There’s not much to be said
There’s not much to be said
Running across skin
Sequentially snipped knots
Excess lace de-parts
Let’s play amongst
You do not need
I am the gods
Night and neighs
Ecstatic although find way to manage
the moving concerns of unjustified concern
Becoming a healthy habit that this
addict would rather stop, but not yet
my eardrums haven’t shattered,
each eye seeking insight in the void.
A danger to myself and others, the
proof pudding from practices will
How grains of Fate have fallen
between the luke-warm fingers.
Concussion with momentary relapse
into amnesia, I open and close
words with each.
All beside music is noise
I place my face upon her
Drawing stars in
They congeal creating
voids at my throat
That grind my teeth numb
and sink my cheeks
He looked up at the sky,
the stars were dead, the grass
grew over his shoulders
and tickling the sides of his neck.
The silence seeped into his
head, we change so often that
when things become ordinary.
Some strangers passing in the
damask dusk of an ever-ending
Something nameless, faceless and
no way meaningless, Sisphus’
sermon on the mount over
those deities grave-yards.
Now noting these emotionless
thoughts, invoked by the sleepless
Upon him his weightlessness
lays heavy, grounding him to
the depths of his chest.
How he now yearns for tears
of the day and the taste of
morning dew between her legs.
He stands on the hill out back
where she conceived in him
all this scenery.
He remains without remorse
nor regrets, he buried her beating
heart in his stomach and chest
with some sauce and pasta.
It was pork so it was fine.
He made his bed by her
headstone, and he slept without
rest. Suddenly time passed
as the vines through his skin.
He kissed each bird and each bee
as they pollinated pink poppies
on his cheeks.
Ravens nested in his rib-cage
within a week. Still he watched
the sky after they fed on
His brain and mind had
become a hive, he was
absent for it all, and
presently his body has never
been more alive. Lucid his
passion laid restless in that bed,
as beside he remained, by her
headstone he stays.
He is one of us, the children
of a broken home fathered by
Logos and Mothered by Eros.
We were born jaded with passion
embedded within our heart. To
tell this story more honestly
our father passed away at the
age of three and our Mother
raised us alone.
So we hold on to the thought
that our passion will remain
whether brain dead or insane.
Only with time we understand
that our father dies of alcoholism,
because he could never reciprocate,
when when our brief step-father
was writing he didn’t exist.
We’re still playing the
game, of colouring between the seams.
Filling in the spaces between the pain,
like we did on our Mother’s wrists ,arms ,
When we were just children, when
we were just children, smaller
Intoxicated by the sleeper’s wake.
Restless, as an evened brush stroked
in darkened silvers that shall not shimmer.
Burst! Burst thither, hither, neither nor
the nether realms the interwoven lightness
entangles, in an instant branching out
and ever expanding.
Unfulfilled this pedestal, for if it were
not mined but the thoughts that were
audible. Each one picked, quoted, misquoted,
and nit-picked from networked clouds.
Then slip, slip off, slip away. wrenching
what is false and wrenching without passion
from both stomach and heart.
The paths, mine path’s ever inward
to the reaching shelf of even those fragmented
biscuits and cookies.
The mirrored ballroom of all the marionettes
masquerade, how forgetful for each may
have more than one way, more than a single
face, rather charade peaking with a wanton glare.
Sever the marionettes coils, let the mirrors remain
and each mask fall apart and away.
Blossom into light absorbing flame.