In a labyrinth of words
Where ideals meet the sinews of flesh and bone
We learn there are as many broken hearts
As swords and broken bodies.
Love hopes never to ache so badly,
Quietly praying to conquer everything
In the end, knowing what must never happen
Has happened and will again.
Human beings always believing,
Being beasts in angels' dreams,
In anything but the inevitable disaster
Of being born for suffering.
There's a bitter black tea
At my favorite cafe,
Wormwood black, like a poisonous
That I like to guzzle on a
Wet, windy day;
So perfectly perverse, so warm and
Tingley to my pallette.
When October turns cold and my
Temper turns brittle,
Solace seems as off as the
Sweetness of Spring.
Shedding the skin of a
The crow and the raven within me
Like showers of kisses, with hints of
Smoke and ripe cherries,
And passions pulling thick as wads
Of black licorice,
I'll fall, diving down with you
And die in the moment to make
This is Death, my infinite pastime,
My plaything, my dalience.
It fucks me breathlessly into the great unknown,
And spits me out, and leaves me there.
God help us, goddamnit!
It wasn’t enough to make us feel alive?
To make us suffer so we want to feel alive?
We inherit a lust for beauty and are demanded to close our eyes?
What depth there is in darkness could never be enough.
Is it ever sweet enough to sleep? Well,…
It is, sometimes,…
When I go to bed exhausted, my sleep screams with delight.
And the more I romaticise, the more attractive it seems.
So at the end of the day, I only hope that I’m weary,
Not from toil, or troubles, but from the ecstasy of a brilliant party.
I fall asleep to voiceless thoughts
And wake up to morbid day-dreams.
Out drips excretions from serrated prose,
The monologs of lifeless playthings.
Like playing dress up in foggy streets
Where every few feet has potential to be anything
And I can be whatever I believe
Until the sun erases my possabilities.
It eats me away with every dull moment,
Goading me back into my imagination.
Creative spirals of disparate mumblings,
The umbilical straps of my safe haven.
Eventually I’ll wake up to freer days
And slumber securely in a psychic Hell
When all my debts have been repaid
And I don’t slip away so well.
Happy New Year, Everyone.
There’s no denying it’s been hard. There are many faces I’ve missed and harsh realities to swallow. Still, it means a lot to share these scraps of prose with everyone who comes along. I hope you’re comfortable and secure tonight, and that we’ll have even more to share in 2021!
Allow me to indulge my radient ideation,
A spectacle of bittersweet sunbeams breaking through gray skies,
Eeking their way into my ugliest days
Like transcended smiles projected from the purest celestial lights.
They reach me bedecked in wilting blue flowers,
Exposed to the heavens in a gown of silk white,
Seduced into a dream that lasts for an eternity
Between the fragility of a body and the soft sting of twilight.
It’s wearying to be deranged for the sake of beautiful things,
And as they dull, to come to know, that madness still remains.
A song I knew grew up to be a different kind of tune,
It plays the notes that made me up and broke away from me.
Intoning prose for my own health prolongs the point of breaking,
And sharing them from mind to mind is life that’s worth the saving,
To make a scene of who I’ve been to stimulate your feelings
Is all I need to brighten up this dream I can’t stop dreaming.
Burn me with the autumn leaves, with cardamom and honey,
Leave a house to my mother on the shores of a lake that’s crystal clear and foggy.
Find me there in ashes, free from poverty and wealth,
Dead to all the world, but not dead to herself.
I imagine that every generation experiences death in their own way.
In our old age, when that stop is more than ever certain,
I imagine every generation leaving behind a legacy
And giving scope to life in how they feel their last days.
As Grandpa was dying, I imagined the kind of mind
A man born in the fifties would carry while he survived,
And the sum of all experiences before he met the end,
How they measured up to what he saw and all the things he’d been.
A man who worked machines, watched tv, and prayed
Died hooked to a machine, with the television on, praying.
The same shows he always saw were the last ones he watched,
And the cigarette in his fingers was the last thing he touched.
Will I die surrounded by the things I see today?
Will I understand the world as I do now, the same way?
When my generation finally slips into the grave,
I wonder what the others will think of how we passed away..
You had a lot to say,
A lot locked behind all the walls of your losses,
Heavy half-truths, unexhumed feelings, and prejudices.
A doomsday prophet, razor-focused on the end.
So absorbed with abstract death, present miseries eluded you,
That was, until they burdened you, and wore you down.
The last eight years of your life were some of the strangest of mine.
We needed each other, but I couldn’t always depend on you.
You were the last person I would trust with anything personal,
And in my lowest moments, I hate to say, your words only hurt.
I couldn’t be your grandson, though I pretended to the end,
Hiding everything about myself as I tended to your needs.
And when you were afraid to die, I stayed beside you,
Comforting you with the same love you had for me,
The unconditional, but seperated from real empathy.
The truth is that we could never accept each other
For who I am and what you believed.
For all the years we spent together, just ourselves,
Every day was a little painful, with all the tension I concealed.
It was all for you, and now you’re finally burned and buried.
It hit me hard, knowing our interactions are done.
Your voice is embedded in my mind, your words and persona.
I miss you, and it’s bitter, even though I’m glad you’re gone.
Goodbye Grandfather, I’ll remember all you taught me.
I’ll remember because I’m unable to forget.
You taught so much and still learned so little.
The end of the world is surely coming, even though you missed it.
This place is more quiet than I can remember.
I knew it would come to this, but the experience is still new.
I feel like taking some of your old clothes,
The ones you asked me to take but that I never wanted.
I’m trying to remember the good times we had,
But it’s hard to think of anything we enjoyed together.
Mostly, I just feel the absence of you from my life.
You weren’t always great, but without you there’s still that feeling,
That missing piece your presence embedded in me
Freed up and empty, an unfamiliar abscess that aches.
The funeral is in two days.
I’m anxious to finally say goodbye.
Hello everyone. My poem “The Girl On The Floor” was recently published in the first issue of Necro Magazine. The theme of this issue is “Death.” There’s a lot of unique and interesting work in here from all kinds of artists. Check it out below.
A ghost behind the moon
Dulcetly laments the passage of time,
Every stroke of luck or doom,
Fate and death imbued in lullaby.
Sometimes it’s all I want to listen to
A song sadder and more beautiful than you
As beautiful as you are in dysfunctional splendor
Something even worse feels so much better.
Versus of cruelty and tragedy
Burning softly beneath unsettled feelings.
Distant narratives of epic abstraction
Quieting the immediate vacuity of complacency.