the stars light up the room

how does something worthwhile ever come to be

is it accidental, coincidental perhaps?

a token of triumph about to invalidate the madness of turning back

face to face with the splendor of the stars as they rejuvenate my craving for life

is it the answer of a calling or peeking at the moon enough

to mirror hopes and dreams of yesteryear where the foolish youth burn away

as they should that vivacious great thing we now envy as rotten, yes rotten

we covet and sneer, attempt to plunder and dare I confess sabotage

not the key to Eden this stroke of a match

but alas neither wisdom nor experience make water crystal clear

is seems out of our control and quite frankly at times even reach

for those that locked themselves, voluntary, in a room ready for the pyre

are awaking to a self-committed hell

the fever strips me of all reason

the new founded pantheon cybertronic, makes me spit blood

it is not convenience we fought for nor earned

there is no lounge in what is being lost

the tragedy being confused with sexy vampire teeth

as it installs, sinks in and shifts senselessly

no status quo nor quip can reset

the level we have ascended to

still so far away from the stars:

at first, a simple life

when laziness proved too toxic a good one would suffice

when that did not materialize as per chance upon my bosom

a life of my choosing and within my grasp would have to do

perhaps Youtube or googling it will guide me away from this crowd

strangers new to me explaining me something I shan't follow

nor get It right.

a starving man eats sins (at the beckon of despair bellow the fire)

by the bottom where the darkness runs rampant

the craves taste like a friend, the same

that shovels the grave, amends

a loose knot comes undone by neglect

just the same as the wind unties and the led hand dooms us both

when patient and resolve have simply had quite enough and giving up

condeem us

to memory.

on a lane, not the fast sort

where souls wander

and music is both disconforting and restless

on a past where the button that says delete does not exist

a blow out of sorts is localized, an open secret

to be taken out in those opressed

in this haunted house I feel no love

not that I tried hard to earn something I felt was freely given and deserved

the trickery most of all was to feel forced to leave

all you had to do was ask: order even, a prescrition to a madman on the prowl.

shot twice in the chest, once in the temple

vulnerable once, never again, a job beatifully done.

what am I waiting for feeds my paranoia

hand over fist all down the throat, forcefully

they say suicidal man regret it at the last 

and with backs turned to the sky they face the ground

and the thought does not mellow the storm, perish the voices I am missing

something. 

the aching of dragging chains we refuse to remove

for need of punishment is a burden not worth receiving

nor sharing neither for keeps as a lesson learnt

I broken the mystic that loving someone or something would somehow save myself

that first must be a gift born and freely given to oneself

once the mirror is pieced together and smiling back at me like I want it to.

nothing to conceal if I do not believe I have turned into a *sham sort'a people

I wish I felt the warmth of love

the suggestion of surrender

the confort of being understood

not because I do not have such nice pleasantries

no joy survives the erosion of denial by the betrayal of not believing

what you know or should have known (better in the past, surely darling)

 

For those reproach

If I do not go that's my fault, that's a fact eh?

Do allow me to be in the wrong and concede me the opportunity

To slowly get out of this situation

Don't face a man getting older succumbing to temptation 

to trust the leap before he could reach for what's unseen.

__________________________________________________________

Malady a state of being

how foolish of me

A sight of raw disconfort, pouring unearth

Undead, bent and awash with rain breaking it down

Above water, slippery dreamcatcher

capturing words unspoken that ring hurtly true

Setting alarms loathed and quite problematic

deadly by design and my heartstrings part of the canvas

Irritating, damm allergies come alive

A bad melody stuck on repeat

Loop and round you and me reflection

of hacking at what's close and dear

Venture a fragile familiar routine

A to B passing cliffts and clouds towards dying

Feet firmly on pavement on an incline, necessary ascension

Complaining borrows weight off my venomous veins

Ethanol an interaction facilitator, can't boil high enough

Gaze, stare, generate a spark by willpower (or dynamite)

One can wander, dream, implode:

Love spewed outwards

Clicking the wrong tune, permeating the skin

the ground, the very earth that serves Finite

Humble, sustaining the burden

Of the continuum at ample depth

Ants and giants thread different sights

Soon to discover a blood trail shining blue

May us turn to bone dust and dissolve gently father.

___________________________________________________________________

A weapon does not grant more safety

than rules cut vice, sin and grandeur

In days, weeks and years invested in the imprisonment 

of both good and worse (off) men (mostly)

Taint this river red with the cruel realization

Of faithless flesh, worn off instincts and little to gamble for

 

for those above reproach

in the colder nights

If I do not go that's my fault, is that a fact?

Do allow me to the in the wrong and concede me no sympathy

To grief the earning of responsability of running into a wall

nose bloody, all sorts of aching and a pulsing sense of relief

Face first and turned blue with fear of what's to come (so petty)

be it divine or hellish torment hold your words wisely

Puzzling to hold dear this space: Silence

To embrace what's to come, disconfort routine

I shan't forget nor forgive

I allow my betters that gracious grace and hold spite

in raw undeniable amazement.

men couldn't see

straight

what aught the ghost to do

and thats an escape

never taught letters

ought to write better

a childish drag of

feet, agitated by desolation

confusion, despair

next to me.

 

theatre of war 

thought versus instinct

the nerve

the need lingers

in naked splendor

machine cog exposed

rusts easily

men are reborn instead

fuse metal to flesh

security engaged, the chain is off

patience depleted

the devil is near

to laughter

the greatest of

devices:equalizer

to the plenty equilibrium (a game)

to the merry ammunition (tremble in fear)

to the few scarce hope (to chain oneself)

find fault below, He appears

abound Seasons to naivety

all aboard, I repeat, I insist

I must oblige, make it plain

irregardless of quantity

of teeth, shaved clean and straight

choice cut words

opportunity censor. Silence contempt

Join in: coats by the door.

deeply unsatisfied

jammed my little toe at the door now they are split, torn and swolen

all kinds of ugly inside out covered in a disgusting solution

a bad omen to reject the vile opportunity for canibalism

wishing I suppose to become something else than a charade at peace

I read something soleem and truly out of reach as often books can

magicate to those with far more time than contempt at hand

war that what may become of broken men driven to follow a cruel design

men with two faces, that which they must live with

and that which they shall die with and slammed I may be into that forbidden wall

glasses dissecating my eyeline, actively, as the iris becomes less human

limps that do not obey nor perform or taste the same

a bitter truth hard to swallow but I shall try all the same.

the beaten tried path feels runny and unsatisfying

powerless to call it time, sat on a clift admiring the scenery

the fragility of flesh seduced by wind, secured by rope and gravity

dance in sexual harmony and I am afraid to say I didn't catch what you said

my mind drifted elsewhere before I realized I did not care

pause to hold and magnify the duration, the worship of the whoreson

a mistake not easily changed, bend

trailing hair and face as if to deny and absorb obssession that shan't burn easily

"I miss the way you say my name 

The way you bend the way you break 

Your makeup running down your face 

The way you fuck, the way you taste"

 

the scab soons recedes into new flesh pink skin

what a waste, irritating, positively insulting

to the blood pool running down the drain

swarming the sewers, clearing the limescale

old friends go to war seeing red

no getting away caught inbetween

mismatch of socks, disgrace

sore eyes, socket bloated

the eye that could not be saved

caved in, gravity took hold

misery has us running circles

not always

the hammering will cease

be the last resort

or a falling of pieces a siege

 

of willpower

if the devil whispers

my lips follow.

matchbox

a lit match burns bravely 

a sublime tone to echo all the others

past and discarded, returned to the box

used and new, fresh ready and awaiting

at the hour of need, darkness

thunder or otherworldy events robbed us of electricity

that fundamental right and privilege of mankind

a candle alone will not suffice nor strive child of mine

can't you see? why does the nostalgia depict narrow eyes

and a frame of deep dark green in the dark

a flood rests by the tongue at bay, at sea, underneath

at ease we float between too nervous to escape

what was perceived as a fatal mistake flashed off frame

now clearer, now understood

rather the tribulation Must be made to fit the narrative

to encapsulate the lungs we breath and speak

make Heaven one and the same

boring that...

~there was a Vigil

spontaneous they tell me

'felt like turning up'

'it was the right thing to do'

'what...if...yeah...'

 as the pieces fall into place the calling

and echo ring louder

to those determined to listen.

not all open doors are an invitation

nor barriers for they simply exist and resist

the decay of aging and the heat of pyres and hells desires

to bath and partake of the communal serenety is a privilige

indeed just as the puzzle fits so naturally though the edge border and mire

are cut prior and curved smooth to prevent further bleeding.

tragedy summons shared hysteria. I want it now.

I can't read my own hand palm ~ does it matter either way > lightness of breath is a marathon runner young at heart still.

had a nice due not quite a candlelight dinner

by the season of Fall we got even

the World overall did not change

there or here the metrics local, small

miniscule to those around and ahead

I drink a singular glass of milk, a pint really

at dawn to buzz off the ache on my jaw

thats a lie of course, I grow bored

and yet instilled so deeply is the habit

the destain a mess I can frame inside my brain

as my index finger pursues the rim of the typical glass I

contemplate the shine of what I am told is white cow milk

watered down to taste before serving and finding it pleasing

either way finding pulse in the pulpe taking swig after swing

short of a slam nor sham, all good it does taste like milk

I do do wonder

what is weight and why am I drawn to the causality of futility

just as rings permeate the inner glass, they remain NOT a window

to my soul or otherwise a confirmation of my bad decisions (I am only human and therefore I am afraid)

awash and sat straight and upside down the glass

is not faded to be a tool of my nourishment nor evidence of my sins (let it be, may it be so)

nor is preference for a bitter drag on my throat a price to pay (just as I suck my front teeth to prevent desolation from escaping//running away before I too have grown old)

to retire at the right time, having found something to care about

so so picky

my hand palms do remain familiar, for now

may that feeling linger long and ring true

for I have need(s)

aches and burdens preciously mine

however careless. a patchwork hideous to pursue at the fingertips

coarse for we fucked it up

wet for past the drowning at the holy river

it was left to dry atop stone by the elements and blessed with rain

I knock in my skull: there is no answer,

that leaves me deeply unsatisfied

uoah the pursuit of peace of mind suggests

a life sentence.

I had more fun in the swings as a child

my best memories really

being given milk by my mother

that memory leaves me deeply satisfied.

if forgiveness is a choice

my condolences to the mirror's edge for it shall taste

like barber wire slashing belief and deceit blazing

the wishes of that same candlelight dinner as the dawn returns

apparations are not real that must be clear as believers tremble in fear

a trick of the light matching eyes with the past, deluge the flood of a broken spell meant to fade

a persona I forgot to replace.

a nickel can get you a ride in the carossel

no matter what we do the timer shifts us though we stand in place

we are taken aboard and discarded just the same as we departed though within we know this

to taste untrue and that weight us down, suffering in mourning silence

in Uni I adopted a Dove or rather a Dove saved my life twicefolded

today a Crow with the same shine engages with the same grace

humans see what they want to see assimilating memory with the futility of expressive eyes

should I imagine animals can speak or reply?

hanging totems and scribing runes in the skin

as you were my dear:

must it be? it must be: it must be...