Sleepless Cemeteries

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

day.

 

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

cemeteries.

 

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 eyes.

 

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 ,

and legs.

When we were just children, when

we were just children, smaller

than this.

 

Eight

What do I

want?

A question asked

briefly in immediacy.

 

If not? The answer

remains alcohol, mostly.

 

But what is it

the I want

to do?

 

Change the world?

All positions are vacant,

and all applicants are overqualified.

 

Shameless and with minimal

self-respect, I could change my

world…Maybe even a few

If I nursed myself better than my drinks.

1st Drink

In an ironic concordia

of the dispersed animals

around this drinking hole.

 

The strange are found

apart, as they assimilate

and reinvent, re-invent.

 

Re-create, invention beyond

innovation, caste among

the unbound within

the boundaries.

Drink 1.1

Is it not that

darkness is the

absence of light?

 

Your absence effaced

by the multilayered

veils of experience

 

Experience is then

thus, the passive

light creates the

necessity

of the dark’

 

Act up

Act out

Act in, in act

Action made, trades

Til’ the sky is crackling

crack’ing, shatter and disperse.

Drink 1.2

Dense abstractions from

a society that is uninterested.

 

For it is not the evils,

the ne’r-do-wells, that

wreck, and reap but

those who are bound

in the purgatory of

indifference.

 

Yet those, O’

and O’ to the Heaven’s

to the Hell’s

Those whose ‘I’dentity

is  dependant or dependent

negation

 

Is it not the villain, Eleanora

that calls the hero

to action? O’ and Oh, Elea’

2nd Drink

The drug of grain,

of wine, of vines

of allotted Merlot

 

A Dionysian

in an Apollonian drama,

the resonance of melodramatic

ambiance

In a world, dimension

that is in an adjacent

cascade of thought.