The Midnight Train

If there was ever a time to sleep,

It is now.

Darkness, silence, a black bliss awaits me,

Yet they are elusive,

And why?

A question and a contemplation,

Trains of thought with no end.

A horn blows, the tracks vibrate,

And a red hot fire in this engine

Lights up an otherwise peaceful night.

The machine must go,

The cars must travel.

The whistle says nothing of the destination,

But they must move.

I wish I were their engineer,

To have some semblance of control.

But most nights I find myself at a crossing,

Waiting for the train to pass.

Praying the caboose comes soon,

And with it a dimming of these flashing lights,

A silencing of the insistent bells,

The return of calmness on these mental tracks,

So once more I might enjoy the night

And sleep.


Nigh’ Life

A twisted crimson twilight
Walks down the streets of this city
Where the sewers spew the oily guts
From the slit wrists of society.
She dances with the moon,
A flash of red dancing across a full face
And the men of the city sigh in wonder
As the sidewalks become a playground.
Urchins flood the streetlights
The rattling of chains echo
Knifes are scraped along brick walls
Before scrapping the throats of innocents.
A twisted crimson twilight
Gives way to a blood red evening
Where even angels feel alone
For all faith in men is lost.

by Josh Glasson

The Final Act

My wife minored in theater (more costuming and make up than acting, but still)  and there was a point in time where I had been taking a philosophy course about religions.  The class was less than interesting but in an attempt to evaluate the different aspects of the divine, I found myself thinking of God as a playwright which led me to this poem.

The Final Act
All the world’s a stage,
but at the Globe Theater in London
legs tense and stand slowly, giving
an ovation for the curtain’s fall.

Into the streets we went
and we looked at the actors.
We stood on the corner, in awe
of our own works and style.

We stood for hours and smoked
just as our part entailed.
We waited until we knew what for
and then we saw a dark beauty.

A man and a car collided,
feet from our content corner.
The car swerves away and
we look at the scene.

A list of the damage:
A dead driver hangs out
of his shattered windshield
as the passerby hangs on.

A severed body, nearly a corpse.
We do the only thing possible,
and applaud his courage to stay
with cold hands and smoking mouths.

The passerby now more a prop
than an actor. God finishes
a screenplay, calling the final act
“The Death of Life”.

Crooked Orcus Rot

I lied.  I found several collections of poems I wrote in college and will be posting them before I move on to my most recent works.  Some of them I enjoy, some I wonder what I had been thinking.  Some had inspirations (which I will point out), and some were spontaneous, and some I submitted for peer review in an English class I have taken.  Some are long and some are odd, but they are all mine and show, somewhat, how my mind works.

The first of these is probably the most strange (as I am a fan of the oddities of the world) and I decided to write a poem attempting to interpret a short film I once saw, entitled Crooked Orcus Rot.  It was an interesting experience, but I’ve already been told by a dozen classmates and my teacher it “wasn’t easy to relate to”.  Which wasn’t the point of the work.  It was just something I wanted to do.

Click Here to Watch “Crooked Orcus Rot” on YouTube


Crooked Orcus Rot
Most men are born naked, barren of divine
gifts. A select few have halos bright,
golden, shimmering, glorious, perfect rings.
Upon their death, these halos still shine
they search the masses by their own light;
they search for gods of men, for kings.
Yet many a halo is lost to the damned and the weak
minded. Perfection cries for the death of the meek.

Death is a pale face in a hospital bed. He smokes
cigars others light for him with cold metal lighters.
He lives to show us blurry thoughts we love,
only to see the smiles they can provoke.
Thoughts turn to dust and decay, and the over-nighters
soon wonder what his last thoughts were of.
Our eyes dilate at the sight of death and we stall
briefly. My grandfather’s eyes glaze over and fall.

Outside the snow falls in steady, six-pointed streams
Onto the lengthy top of a recently waxed hearse,
And I can recall how I saw the streetlights
Throwing down their weak midnight beams
into the corners of my mother’s black purse.
The car doors close. One cigarette ignites
and the smell of smoke lasts for hours.
She weeps at the thought of God’s powers.

Death has a sister named Life. She is the saving grace
of us, the one who cries at the funeral. She looks on
peoples’ fragile hearts and protects children who are held
in the dismembered hand of God, embryos. “Face
this world!” She screams, knowing too well he is gone.
Ghosts of parents, not knowing what was yelled,
turn their flaky cheeks to the northerly winds and sigh
heavily. They watch their children grow old and die.

I have asked where God can be found, In red wines?,
In classical music?, In scented candles?, On dance
floors?, In Love’s spark?, Being passed from someone
to somebody to somebody else?
I find all these signs
point to the stars, and to those very rare and chance
encounters that seem to leave my heart nearly undone.
So I go stargazing on moonless nights and try to love
deeply. And yet, I still have no halo that I know of.

Death was human. He had problems, about which he raves.
He was way past his prime, already sleeping the days away
in the casket he picked out. The lacy pillows were hand-sown.
We are the mourners, those left behind. We dig our own graves
and bury ourselves without knowing. We will always stay
at a safe distance, but one day, this death will be our own.
And until then, we gradually make this pull away from the real
world. Slowly forgetting to taste, hear, see, smell and feel.

Sometime soon, I’ll be unafraid.
This cycle of Life and Death will end,
but not forever. Only while
Our family’s halos begin to fade.
My grandfather’s dead lips will bend.
Showing even Death can smile.

One Night

While I was in my teenage years, there were many changes in my moods and preoccupations.  I wrote poetry and stories varying from the affectionate and loving to the dark and depressive.  While my personality changed as I grew older,  I maintained certain fascinations.  Two of these are love and death.  I have already posted some of the former.  This is the latter.


One Night
the last light hour
Twas with the last glimpse of light
I looked upon thee
And then upon the knife
lodged inside of me

the night settles in
I fled to the forest
bleeding among the brush
I listened intently around to
the ominous hush

the witching hour
I heard chanting and saw
a light of life
I held onto dear memories
and a blood laden knife

3 AM
the unholy hour
I grew cold after the light
was gently killed
The dread and fear entered
My heart was filled

The birth of a new day
And the death of a man


I have always been interested in music.  My tastes range from beautiful classical masterpieces to the more modern genres.  The terminology and the simplicity in words and melodies that live through the ages piques my interests.  As part of this fascination, my mind relates various songs to certain picturesque scenes or ideas.  This is one such relation of my feelings.

Voice of the night
deceit and fear
until midnight
start at the starlight
done at daybreak
with the dew song