Excerpt for Forest of the Depths: A Collection of Poems by , available in its entirety at Smashwords

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This collection of poems is actually a compilation of five chapbooks I wrote over the course of 2018 and early 2019.

This period, which is when I first became serious about writing poetry, is also a period of transition in my life and personal views. All of the books tend to feature an obsession with the dark side of life, an attempt to find oneself in one’s darkest thoughts and impulses. Indeed, most of the chapbook Death: An Arrangement of Poems is occupied with, well, death.

I like to think I have made something that while repugnant to some, will have a lasting and transformative impact on other readers. If this is the case, I will consider myself as having succeeded at what I set out to do.

Enjoy this book, it is a labor of love!

The Sub-Lunar Realm: Poems

by D.E. Morgan

Light’s First Influx

Jostled by hands reaching into darkness

My world expands at a frightening rate

Who are these who disturb my slumbering?

In a void I laid, my yearning silent.

Bizarre hands pulling toward light's first influx,

toward the great flash when the eyes awaken.

This world, this fire burns fear into my mind

free to move a bit, I toss in terror.

I cry the first sound I've made in the light,

attended by figures who handle me,

angels dressed in white assuage my trauma,

and hand me to arms which rock me gently.

Song of the Air

Song of the air,

with engines aroar in the distance

Birds sing randomly in suburban trees

Listen! It is the sound of the universe

in all of its tortured beauty!

Leaves rustle with airplanes

A man coughs on truck-exhaust

Squirrels flutter from tree to tree

Can you hear what they want to say?


Do the rich get offended by death?

Does his manner put them off?

Do they look down upon a phenomenon

so impartial?

That takes rich and poor to their graves

so impassively?

Do they dare turn up their noses

at his vast simplicity?

Do they sneer at being destroyed

by tumors so ugly and small?

Or leaving their opulence

because of mere strands of RNA?

Maybe they do get offended by death

and stave him off a little better than most.

A little.


When there's no one near

An honest companion is

The noise of our world

Money changes hands

Smoke corrupts the hazy sky

Death plays with his scythe

Killing is the game

We do it better than all

But then we all die

Solitude gives gifts

Of honest, tranquil moments

That caress the soul

The sun’s light reflects

On the face of a full moon

Lighting up the night

The noise of our lives:

A sonic gift from ourselves

To ourselves each day

The sound of a door

It is good to find beauty

In mundane noises

Better to be mad

Than to live by common sense

That common conceit

In discarding noise

When listening with one’s ears

One discards the truth

A patient cries out

In a mental asylum

And the walls answer

Engines roar loudly

On crowded expressway lanes

Humanity’s swan song

Colorful sunsets

Are enhanced by pollutants

Terrible beauty!

In mid-winter’s grasp

All life comes to a standstill

Even fear is gone

Pointed iron gates

They surround the man's estate

To keep him inside

Sight sees it's own eye

Is the eye the origin?

Or is sight the seer?

Dead bird on my lawn

It flew, but then it fell down

Blood frozen in snow

God created noise

Then man came up with music

Organizing noise.

When you’re alone

No one judges or chides you

except for yourself.

Conversing voices

The clinking of plates and glass

In a restaurant


Motorcycle revs

The rider's decked in leather

Tattooed, scarred, and bruised

A beer-fuelled fight has been won

Chains, bottles, meth, bikes and blood

Backroom deal gone bad

Smell of cigar smoke lingers

Blood pools on the floor

Gangster clothes with holes in them

Whisky, cigars, smoke, spit, tears

Skeleton in stream

The river devoured its flesh

Who killed this person?

A victim of some heinous crime

Forensic tests will be done


Taking a tape from its case

I notice a finger-print smudge

Whose finger did this?

And does he still walk the Earth?

Placing the cassette in the player

I notice the brand: Maxell

And on many other "Maxells",

I thought,

There are: noises, dreams, music.

Frozen in time as they slowly rot away.

I pause and think of what I've recorded.

I smile knowing that its backed up on digital, but

The scowling hiss of tape

and the compressed sound

are what I've come for today

and a tape plays in my tape player

and I enjoy the music.


Mist covers the naked earth,

like tears suspended in time.

Like a ghost it hovers about

dampening the hides of deer.

The sun is forgotten

and all is enveloped by one monolithic cloud.

Leaves glisten in what little light there is.

Mist covers all.

Solar Plexus

The solar plexus loves beauty

All that the senses see

When fear dominates

The 'plexus emits grays

Sometimes terror comes

And the plexus says to run

Shooting black through the nerves

Is then the purpose it serves

But when love fills the heart

It awakens with a start

The body's perpetual sun

Sends fear on the run

It fills the soul with beauty

As it follows love's decree

Love drives away fear

In the solar plexus, my dear

River Sonnet

Algae and mist cover the rocks

which lay in the river to drown.

Shaped by time’s ticks and tocks,

the water withers them down

Proudly boulders line the shore

proclaiming their size with gall.

They bask in their hollowed place before

the river takes them all.

Who can resist time’s merciless flow?

The stones of a river, they can’t.

To what place do the rocks go

whose life the river makes scant?

Eroding, the rocks await their fate

resting in their fleeting state.

Trite Little Creatures

Humans are trite little creatures of Earth

always lying, never telling the truth.

Spreading platitudes in place of wisdom,

they delude themselves into false knowledge.

People stake their claims on the universe,

call it their own, name it after themselves.

They soil eternities with their pretensions,

not even knowing it as they do so.

Holding the keys, they imprison themselves,

lock themselves in jails made of delusion.

Hiring mendacious people to tell lies,

they get their weekly fix from charlatans.

Bourgeoisie with wallets full of money

pay others to prop up fragile egos.

One day they will reap the consequences

of all of the missed opportunities.

People will regret that they abandoned truth

As the dying world burns down around them.

The Noise Musician

Wires and capacitors on a table

are intended to modify sound-waves.

Quarter-inch cables crawl between the jacks

of pedals used to wreak sonic havoc.

Prototyping-boards lay strewn on tables

their purpose obscure, known to only one:

the tinkerer, the artist-creator,

in search of ways to modify noises.

Why does he want to make music from noise?

Surely there are better uses of time?

Undaunted by opinions such as these,

the noise musician creates a palette.

It's a palette of sounds he can choose from,

to assault the eardrums of the masses

or make textures for one to get lost in,

or sometimes to hammer on the ego.

Discovering noise is finding one's self

buried in a conformity-dug grave.

The chaos within wants to do a dance

on white-noise, pink-noise, sine waves, and yelling

Surfing the maelstrom of inhuman sounds

arising from the neglected human.

So toying with resistors on bread-boards

(to create the sound of awakening)

the sonic terrorist works his magic,

a right-brain assault on one's falsest self.

The Sun Explodes

Witness the sun explode into being

in the sky, in the chest, in the nethers

illuminating every dark crevice,

melting the ice on the ground, in the soul.

What is this fire that pervades the body,

with light, consciousness, and understanding?

This burning at the center of the self?

This furnace that turns all to shining gold?

Its the luminous Divine mystery:

The fire at the center of the cosmos

The change that always remains unchanging

The light that in seeking cannot be found.


Televisions blaring at three patients

who wait for tomorrows monotony.

Before you go mad they never do tell you

how dreadfully boring it all becomes.

Pills in the morning for schizophrenics

become a dull, thrice-daily ritual.

Someone says something insane and inane,

and everybody pretends that all's well.

There's nothing to live for in nursing homes;

no goals, no future, no life, just boredom.

Watching your own delusions on TV,

or discussing the past with the patients

are the sorts of things that become routine,

when one is confined to a nursing home.

Confined chaos in a red-brick building:

patients are different yet all the same.

Drugged on big pharma's newest offerings,

its a banal, meaningless existence.

How does one escape from spiritual death

that lingers in the halls of such a place?

Find beauty! Fall in love! Refuse to crumble!

And one may escape from oblivion.

The Animal Self

The beast inside is a relentless one.

It desires mercilessly inside me

to eat, to kill, to dominate the mind.

Its a fire inside that cannot be quelled.

Prone to attempts to take over my brain;

the animal in me wants what it wants

It does not reason or act morally

and it insistently wills as it wills.


A muted kaleidoscope of darkness.

A dead rainbow that makes blackened halos.

Eyes which gaze insistently from the void

beckon me to wither in fear of them.

Who is this beast whose gaze disembowels me?

Fear tightens its grip on my ailing mind.

I think of blasphemy, sodomy, death

as the evil inside encircles me

I cry out to God, but there’s no answer.

This is how I am punished for my hubris!

Entangled in a web of black chaos,

my soul pierced by eyes, most terrible eyes!

Objects injected with paranoid thoughts;

death is salient within everything.

The clocks hands are arrows pointing to Hell,

Everything I see is my destroyed mind.

A black miasma of psychotic thoughts

hovers like a sentence above my soul,

condemning me despite Reason’s protests.

I am at war with my very own self.

No matter who wins this, I’m defeated

because the battlefield is my own self.

Split between what I think and what I fear,

my mind is not designed for such abuse.

Psychosis is duality in mind,

bicephalous demons from the dark void,

war within that will not resolve itself,

a curse, madness’s maw, a thick darkness.


The wind blows my hair as my head slumps down,

a barbed wire crown on my bloody forehead.

"This is the place where we get you, real good."

That's the words that the soldiers said to me.

Blood pooled on the ground near the crucifix,

blood which I'd spent my life trying to keep.

The laughter, the mocking of the soldiers

Who knew what scripture had landed me here?

Who knew what words delivered me to them?

Who knew that God's will had ordained this death

Die on a cross or burn eternally?

Psychosis followed me throughout my life

reminding me of Election's nature

Christians die next to me on their crosses

A death of agony ordained for us

By a sadist God who kills his own Son

To avoid the fires prescribed for rebels,

I submit and worship the one True God.

It was a farce for the Antichrist's men"

Let in on the nature of Satan's joke.

They believed in metaphor and such things

that would allow them to avoid the cross

Avoid it as they hammer in the nails

On Christian after Christian, hands bloodied.

Voices lisping through marijuana smoke

laughing about the eroticism,

how they deep down wanted to nail us all

And that this was Satan's will, to kill us

To wipe the Nazarene from the planet

And live a life "for now" of drugs and sex,

sodomy done at the foot of the cross.

To never bat an eye towards heaven above

or fear the fires of Hell down below them,

that is what they chose to value today.

To live in what they called the "now" (today)

And not worry about the future fires

which would consume their flesh eternally.

These were the magicians of psychosis

witches who denied Fact's very being

Who converted lies into facile truths

To nail the Elect to their wood crosses.

It's hard to argue when you're being killed

by people who don't even accept Truth

Who view the scripture which brought you to here

as subjectively as an evil poem!


It's lower, lower, higher than ourselves.

Urine and feces decorate the floor.

A centipede lives to roam the walls

unmolested by man--its predator.

Yes, a killer who wipes the planet clean

does not sully this space with his presence.

This purely impure room of filthy things

which glisten with their yellow and brown hues,

is it the space of the newborn infants

who vacate their bowels so innocently?

If they found a baby snake in this place

why they would play with it all hours of day!

A spiderweb adorns a wall's corner

An arachnid feasts on an insect's husk

Here's a temple adorned with filth and grime

which lives under the brain of human beings.

Vomitted forth like a drink thats burning:

offal and garbage crawling with maggots.

Festering deep under the daily mind

is this unspeakable place of refuse.

What comes forth from the bladder and anus

all ends up in this sphere of filth and waste.

Toilet paper mixed with feces and flies

putrefying under a lost black sun

There are cotton swabs with earwax on them

swimming in a soup of diarrhea

This is the sewer beneath a man's soul,

the place of all of his lost bowel movements

Food and drink crawling with loathsome insects

feasting on all that has been rejected

"Horrendous, disgusting, vile and loathsome"

say those humans who flushed it all away.

Does Truth Vanish?

Does truth vanish with disbelief in it?

Or does it hide in reality's cracks

setting snares for the unbelieving fool

who blindly walks into delusion's grip?

Perhaps truth plays games with its questioners

letting falsehood lead them off the good path

conjuring demons made of nothingness

to follow them in their crass foolishness.

Lies accompany the disbeliever

as his head becomes muddled and confused.

Grasping at straws he finds only deceit

a lack of a foundation affects him

Immorality, delusion bind him

who abandons the narrow path of truth

until one day he returns, scarred and lost

and laments the day he turned from the truth.


Water, oh terrible water!

Will you drown us in your embrace?

Will waves massage the air from my lungs

and leave me bloated by your shores?

Or will I sink to the bottom of your mysteries,

to the unexplored places?

And will unknown creatures feast on my flesh,

and spit out my bones so cruelly?

Oh water! Swallower of fools,

and those who do not seek higher shore!


With grasshopper legs hanging from his lips

The bug-eater enjoys an insect-lunch

Crunching thoraxes between his front teeth,

he enjoys the Earth’s bounty of insects

Perhaps tomorrow he’ll dine on maggots.

He’ll glaze them in honey and feast on them.

Europeans won’t eat them, but he can.

He’ll gratefully shove them down his gullet.

Dark Ambience

Dreary metallic colors that absorb light

give the building a quite dark ambience

Machinery and waste are strewn about,

abandoned to time for some lost purpose.

From dusty old photos and images,

one can feel the oppressive, thick darkness

that haunts this place even in the daylight.

It is now a spiritual vacuum

The Moon

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