A poem by: Ben Dunk. 1974




Part one:



Whereas I,

Like the trampled serpent, lie

in the ashes of my defenses.

Having staggered from fate to fate;

baring flesh to the callous rising horde.


Look!, the end in sight:

feel the despairing load.

Imagine the final blows,

torturing every avenue of weakness.

Pagans attacking, biting, stabbing,

selling off, bleeding dry; until:

the bottom rung is reached, and,

solely chance plays the last hand of life or death.


The insurmountable blind trauma

of negativity in circumstances,

instills absolute despairing insecurity

and the faint mind begs for mercy


How can such a cruel spate of seemingly inevitable

dissolution continue?

Where does the drastic direction

of this dastardly scheme endure?

Who gives the terrestrial tirade,

initiation and impetus?,

and, why ME?


No hope granted,

no blue sky perceivable,

no glimmer of encouragement from the heart

or mind of a soul.

Only the solitary pity of a spouse:

indirectly caught up in the tangled web,

of her loved-one’s

miserable libido and misfortunes.


No Phoenix I;

only the smashed remains

of potted bones,

still, in the dark crematorium.



Part two:

In death.


Sliding spiritually across the divide,

I saw multitudes of dark forms,

lining avenues of stark black spaces.

Individuals were only an aura of composite interpretation-

likened to terra-firma stature.


Slowly the devastating freshness

Of my condition dawned;

I was dead.


Revelations of hitherto unanswered intellectual enigmas

of many kinds were being unfolded.

Links between the supra-subconscious mortal mind,

the Universe, and, God.

Extra sensory perceptions forming fusion

with spirits in this penultimate place.


Corroboration of vastness continuing;

Inevitability of life progressing:

Taken for granted in this place of plans.


Allow me to explain the power –

the positive pulse of the place:

there were regions of rhythm ,

working for time.

There were cosmic particles,

penetrating the universe like fibres,

holding the union of creation.

There were apocalyptical personages,

so powered to watch over lesser beings

and guide them by the paths of understanding.

There were great clouds,

wherein transcendental spirits pass

in and out of varying consciousnesses:

experiencing intimate spiritual impressions.

There you’ll find and savour

the flowing freedom of pharisaical understanding.

There all things are known and felt.

There one may graduate to perpetual existence.


The end.


Complete understanding of the foregoing is not a criterion only involved personal impressions are relevant.