Madness of Crowds (A Poem for the Pandemic).

on the empty shelves
Of ransacked
Convenience stores.
Vitality in the blood
Of our denied veins.

in the products we buy
Thinking life can be purchased;
Suffocated in the same
Plastic wrap we use
to cauterize our minds.

Throbs in cellulite hands
Sagging into the coveted.
Monsters who believe
They are victims.
Taking more than their due.

Is the real pandemic.
Humankind has been
Sick with it
From the dawn of time.
And getting sicker still.

Is the folly of the species
That worships whatever
They are told.
Precaution is wise, yes,
But mindlessness leaves us cold.

is for the brothers and sisters
You have never known,
Yet observe scurrying to and fro,
From aisle to aisle, warding off
The inevitable.

Is the beacon of hope.
That the quarantined fearful may
Pick up a book and gain insight, or
Turn off Netflix to be with themselves
For one, single, solitary moment.

Spiders (poem)

It takes a lot of writing

To get the spiders out of my brain.

They are crawling around inside

the twenty-four inch


Of my cranium.


I don’t even know it,

half the time.

Not until their eight legs

Land, trembling upon the paper

In a black spatter of ink.


There are spiders

Crawling up my water spout.

I wash them down my drain,

But they just keep coming.


There are spiders, creeping

Over the face of my lover as she sleeps


Crawling over my face

As I snore, and twitch, dreaming of spiders.


They can clog my throat,

If I keep my mouth open.

Just as they can clog my mind,

If I don’t wash them out

With sweat, ink and soul.


Spiders in my brain. Spiders in my attic.

Spiders in my automobile, coach and train.

Spiders in my basement, silent and static.


There is a cacophony of wet silk,

vibrating inside my ears,

All the time.


I am a willing fly,

Forever caught and wriggling within the net

Of decadent creation.



Copyright 2019. Tylor James. 

Freedom in Purgatory (Poem)

Please don’t forget to leave your thoughts in the comments selection below! I’d be interested to know if you’ve any criticisms, ideas, and the like about the following poem. In my view, what makes us responsible beings is our existential freedom. Perhaps this is my Halloween poem for 2018, as I happen to find the idea of, “What if we were really irresponsible and just blew it?” particularly scary.  Thanks in advance, dear readers!



The fate of this world is decided

By us;

One decision

At a time.


Freedom is worldly.

Every man’s choice,

Constitutes the world.

Even the breaking of dawn is a choice:

The connected tendons or the slit wrists?



a bad heart, numbed brain.

World, hammered into cardiac arrest

By a clotted conscience.

World, overcrowded with sociopathic imbeciles,

Disintegrating in unfeeling stupidity.


Bad faith, bad lies.

World, blinded and bleeding for sights unseen;

A festering, terminal illness gone undiagnosed.

World, attempting justification for its ceaseless horrors.

Eternal wars,

gory religious schisms,

follies purged in blood.


Bad diet, bad consumption.

World, submerged in dripping fat, engulfed in sloth.

Mouths wet and seeped in instant gratification ,

With brains bathed in the electricity of vile taboo.

World, eating off its own carcass;

A geographical hermaphrodite

Cut up in self-mutilation.


Bad posture, bad money.

World, crippled o’er its lowly seas,

Rasping, clasping, aching for a drink.

World, bribed by an influence of heaven

and sent straight to Hell;

A green purgatory wherein ancient presidents burn

In the liver spotted hands of feeble men

Choked in the after-life at the collar and tie.

Our hearts will pump out the bills

to pay for their funeral.


Bad choices make a bad life.

World, collapsing its existence by choosing not to choose.

The easiest choice, after all, is one not chosen.

World, one life, cascading into sudden death

Due to a nuclear stockpile attached to a hefty red button;

Supplied fertile push by an Armageddon-hungry elitist,

Famished for golden eternity.

World, swamped into a cosmic dimple,

Sinking into the blackness of space,

Renouncing its queer absurdities

And returning into galactic star-shit.


We have decided to churn ourselves

into sub-atomic compost,

Particles of stellar garbage

upon our very own volition.


If this happens,

It will be what we have chosen,

Nothing more.

Imagine it:

A world-wide suicide

Constructed in the shackles

of our liberation.


We had

a great responsibility.

We were

absurdly free.