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...

shift is a key

tripping over oneself head trapped in a darker place

misty and torment these darker clouds that both echo

and find space to spin and replace the light between the familiarity

of where I have been and thought I knew, understood and cherished

a breathtaking unseattling floor shaking instance of realization

that what I once loved, not the feeling replaced but that passion has moved on

to the ark of memory and recollection.

to the confinements of fragment no longer certain and freely given

as if flanked it does not last nearly as precisely as one wishes

nor is it owned exclusively, that much I understood

suppose I forgot every wish and promise

what's left to abdicate and mark testimony

flesh that knows no sin is but a shell

beneath the good action a reaction, new found purpose

or a flood of belonging//lounging for a recipient of match

lovers extend and interlock hands

parents create new limbs and teach them to walk, think and communicate

everyone else waves accordingly

let us keep the freak show to a content minimum

branch and achieve growth before the confinement of walls smoother

what's left of my continuum awake (and) otherwise.

(if physical health exists, so does the emotional fulfillement

and music transcends all three including the spiritual necessity

to tap into the tingle of a door ill designed and jammed tight)

unclear

lost all my composure

a fever of chemical combustion

bodily revolution exasperated at the arrival

of dawn, a sign that the spell has been not lifted

records of dental affairs and blood trails

to conjure wonderlust and love oneself

is a wonderful feeling indeed.

a fish once caught withdrawn, taken

out of the element where it belongs

shortcomings in a plate, grilled and broken

from spine that still combat the predator

stuck in my throat making us equally

out of breath and deadly bored

with what has escaped from this day

synthesis of flavour

whatever makes it worthwhile

to satisfy the fantasy of eternal pleasure

such fun.

cannot shake out the infectious status of paralysis

a flood of choice, given enough time

desire to be an insect crushed by the roadside

be by pyre or transfused by reason

condition: terminal; origin, human.

at a glance there are no roots in this tree

not within reach

to carve a path by means of mere fingers

hands like claws, broken nails, tore skin

achieving quite little in fact

hope is what is caved first.

i heard they killed the sun

dearest star sabotaged two years off retirement

a tragedy and a freakshow, a cane crushing an open jar

an open window is not an invitation to fly friend

i wont stop you if you try though

to let go is a lesson and a testament to the ability

to care, to share, to kill the Sun.

i don't know what i am doing

what has crawled out the skin

was not healing but acceptance

rejected by the body akin to disease

oily, slimey and quite frankly stinky

an obscene solution laced with vandalism

violence to the people atop the mid-sized donkey

child I barely distinguise tree from stump, all the pretty colours

are anothers to name and frame

to capture axe by split on the table, desk and chair

do not forget the closet, wardrobe and cabinet

made especially for your mother

how to envelop and elupe bad decisions

rejected by the atribute of harmful domain

appropriation and self-reflection a trap on the lake

where crystal devours humans. 

improvise, adapt, for the sake of circunstance

we dance under the moonlight, sheltered from bad decisions

adulthood starts when you come to realize

there is only lending never a prize

replacing the protection of guardians for the betrayal of allowing the outside

to step inside and murk the place abouts.

heresy is neither thought nor false prayer

there ain't a cloud of difference in my position

a held scream a stain in the throat, quirky and in the way

of peace of mind when I sit down.

 I once had a date witnessing a live autopsy, my idea

 we clicked, laughted and walked away that day

a mistake meant to fade away, a grave to entertain on an otherwise dull convencional sequence

of words to pass the time, chopping at the letters carelessly because