I’m looking at the clouds the way I once looked at my skin,
They look so ******* pathetic,
So dense; with hues of eosin.
Tainting the pale blue sky, the motion is nostalgic.
A pool of sweat extends my fingertip,
Yet I still feel so ******* cold.
Take a heroic leap, right off the edge of an airship.
Then plummet into a crease, somewhere in the centrefold.
Erode my mouth with heaps of chalk,
It's supposed to help me grow.
Paradise was always just around the block,
So drag your feet out and ******* go.
When my apathy begins to tackle me,
Making me spit whatever will I ever had out on the street.
It desalinates the flesh in me; inside my artery,
Then disappears into the depthless wet concrete.
May 14
May 14, 2026 at 11:57 PM UTC
Paper derived from the plaque encrusted teeth of the Northern shrew, coated with a thin film of its viscous ichor.
Coarse yet malleable; flimsy to the touch.
A slender, thin line marks the margin,
Creating a sheltered enclosure away from the focal area.
Miles
upon
miles
away.
.
.
A drawing in the margin,
One wouldn't dare bypass it's threshold.
A muzzy silhouette; vapid yet agitated strokes of black fine-liner seize the whole,
As if to seep into the creases of the sheet.
The linework is jagged, full of oddly placed curves and unsettling movement.
Mollified,
yet the disparity is almost ardent.
Soft, with a hue alike that of oxidized rust.
.
.
.
An entity so obscure one can't help but be drawn to it.
To ****** youself against the margin,
To feel the keratin burn right off of your skin,
The friction between yourself and the margin is penetrating.
A tingly sensation,
If static was a sentiment.
.
.
THWACK
A desolate vastness pervades the pupils in your eyes,
It is as if what used to reside has been covered in white-out.
Yet always traces remain
You see the blurred image of a shrew from the corner of your eye,
Incisions mark its features, cracked and fissured,
As if derived from terracotta clay.
An accusatory tone,
Yet nothing spoken is legible.
.
.
.
Dismayed, you begin to sink into the sheer liquid plane that envelops you,
Fragments of crimson coloured hues still mark your footsteps.
What once lied sentient no longer lies even a corpse,
Only traces,
Now only traces remain.
Mar 19
Mar 19, 2026 at 11:09 PM UTC
To love or not to love,
Pray tell, what difference shall there be?
It’s stupid, a sham, and such thereof,
Doesn’t sound that great to me.
Love songs, a serenade,
They make my fickle ears bleed.
A smitten soldier meets a masquerade,
Suddenly, a wedding he’s decreed?
Marriage is a constraint,
With a snowball’s chance in hell.
A name turned to mud; it’s been taint,
The willow tree is where I shall dwell.
‘Love is in the air!’ They exclaim,
I really don’t get the hype.
She’s soft, obedient; a delicate dame,
Although, she’s really not my type.
To love or not to love,
Pray tell, may I be converted?
Hah! Not right now and not from hereof,
A bachelor I will remain, certed.
Feb 16
Feb 16, 2026 at 5:57 PM UTC
To mindlessly wander the barren aisles,
To perceive the reverberated murmurs from days of yore.
The cache extends for miles on miles,
Pallid shelves laden with a scent I abhor.
Anomalies eclipse into the thin static film,
That envelops this reserve of aberrance.
The chance of lucidity proves to be rather dim,
Though the animated static sets a tone of inherence.
Clocks that have no dauphines; a polaroid of white matter.
Ashy cremains pervade a jar made of cation,
Listen closely, indistinct chatter.
Reminisce, remnants of a confabulation.
Entities secrete within the trinkets they assuage.
Even my deformities need forms of consolation.
Up my throat I feel segments of a phage,
A myriad of a hysterical convulsion.
Jan 17
Jan 17, 2026 at 8:18 PM UTC
A ****** of crows,
Enervated, yet tireless.
Interminable.
Jan 15
Jan 15, 2026 at 9:19 PM UTC
Freckles are fissured,
Your interstice is shallow.
A vessel contrived.
Jan 15
Jan 15, 2026 at 9:02 PM UTC
Spray paint; a notion,
On anemic concrete walls.
The contrast is sharp.
Jan 15
Jan 15, 2026 at 8:54 PM UTC
I trace the furrowed creases that sheath your bare hands with my index,
They resemble fractures,
Differentiating the threshold between entropy and materialism.
The motion remains indefinite.
To stare into the depthless interstice of an artificial vessel,
One whose gaze never seems to falter.
To caress the surface layer of your cheek,
It feels granular yet airy.
A smile so synthetically fabricated,
Provides indeterminate amounts of dopamine.
Moisture sits atop of the shallow veneer that encompasses your interiors.
Inconspicuously still.
To touch is to weld,
Though our presences never seem to align.
A layer between existence and nonentity so thin,
It's almost indistinguishable.
Intertwined, yet obscured.
—
Jan 13
Jan 13, 2026 at 10:17 PM UTC
The carmine rooftops glisten underneath the gauzy sunlight, emphasizing the sheer slate tiles that fabricate it.
The fawn anemic brick walls are distortions,
They resemble a pendulum,
Swinging back and forth between states of matter,
Neither fully present nor fully gone.
Salt infused liquid sits still atop of the synthetic blades of turf that envelop this vicinity,
Permanence is ideal.
The air reeks of liminality.
Static engulfs the core of your vision.
A notion,
In this transfixed longitude.
Jan 8
Jan 8, 2026 at 11:14 PM UTC
Pitter
Patter
Pitter
Patter
The pattering sensations are eminent on your skin
You bring yourself together and watch as the rain accretes into a small pool in the cup of your hands.
It feels nice,
To have a little bit of the world to yourself.
Even if it’s just for a moment
The water slips through your fingers,
Leaving your palms bare.
In the dismal wreckage and moist debris,
Only traces of what used to be remain.
Swoosh
Patter
Swoosh
The remaining droplets of water find their way into your sleeve
And run hastily down your arm.
One
at
a
time.
The contrast between the piercing cold of the water and the metabolic heat of your body is searing.
But this is what the psyche craves.
The laceration will only ever be a component of your subsistence.
An unavoidable prospect.
When you’re down and battered.
Wrecked and tormented.
Left to rot.
As the cascading downpours cauterize your skin,
You finally discern the truth,
To how can one truly experience raw vitality.
Through tribulation,
In its raw essence.
Bang
Swoosh
BANG
Thunder strikes against the lampposts, vaporizing the metal, withdrawing gaseous residue and singed incineration in its midst.
The rain gushes violently against the anemic concrete road.
There you were, standing there in the middle of it all.
Soaking wet, cupping your hands,
As salt emerged from the lacrimal glands in your eyelids.
Trapped in a plane of existence different from those that surrounded you.
Melancholic.
That’s what you were.
What you’ll never cease to be.
Drip
Patter
Drip
At last, the precipitation begins to subside.
Leaving an atmosphere of moisture and humidity in its wake.
The smell of resonant petrichor engulfs the surrounding vicinity.
The scent emerges pleasant.
A mix of
chlorine,
dopamine,
and relief.
Candles burn for an indefinite amount of time.
You think as the scent starts to reek of
Oxidation
and smoke.
Relief engulfs you in the form of sublimation.
As you evolve into a gaseous state,
Drift across the zephyr,
And
into
the
stratosphere.
To prepare for the next rainy day
To prepare for the next,
Pitter
Patter
Pitter
Patter
Jan 8
Jan 8, 2026 at 11:10 PM UTC