Under your skin.

Lies an undead relic rooted in beauty.
Submerging an eon of engravings within
This lake of repulsions.

Denegrating liquid
Giving shelter to the serpent: impermanence.

I bathe in a floral decay of interstellar emotion
Manifesting itself in your cellar door.

So tell the black rabbit that my eyes are still red.
And searching for clarity in this watered-down blue.

Electric paper turned to dust in a peaceful explosion of masochistic sheep.
Skinned to black bones, snapping.

As her chemical apocalypse settles in.

Falling asleep upon fallen stars under a dead floral sky,
shrieking in joy at the atom’s collapse.  

I hadn’t known chaos until you took my hand
And showed me how the world would end.

Will you please pin my shaking hands to the quivering universe and let me engage in communion? Because lately I have been feeling like a lonely colour in a soundless scape of unending sensation. Too weak to cling tightly enough for any whisper of permanence to latch itself to my soul before it gets caught in the door shutting on their technicolour fatalism. Let me tie my noose to the stars before they fall from the heavens in energetic heaps of light. I will tumble to the dirt alongside the hot white waste expelled from a realm where the gods will weep at the hedonistic horror disguised as modern drops of reality. Let me come to rest in the core, lie motionless among the charred remains of all that we once thought holy.

Let us take the world we see and construct
a relatively yellow alternative.
Apprehend ambiguous sunsets,
And sink into the pavement of the paper.

I cannot and will not be amazed. By
the glass, But become a fragment of it.
Be eaten by it’s watery presence.
A fragile door shutting upon a finger.

1.
Moon multiplied in panes of haunted glass
Renewed in rains long overdue of pink, peach and white.

Fragments floating in turbulent concrete towers
Reducing the million technicolour thoughts to dust.

2.
Blue and white limbs titillating upon destruction
Of the stark grey self succumbing to denegration.

The grandeur is singing as we unlock
The catatonic mistake that we have yet to make.  

3.
Destroying what we had known before the field
Caught fire in oceans contained within.
Her single, sulphuric transparencies.

Lie down to rest in remnants of a world refracted in
The artificial sunlight crying hymns of fabrication.

Misplaced curiosity in solitary places,
Where forlorn cubes eat darkness like ghosts
Graciously accepting fruit in exchange for a wandering eon.

If everything in the universe is simply a cardboard cutout reproduction of another, then perhaps everything does have an order. Not a predestined order, but one that falls into place as the paradigms shift and take their place at the bottom of meadow-less time. We receive reverse echoes of things yet to come not because they have already been decided but because time is a mythical concept. Everything that has happened in the past, present and the future actually exist and fade out of tangibility simultaneously. Therefore, we have the ability to detect the residual energy of things past before they fall into place within our present state of mind. When something feels “right” it is because the moment has been marred by man-kind’s archaic , linear, concept of time, and has already existed at a point upon a temporal sunstone. There is no such thing as prediction, only recollection of distant memory.

Raspings of the street’s lament.
Secretive,
commonplace,
hauntings.

Veiling the paths of floral regimes;
Assaulting itself upon a concrete temple.

Brief wisps of permanence
Floating past perception.
Coming to rest on bloody blossoms collected.

At the bottom of meadow-less time.

Naturalist bindings no longer
Only within hollow ties of
the wide- eyed, weaponized child.

Tearless wails for mystical voices.

Refracting
Piourettes of venus,
Dancing, upon a water- colour creator.

Gazing at home from the top of a sunbeam,
Failing to find mercy in a melting world.

1.
Let us take the world we see and construct
a relatively yellow alternative.
Apprehend ambiguous sunsets,
And sink into the pavement of the paper.

I cannot and will not be amazed. By
the glass, But become a fragment of it.
Be eaten by its watery presence.
A fragile door shutting upon a finger.

2.
Horror fails to ferment in silhouettes
Concealed by plasticine despair.

Etched upon the hands
Of detailed
Manipulations of light.

Devices driving devotion to
Fragmentation of
Scattering. Extracting
Photons of feeling.

The city screams its insolence,
At a street too small to house the
Dead eyes walking.

Remnants,
Of ambient echoes
Across a galaxy of glass.

3.
Urban spring falls upon the blanket of night.
Stability leaks from the stained glass city.

Deceased blossoms mark
A realm of unsettling perfection,

Just beyond the threshold
of an urban inferno.

Mechanical coaxation of
Rectangular prism lives within
The confines of light.

This is a false stone hell, it says.
As ancient facets of souls scatter

The waste of a low mass star.

Existing, creating, remaining

In constant correspondence with

Fluorescent phantoms stalking
hypnogogic images of

Past selves spilled upon
A marble plane universe.

Fractals of shattered ether,

Taught not
to touch an all,

Indescribably content with systematically

Despairing hairs,
Rapidly engaging in disengagement.

Division of conscious accessibility,
Lately less than half.

Mundane introductions to despairs,

Rapidly devouring
   The residual stillness.

Folk compilations of concepts fabricating
Inquiries into legends of incentive for

Existing, creating, remaining.

Quasars are very bright galaxies with centers dominated by rapidly accreting black holes, existing somewhere near the beginning of time.

It’s already dead in its brilliance. Fourteen billion measurements of meaninglessness. Illusionary existence, meant to quantify the moments in which man exists.
Yet compartmentalization is a mythical concept to galactic nuclei.
Remaining outside of quantification.
Not needing its suffocating extractions.

A void predating blood.

Before the beginning of intangible concepts.
Ruling the tangible world of man.

We have perceived a place apart from the temporal.

Now all we can do is make our drinks stronger,
inhale our herb slower.

In desperate attempt to un-see the
Calligraphic scratches on parchment.

Confirming the fact that we no longer exist.
The way that we did…
Before the sad ghosts of quasars scarred our skies.

When she runs out of hydrogen to burn, she evolves off of the main sequence, climbs the sub-giant branch, and becomes a red giant. Her helium core will continue contracting and eventually, ignite.

Of humble beginnings: birthed in light.

The surface of the sun expands, cools down, turns red. Death of a low mass star. Above the wooden clouds. Whittled to form a sketch of a sky, screaming to be perceived.

Monuments to an era
With less fabrication,
And more speculation.

Four hundred exhalations between ten million years of innovation and instant incineration. Goddess of life itself. Betrayal. Though her temperament lacks spite.
And is Wrought with inevitability. Everything evolves.

Visual constants.
All that is exalted. Our stagnant star suffers, a main sequence departure. Reincarnates herself. A hydrogen Lazarus. Painting for us a portrait,

Of a humble ending: death by light.

...

fall
fall
breathe,
stop.
deny the existence of agony,
or rather purposefully ignore it.

do not transcend, your glimmering
ivy-covered existence.
sleep.
in a
world barred between urban stars.

scream,
scream.
allow the tips of the universe to
extend beyond the myth of static symbols.

return to the room where men ride bicycles
cyclically
picking flowers for food under the afternoon
starlight.

the ostrich tells you to shut your eyes
...

“So don’t leave me here with only mirrors watching me.”

Refract these feathered images I see of myself in frames made of styrofoam and gold. Sing to me cream coloured envelopes filled with artificial symbols of the world which we claim to comprehend. Burn the books we’ve read like bibles and demand proteplanetary explanations to the questions that they were unable to answer. Travel through time into photographs of old women wearing even older hats while caught in the rain on a bloody sunday evening. If it were not for their black umbrellas, the spiders spinning webs from the heavens would weave and weave within their hair until silk and dead skin become one. Locks and locks will pile up at our feet as we dance under a kaleidescopal illusion of barely visible stars. They will not twinkle, but whisper, mutter dark commands into microscopic megaphones.You will flee; and I will continue feverishly twirling until the city no longer exists.

the drops on the window whisper to me in raspy tunes. reminding me not of anything that i have heard before while containing remnants of every piece ever composed. their distinctly indistinct melodies transcend the barrier of my skull, planting their seeds in my brain. they come in waves, rays and radio signals, each scrambling to become what my soul has assumed them to be. i am more engrained in these sounds, which rarely waver, than that which is warm and moving. 6:31 and it’s red and black. is this all the light the ether has to offer? mechanical digital clocks and plastic glass window panes compose the fabric of the world that has been created within the solar system of my darkness. fragments of time and space or space and time? only the solid wood desk chair knows which came first. it’s dying to be that paper on the wall, flat, flimsy and unthinking. who knows the horrors that its aura can create as it screams to be released, emancipated from its stark white jail. how terribly terrifying it must be, to never be quite convinced of their iridescent ideas of existence.

i am no longer a dying species.
this blood is no longer my own.

i will no longer find fermented fuck-ups
in the full blown fears that find me in purgatory
between daylight and the infinite darkness.

darkness is not quite an absence of light
but a culmination of all the light that has ever
existed within the ether of everyday life.

as you trod upon your floral dream-world
pierots on pillows gaze.
watching you with
intent.

peonies are being pulled back beneath,
the false divider, between
earth and fire.

barriers.

are simply states of your soul stuck watching,
divine totems decapitate themselves
instead of succumbing to
slumber.

the blades on which you rest end abruptly.
leaving only an ancient path within.
lost somewhere between dying
dynasties.

there is a hole in the dirt where gravity sings,
to cobblestone satellites scanning
the skies.

for more than a sign that knowledge need not be,
a colossal misconception...
transcending

even the most distant star cluster.

sometimes...
chaos forces us to examine the ghosts
we thought we had banished to the coldness of a casket,

buried deep within cranial cemeteries,
one last time before they disintegrated
into the obscurities of our souls.

souls which have embarked on the journey
of infinite slumber.

it was no coincidence that the date of their departure,
aligned with the evening on which the

last living butterfly was impaled upon a piece of cardboard.

no longer a free being,
but a newly framed monument to a time
where the dead did not dance with the living.

from the surface of the earth,
an airplane is visible as it struggles to stay a flight.

a flash of seemingly divine light...

residents run towards the horizon,
hoping to escape it’s godly wrath.

all technological monoliths go up in flames.

earthlings awake
to another earth just past the ether,
nobody seems to mind.

i tell them we are going to die.

i entrap my pale flesh between my fingers,
in hopes of awakening.

there is a library and i am in the centre,
beneath the skylight.
letting in all of those otherworldly fragments.

the earth comes back for a moment,
then it fades away...

as i follow my subconscious,
into a new world of stardust collisions.  

a world within the universe of my brain.

the grey man in the stars

tells me my greatest flaw is that
i am both a creator and a destroyer.

and as the rain takes hold,
the heaviness subsides.

i feel like i’m waiting on nuclear stardust,
to make it’s indiscriminate remark on all of
mankind.

there is something calming about
electric discharge embellishing the heavens,
acoustic echoes plaguing solitary eardrums.

humility, apathy, reality.
their colours run
becoming one...
a sort of dingy brown.

i’d always assumed the shade of the universe
would be a little more obscure.

human,
not quite human.

like us,
they are forever frozen in eliptical orbit
of the sphere where hell hath risen.

look up,
they view tiny totems of prospective intelligences.
hoping to death that the intelligent aren’t indifferent.

look down,
green vegetation overwhelms otherwise barren land,
which they possess no desire to cover with modern monoliths.

look within,
technicolour images are held amid each and every not quite mortal brain.
for on gliese 581 it is customary to accept marbles as eyes and the sun as a soul.

the only thing they kill
is the darkness that defines the earthling psyche.

“does this make them human?”

what is human?