Februaries Revenge Poem by Kevin Patrick

Maelstrom; it's Friday evening
And my exterior vision
Is a haphazard quagmire of
Alien vistas, forging vanilla layers
of caked crystal strata, some 18 inches
thick, embarking semiprecious teardrops
coiling in a multitude of billions hues
Swirling eddies, smokescreen time frozen
propagating around my window Perspex
Submerging the bedrooms cornea
Into snowfall glaucoma
　

There's no indemnity,
Its 6: 30 now, and
North Winds lash elegantly
With seasonal violence directing the
Toughed slush of dripping molasses
To ferment an irregular topography of a
Seas of milk curdled flowstone
Deposits to sit suspended from the
Turret of the attic window,
Like Diamonds mummified its
More amiable then coal but less
Amicable then verdant spring
That sits collecting dust
As an embarrassed dream
Never existing

Nothing gets in,
Save the growing desperation
Circulating the turning axel of panic
That ushers forth from brows hesitancy.
All light is electric, the sun moraine
Turns too quickly to even shout its rays
Into the tiny recesses of pocketed glass
That has not been conquered by kernels
Rolled up paper ball molecules sitting
Mocking me with pallid hematite
Threading the walls Travertine granite
Now a Subterranean attic pillbox
Winters conquest


I stand there murkily
Inauspiciously watching
The icy inferno of took hat Dunes
Congesting the swollen rooftops
By Seven degrees below Celsius,
In a picture of confusion. Daintily
I move up on outstretched tendons
Hoping to catch a glimmer of jade
Accept the onslaught of clouds
Massacring with T.V. static
The reminder comeback of
Februaries Revenge



It's like
the crust of the planet
has been overturned on the casement
then sugar coated into several
different colours of pigmented white,
plotted strategically by the merciless
hand of nature; in proportional representation
as the tertiary geographic phylum's in an abridged
diorama of this planets paleontological history
The Cenozoic sits neatly above the Mesozoic,
Which is easily encrusted by the Paleozoic era
All bundled up into separate layers
Beneath the sheet of lost horizons


Mongolia sitting outside the iris 　
Avalanching a sea sick ant farm
In which I am the unwilling subject
Trapped in the substratum
Above the ski view prison

Will the hand of winter turn
Or has it just begun
In my head
Yet again

The storm still rages
I win: defeated
This winter turns
again and again