A tale about an Antarctic traveler, trapped within a melancholic nightmare.

Photo by Tobias Keller on Unsplash

Why is it always so
That good things happen to me?

The man with the horn-rimmed spectacles,
Glances at me from two streets across,
And flashes a warm smile
on an otherwise cold day.

That lady in the post office,
with wrinkled gray hair,
And eyes that shine brighter
than her golden piercings,

She looks at me,
Six seconds longer than the mirror does,
As she hands me exactly six letters.
Six stamps too small.
Two pairs of remorseful eyes.

I took the devil to work today.
She caressed my ear whilst my back was turned
So I turned over again,
And closed…

A poem about weary eyes, sleepless nights, and perpetual bleeding

Photo by Sharon McCutcheon on Unsplash

Lying in his own blood,
Crying alone with the rain.
Twisted and tortured
Into a vile wreck.

Drifting off into a
deep darkness;
Beautifully tragic.

Clinging onto his breast,
Begging at the feet of mercy.
Squeezing his last drop of breath
Unto the wet pavement.

Chewed fingers; frostbitten stubble;
dainty nose sniffing the stale air.
Tired eyes glaring down at the
burning angels.

An exit, the final straw:
In the jumble of noises.
Strange lands lure the lonely lovers
into a horrible afterlife.

Cherished typewriters.
Starving for a little while.
Screaming into blankness.
Clutching at fate.


What happened to me?

Luke Dunskey 2020

a poem about turmoil; natural sovereignty; and humankind’s treacherous summit

Photo by _Mxsh_ on Unsplash

my friends are dead.fingernails are bleeding.
the skin hangs loose from my neck.

black tears from
bleak creases;
tiny wrinkles in my soul.

hideous blue,
crackling fire;
pierced eyes.

a divine confusion.
limbs flailing in excitement;
a tangle of bodies.

bless the innocent.
those who are kissed by nature;
by herself, who
guides the light.

slaughter all in sight; and of
those who wink eerily:

consumed by silence,
their heads shall serve as reminder
who guides the light.

playing spin the bottle,
on a Friday afternoon.
where did i go?

press harder.
fight stronger.
write faster.
more, less, too many.
no, slower.
lick. kiss. breed.

when the chaos
the devil will smile.

when the agony
the churches will remain

beauty in herself;
reaper of all.

Luke Dunskey 2020

A poem exploring the darker sides of urban life

Photo by Lewis Roberts on Unsplash

A black sky.
A marble ceiling.
The crumbling cement cracks with the wind.

An old dog, with gentle grey
under its chin, sleeps on an
overgrown sidewalk.

A half-finished microwave meal, under
a broken chandelier.

Ruined furniture,
once grand, now firewood,
burned in a chimney cleaned
twice in a century.

A creepy smile, as the cleaver
pierces through the pigskin.

Shattered mirror.
Bloodied, broken razor blades.
An empty bathtub, curtained with
shredded newspaper.

Downstairs, the boy pleads
“What for?”
Twiddling his thumbs, pencils snapped,
grey hopes.

The strange man in the next building,
With a dozen white pills in his right…

A traveler is tasked with learning all they can about humanity. They discover the horrors; and shortly thereafter, fall into a great sadness.

Photo by Tess on Unsplash

Surrendered to a noble cause.
Bleeding from the eyes,
Vomit hiding all that is unholy.
The reckless perversion of divinity;
The abandonment of hope.

An emptiness, vast as ocean and sky.
Creatures beautiful in their own right,
Twisting together for a gentle pleasure.
Milky waves lick deep wounds;
A celebration of spirit.

The sun approaches the horizon.
A roar from within,
a light that touches all corners.
Guided from the depths of time.

Luke Dunskey 2020

A poem about the absurdity of life; hypocrisy; and the unruly fountain of self-importance.

Photo by Alina Grubnyak on Unsplash

They call me selfish
for not caring about making myself

A false importance
is placed on human life. Why?
It’s simply in our nature.

The great texts of our time,
the scriptures, the works of art.
Filled with the stories of endless
begging, pleading, praying,
screaming, scratching, writhing,
drowning, choking, bleeding.

Our divine creation.
A reality we all share.
Yet can’t seem to accept.
Palming it off as
useless thought.

They say suicide is a tragedy,
taking your own life?

Applause is gladly thrown at
the unconscious soldiers
who die at war
to keep us satisfied.

Luke Dunskey

A mildly-depressed poet; everyone’s favourite. I write short poems about life’s ups and downs — and the weird moments in-between.

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