Dee Sunshine is an artist, writer, musician and new age gypsy.
He has been on the road, travelling in Europe and Asia since August 2006, and intends
to carry on until his legs or his heart wears out (or until he runs out of money).
He is the author of two print poetry collections, The Bad Seed (Stride, 1998) and Dropping Ecstasy With The Angels (Bluechrome, 2004); and one novel, Stealing Heaven From The Lips Of God (Bluechrome, 2004). He edited the charity poetry anthology, The Book Of Hopes And Dreams (Bluechrome, 2006). His third poetry collection, Visions Of The Drowning Man (Obooko, 2009) has been published as a free e-book. His latest publication is Red Dreams And Razorblades: Collected Poems, 1980 - 2005 (Obooko, 2009).
The Poor Surgeon
Who would struggle with her?
A strangle tangle
Through the labyrinth of her psyche.
“Oh unknot me here please!” she’d beg.
It was almost sexual.
I loved her mindlessly,
Got lost in her dark forest,
Ended up on a mountain path:
Twelve miles through the snowline,
Screaming blind Jesus
Into the wilderness,
Thinking I was going to die;
And then
I was back down where I started,
Feet bleeding me of all dreams.
I thought I was some sort of saviour,
But I was a poor surgeon.
“Open your eyes,” I said,
“I’m coming in.”
She swallowed me up,
Left me crippled.
Oh crippled little thing!
They took me to the hospital
And tied me up.
I was too weak to walk:
Could only sing.
Late Autumn
Waves break on the shore:
foaming white
rabid dogs on heat,
oozing, thrusting, crashing;
a constant heavy hearted beat.
The wind whines
a dull cacophony
accompaniment
to the sea.
Butterflies flap and fall,
twitching blood flecked wings.
The sky is mottled brown,
sepia and grey.
Seagulls cry and blether,
fly in concentric circles
high above him.
Hands search inside his coat,
find only cold clammy skin.
He hugs himself tight:
waiting for the storm to pass
and for the sun to re-emerge,
vibrant and warm, at last.
A Rain Of Roses
I fell from the sky,
blazing a trail
of violent flowers:
orange as caesarean sex,
red as shiva-shakti,
crimson as you.
My petals were torn away
in the scorched wind:
the Sahara wind of you,
mad mistral mistress,
you plucked at me
with triggered fingers,
plucked at me
till I was
but dry stems
and withered seeds.
You plucked
and I was undone:
I fell to the ground,
a dust of forgetting,
smothering crops
and blanking out the sun.
