20. Migraine in F Sharp

I wonder who began this

tangled mess, was it some

game of mazes or an

intertwining of jests

Nine

Yes.

Your existence

makes a difference,

even if You are not

trying nor want it

to.

 

It matters,

You matter,

You’re full of it,

meaning that is.

 

That is, it is still insignificant.

 

 

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.

i. Voyeurs To Celestial Bodies

From the morning wood of youth

turned to blacken coals and

set to flame

 

Now I am a white ash,

neither calm nor enraptured

Absorbing and emitting nothing,

I do not grow cold, my

soil neither sterile nor

fertile.

 

My waters remain level,

neither stagnant nor overflowing

The suns dallyi’ with the

moons, neither rain nor

shine.

 

From ashes to ashes, in ashes

as ashes, the smoke has lifted and left

me, the air is clear in the crackling void.

– Analogous Eulogy –

So that song may be sung again

This is the standard from

which I base my taste.

Our favourite form of

rebellion is self-destruction.

Nature and nurture, the

differences between people.

Then call it something else,

at nineteen, I stopped counting.

I thought of becoming

a doctor at some point.

May we be wrapped around

until the sounds meet the colours.

She was caste in clay, before

being burried.

We seek attention, acknowledgement,

recognition.

Smoke and talk until

we forget about sex.

Roaming the silent lands,

each thought echoes,reverberates

against the silence.

Is the soliloquy.

Sent in stone.

One for this reality.

That by boredom’s sake,

I would be wed to Deathe.

And awaken that sleeping name.

Touch, these lips.

So that song,

may be sung

again.

 

xv. Err

That by boredom’s

sake I would be

wed to Deathe

That I err,

weary that it is

for entertainment

for amusement

 

Is that this

illness? This

ailment that

I may seek that

which is named

‘life’ ?

 

Or rather

acquiesce to whom

that ‘I’ is wed.

Sing that wedding’s

dirge, and blood,

that chocolate fountain

stain.