like the hours in time’s cortège.

©️Orion Foote, 2023.

Remixing the Outtakes

It was like turning the house
upside down – rifling through
the lost & found in search
of optic enhancements, only to find
them lounging on my forehead;
propping up the frontal lobes
singing I told you so through a mic.

I had forgotten how to roll
with shadows; like a shot southpaw
with retinal failure – his sinister hand
stabbing at diversion & quicksilver.

These days it’s somehow enough;
like learning how to dream – plodding
over snowdrifts through day’s
blinkered light. Fine tuned antenna
eavesdropping on high alert.
Warm digits champing at the bit.

©️Orion Foote

Timely Entrance

Bleating telephone bells
shook my eyelids – threw back
the covers & screamed in morning’s
over exposed high key racket,
like a sharp rap on the front door
after a late night blunt in reverse.

The awkward stench of fading organs
took issue with the sickly sweet
of her perfume – it threatened
to break the ice. His head tilted
back on crisp bloated pillows,
a gaping mouth set in times

perpetual yawn. It was like
he didn’t know where to look.

©️Orion Foote

Chinese Brandy

Chinese Brandy
(for Mary)

A company of cicadas
make their entry on cue,
chatting with the slow surge
of wind music – pushing in
small waves over the surface
of oak leaves whispering
like Cantonese chimes.

It’s as good a place as any
to wash up—the last light
she’ll ever see shoots through
a backroom window with a soft
landing on pressed white linen.

Just before dusk, Doctor Todd
places the tiny celestial hand
back by her side—he stares
grimly through a clear portal
at a disappearing sun below
evening’s bloodshot horizon .

©️Orion Foote

On Turning Pages

On Turning Pages

It’s a search for mislaid memories;

minutiae lost & found hiding amongst

porous pages born of earthly tree rings.

Charred insignia hunkered down

in tight groupIngs of odd rank & file.

The eye a step ahead of every letter;

oblivious to the crawl of slow hands

turning cartwheels – locked in time.