2.0 Last Drink

Writing deteriorating

as the ambiance wades

into that catatonic,



These my siblings, nonetheless

caveats, about caveat

tears into the emptying



These bottles, as if

a chalice, hides the


But it is all, and

walk  my friend, my

left brain, my brother

Yet and yet, and…


Through pseudonyms

‘I’ age, age, til,




Suckling on the pen’man’s

fingertips, as the ink drips down


Down, as it seeps between the

blank spaces




Upturning topsy-turvy

into the

topvy tursy of tectonic

shudders, being peeled off

like ceramic skin.


We scale the mounting

sands as they slip from

every grasp and we fall back.


And fall back

upon the sun-soaked sands.

viiieen.) A Caricature

The catacombs of our self bidden

catechism. Now they serve as our



Perplexed by the subtle perturbations,

words crackling across my lips

making these inklings pour across


Beside these ashen lines, diluting

the hearts congealed blood, dilating

each constricted thought.


Blindly we wonder passed our insight,

at our past born asunder

these their insides, shall the innards

read as woven, interlocked and entangled.


Another cataclysmic tale of amnesiatic

absentia, ostentatious in our preconscious



Flinging vase like tablets, into cuneiform

fragments, it just so happens that these

in each portion are hapless.


These our chamber doors; upon which none





A lover’s terms,

walk with mine

keeping in step


Picking up pace

or slowing

As boots in

thickest snow


Who’ll shed thy

coat, and seek

their ne’r corpse


Planted in the

thor’s of snow

Drowning without

a drone, as

not to mourne

for thee.


Be as painting

Space conversing

with the revelatory



Encaptured the

idea of the moment

forgetting the wheres

and why-fors

in age


Names dancing

upon the plaque

lit stage


Each bud

stroking across

the palpable palette


Who watches them

that watches over


Watching in their

callous concern for

those who are not

part of their own.


Ev’er we shall

devour our own


Consuming only

ourselves, writhing

in pleasure as

we are consumed


Run us through

as we fall upon

each others swords,

for they too

are our own.



In as much sincerity.


Mother reaches

out to that

sleeping child


Remove my

Father’s mask

I’ve worn it myself,

with its eyes drawn.


Each vapour turning

the scleras,

painting streaks

with a light crimson


Sights now of

blotted pets,

of black and

silver void


Mother reach

out and peal

each mask


So this reflection

is no longer

of a tangled