Seven

The truth is that

there is no story.

None worth telling,

nor worth hearing.

 

These games of

necromancy,

in absence of

the living.

 

And the excess

 

of sanity, as

with each idea

I micro-dose psychosis

 

Plagued by sane agony

as we seek the

bliss of madness

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Fifteen

Unhappy in the present and

distant ways.

Even amidst these images

and if they were to manifest

clutching my head

their breasts and wash

away the drought of tears from

my faces, cracking the hollow’ess

from my smiles, breathing into the

sighs if laughter.

 

As the boredom cascades into

an even decadence,

worthy of my own tears neither

any others, nor grief neither mourn

 

As in loss of nothing,

nothing is lost

What is it that is too be gained?

Vapid flesh-like attire for

the subsistence pages for

one, none and no one.

 

A sharing of the meaningful

feast of nothing with the

hollow’ess

Ink like shattered pearls,

flung into the wind dressed

fate through star-tinted

window

 

Seeking Gaia’s bosom, as I

flirt with Mary moon, never

to tally up the ungrateful boon

Then flung face first into

some-other dreams

And play with those e’er to come nor eave.

x. Their Epilogue (Gaspar)

Amongst friends

Amongst lovers

I remain

Alone

 

You should can yourself

a lucky soul

Because your soul’s

aware of

companions.

 

People such

as I have been

romanticized.

We have been marginalised,

As cute, as a thing to aspire to.

 

Trust me,

 

A face like mine.

Should not be an object

of envy.

v3

Catalysts to my ends

Little help from my friends

Cataclysmic epithets

Suicide by fireside

Honesty, Honestly

my melancholy has

no means to its end

xi.

Roaming the

silent lands

Each thought

echoes, reverberates

against the silence.

 

Water shaded

with the charcoal

edge

Shall I lay

me down on

that palpable

page.

 

Stretch this

out on

the wooded frames

Should we

spread these

apart, and let

all rupture

Dawned and

wet, across

this stage.