Completion

Always miss them then

Fading like smoke from a bed

Sleeping to dead poets

As we speak words of the dead

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Restless Calm

Drawn upon a

Line from the

Surreal abyss

Of this mortal coil

 

Received in advance

The coital call

Their small lapses

Through realities

 

Unscathed by the

Tempest’s wrath

Tempted by each

Temples restless calm

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.

 

Cosmic Yawn

Pronouns aside

With each cycle

another layer  is

caste into decay

 

Each one once

consumed is returned

A cosmic yawn from

which sprouts that

will bloom as they

intertwine with clouds

 

Then rain down

each root clinging

deeper seeking an

enigmatic warmth

 

Let the celestia

regurgitate each

breath

All Her time,

and children that

He’s eaten

 

All pronouns included

All light secluded

Replace these worn delusions.

Erase all these stillborn delusions.

Four

I sit alone rambling to

myself, in thought, word

and deed.

 

Reality deteriorating before

my perceptions.

I take a walk, to put my

lacking sanity to the test.

 

Reaching the bottom of the

iron stairs, I find that in solitude

my sanity excels.

 

The question is whether I am

dying to the world or the

world is dying to me.

 

Either way, I’ll enjoy the requiem.

iii. Eulogy of An Appetite

There’s something about apathy

at the table, where the

group sits, divides and multiplies.

 

Blossoms of vine orchid, that

foreign star whose light is

all that remains.

 

Remnants of heartfelt reverberations,

all tendrils spread out an

orbit of the chaotic.

 

What order shall these arms

bring, but immanence, limit

experiences, limited by incessant

distance.

 

This I shall, I shall stand upon

that moving, shifting, cornucopiac

colours spread.

iv. Epithet of A Wistful Boon

Play this my way, as we

stray from the rest of this day

Shall we cascade

 

As our instincts

don’t change

Is it distinct?

Is this distinct from the ages,

of hand-rolled, hand-made

 

Padmasana, in my soul

I cradle a grave,

the stillborn may still

save us

 

Nicotine blood in this fetus,

hung from an umbilical cord,

cut-short on the way to Jesus

Will any of them save us?