No one heard the voices and shrieks that night
And no one knew and no one cared to know.
Yet it happened still the atrocity.

Her echoes are in the air still,
No one can feel what she felt.
You wouldn't want to.

You wanted the world and I complied.
Crafting a globe out of paper and wilted Daffodils;
you were under the distorted vision of Love
and could not see the fault lines and inconsistencies
that make it both real and unreal.

I apologize for when it crumbles --
as I know it will.
I know your smile will fade --
there's nothing I can do.
Nothing.
Nothing in the pseudo-world that will permit
you to remain happy.
Because I am no Atlas and I am trembling
under the increasing weight of a fabricated world.
I know not what to do and you cannot see.

I am sorry:
The world is falling apart
and I will be a casualty in the wreckage.

"Every inordinate cup is
unblessed and the ingredient is a devil."


The sun has set and the switch between
lives is applicable.
We are all dead tonight. Frozen
in a hidden world far away from
innocence and frowning faces.
Far past the sun and far past
plastic cups and lost inhibitions,
lost in a torrent of ecstasy:
we transform into beasts.

Beyond this and so much more
Beyond undeserving smiles and lustful pursuits
Beyond "no regrets" and spilt drinks
And hollow laughter and moonlit faces
And spins and joy and misery and
And
and this, and so much more.
I will never grow old... I will never grow old.
*And let me the canakin clink
clink

'Pandora left all but hope,
I watched the world unfold from out in a cage,
it was quite beautiful until I lived a life there.

The world I see is not the world I live.
Dare I to choose a life sanctity?
To repudiate the winelife and sit in silence, pure?
I will find pain in both worlds.
Might as well have fun in our misery.'

There are some nights on this earth
when it is easier to ignore the signs
forget the laws and forget the composure.
Some nights ask you to smile
and it would be rude to decline.

It's very easy to forget
how heavy the days are,
sometimes.

We have these nights to remind us that
we try to smile and nothing comes out.
Nights in which it's easier to sit alone
and wait for the world to end
than to try and hold a hand.

Sometimes I wonder
if not all nights
are some-nights.

There are some nights
where joy must be squeezed out
or cracked like an egg --
elsewise it will sit, stagnant:
taunting.

Let the memories flood your mind
and stand in horror at what you find.
On some nights every recollection is
a needle jammed into your cerebral cortex.
Do not fear these nights for they are always.

The world turns and night turns to day
and turns to night and turns to etc.

An old man dies in his sleep,
a flower withdraws into its stalk
the fires subside and guide us
through this oblivion.
She wants him.
He wants to die.
They pass out, one by one.
Words fall to the floor
and sometimes -- if you're lucky--
the humming of insects and streetlights
enfolds every ripple in your brain
and you feel our concrete earth
remind you in a low tone:
'Everything is fine, status quo.
You will live another day.'

There are some nights on this earth
that are almost worth living.

Sing we for love and idleness,
Naught else is worth the having. -Ezra Pound*

Today, there are no words on my lips.
Love has no surprises and life no pain.
The faces before me refuse
to invoke grief or any whisper of hope.

The dying oak tree in the front yard creaks
and whimpers and begs for peace.
It has witnessed the years and taken
them in indifferent solitude.
I do not think it wants to live
this solitary life any longer.

Under its rotting armor a fragile sign of life.
And just beneath that thin layer of green vitality
lies years and years of death.
I should hope that it heals or falls to the ground.
I do not think it wants to live
this ailed life any longer.
I know it will. I have not the benevolence
to chop it down.

I stare at the flora of branches,
the sun tries to emerge from the clouds:
it cannot. It sheds a tear of futility.
No one hears it, though.

I think of the days of childhood past,
where the laughter was abundant
and the smiles genuine
and the tears flowed without any hesitation.
That was a long time ago.
An innocent version of myself climbed
the branches and appreciated the
tree's fortitude.

I wonder,
can this dying oak support my weight?
Have I grown too much or has it died too much
to climb it?
Have I died too much to climb it?

I disregard these thoughts and continue:
Deadweight swings on a lowly branch.
I fear it will snap but I continue to hang.

It does.

I fall to the ground and appreciate the skinned knee.
The only pain available
on such a lifeless day.

I had a dream, which must have been all a dream.
Because we two never parted
and we two never cried,
we were neither living nor dead,
but we were happy.

There was a world made of needles
but our skin was too hard to get stung.
As we walked arm in arm through
the faceless crowd, we smiled.
It felt nice.

The Sirens sounded
The world fell apart and landed on our souls.
Even then, no pain was found.
And that was nice, too.

We walked in a stiff waltz
the music was a death rattle.
I found a wilted flower
and hung it on your arm.
You found the knife in my side
that I keep hidden from others.
The blood was so beautiful,
a glorious fountain.
So I wore it on my lapel.
We looked nice.

For a blurry split-second
the world was real,
and oblivion made sense.
Which was nice.

These thoughts grind my teeth through sleep.
These dreams make waking up a gift and a chore.
Morning injects me into reality
Like a vaccine: a deadened virus that will keep you safe.
I cannot stomach this infertility,
Not yet.

I am not what I am
The eyes of those who pretend to see:
As benevolent as a mouth full of razors.
The mouths that I always want to kiss.
The lips that I always seem to pursue.
The cuts that I always pretend to cherish.
The ancient lust shakes my blood.

And I am forced to embrace nostalgia
as She and She and He and Then penetrate my mind: a time long past.
What is memory but a slideshow of regrets?
Every word becomes a mistake.
All triumphs a fleeting matter worthy of none.
Eviscerate my joy and live in its corpse.

It is April and we are frozen:
Stuck in a world we never knew
In a love we thought we felt
A life we never lived.

Entering this house is the last twist of the knife.
You're breaking my soul upon your eyes:
No birds sing.
Life isn't very long.
Even roses wilt.
It's rude to stare.

High on sidewalks and streetlights,
The sun has set: will it rise again?
What is to become of this,
My darkness?

There is no clock tower here, and
My full moon is setting too fast.
Day will come, day will come.
Feeling too much or nothing at all.
My heart races and I've no clue why.

And I will come home, to a sepulcher
Void of all light and screeching like the Storm.
I lift the knife to my side,
I look at you, and I sigh....
These thoughts grind my teeth through sleep.