Even after all this time,
I still pray to you like some sort of God.
Half expecting to hear your answer in my head
Until I remember
I don’t believe in anything.
If I close my eyes tight enough,
I can still see the light.
Some sort of colour shining through
Against the backdrop of black.
Until I remember
It’s only leaking in from the outside.
Photons refracted against a hard surface.
Reflecting back beneath my eye-lids
Lighting me up like something holy.
Dec 3, 2021
Dec 3, 2021 at 12:13 PM UTC
Even after all of this time,
you still ******* haunt me.
Your specter lingers in the earth beneath my feet.
Sticking to my shoes as I try to walk away.
You are a poltergeist acting through me.
Making me think that you are everyone,
Everyone is you.
And love is just a mask you wear.
All the times I told myself,
that trust meant falling victim.
It was you
With your tendrils wrapped around my skull,
Whispering in my ear.
Dec 3, 2021
Dec 3, 2021 at 12:05 PM UTC
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.
Dec 5, 2012
Dec 5, 2012 at 1:10 AM UTC
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.
Nov 16, 2012
Nov 16, 2012 at 10:21 PM UTC
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.
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 7:12 PM UTC
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.
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 7:11 PM UTC
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.
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 7:10 PM UTC
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.
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 7:08 PM UTC
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 ****** 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.
Jun 15, 2012
Jun 15, 2012 at 1:42 AM UTC
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.
May 20, 2012
May 20, 2012 at 1:15 PM UTC