The house of commerce commercializes my vignette of nostalgia through various panes. As I am lost to the neon coast of degradation, a forward conquistador berates me for my due impertinence. This migraine doesn’t match my previous excursions, as it is lethargic and fat in deep feeling. My raincoat is a bed that remains a typewriter, that which I reject. I hate it with precision. “This is not an observation, and you are a boisterous fool that rests on the laurels of institution!” But lo’, I am not that impish man! My pen is renewable, unlike my reserves of happiness. If the Quotidian Cycle remains so mundane, then who am I to adhere to the seers of ingenuity? Planets ingest the polygons that compose my mind to the sound of Igor Stravinsky. The definitions of words coalesce into a redundant gestalt, threatening to escape my clammy grasp. Brats and weasels complain of their jeans and fur, soaked in brandy and tar. I live like a dissident; this vagrant is cold to the sickening nods of animals. God, don’t let me remain an anthropomorphic beast. The suffering is daily, the void is lonesome and lays my spine on stone. Melatonin is a pensive friend, a foolhardy palliative to the disease within a footstep. I’ve no footsteps. Not any of note or worth.
Not a single thread to pride myself in. Conversations and dime trades happen around me at generous speeds while I remain a stranger. Christ, I despise my face. I’ve dug my heels into depravity, the exile from woman’s hold is a wrench in my innards. O, to even think is a crime! Who could love the mind deloused, the small and prudent mouse (but little did they know, he facilitates a disease between him and the universe). Intoxicated, my love knows no bounds, but my lust is rendered sterile and sullen. Who can hold me? Who can hold me? Who can hold me? God god god god could hold me. He is not strong, is he? Somebody hold me, now.
Oh, I know yes I need to indulge in the incessant whispers, for my status of a guileless ***** will have to suffice. A cigarette leaps out at my cursed visage, a container of maroon liquid coagulates in mine eyes. There, voices. Cyclic conversations, cyclic conversations, hep! Help! Take me! Take. Take. Take. Me! I belong in the boon, mister fowler. Take me! I don’t hold weight in this world! So take. Sedate me. Please, almighty, nullify me.

There, the caldera bevelled
In the spitting image of her bell
Looking shy above the shore
Was the essence of her smell
Liquids sharp, naked harp
A catamite in my succor
Graceless heave, tender sleeve
Pearly trailing tail

Entwine, surrender, entwine, surrender
Scintillating boy or throbbing girl

In new moments, waves collapsed
Ink lashed on our toothless gaps
A monkey washed, motions high
Pink shores creased, began to cry
Swelling up like a storm
Smells of Eden, the baby is warm
In the cool flame which sits down still
As it marvels at the hole that it filled
Overlapping with her blue commotion
Like two hills on a vicious plane
Eunoia sighs in consummated sky
They curled deep inside
The cavity of their hands

As vesper came, they awoke with no name
But there was something on their tongues

Will we meet again, like strangers?

As all things, dear: in time.

False- on flying feet
Shawls of holy bleats
Call down his mighty fleet
Callous men of twelve defeats

Truly of the uncaring dawn
Lies the stiff, porcelain doll
Green and red, the pawns of the lawn
Our World-Collective Greenwich Atoll

This nomad collective
A messiah of glass
Aren’t they so selective?
Aren’t the brass so crass?

The caveat of the cavalier:
Gold is so brittle
The loudest ears of golden leers
And how they change so little

The nomad rejective
A Pariah of sand
Aren’t they so reflective
Of once-golden land?

False on flying feet
Tall: the new-world sleet
Call down the mighty fleet
Callous men of greater feats

Everything runs out in time
It's a debate on how we get there
So long as it's done without a care
Then life was worth its crimes
And your hand will pass in mine

This pen I swing as a claymore
To ward off sinking erosion
To etch out my brain's implosion
And voyage through the door
Where I will lay forever more

Prithee, I pray, no more attention
Hold your lust for the preacher
Become a wistful creature
Drawn on the strings of earthly tension
Where pain is of no mention

See the eyes, through jagged trees
Humbly calling out to thee
And the damp eagle plea
Downy arms falling free

As breath makes no qualms
With the levity of psalm
And the soot between palms
Lies still in fearful calm

Orion’s sprightly pace
Shrouds the cratered face
As pearls fall without trace
Miss the ocean’s embrace

Neon ghosts surround
The orphaned mobile sounds
As empty fertile ground
Now bitter and profound

Within malignance, the smell of stale night
As blue and then amber engulfs the sight

She smells of the ink that broke grounds anew
His skin, like the paper, passed from me to you
They spoke of that era, intimately gone
The children waited for their dance in the sun

Their biggest statues were products of their times
Five years of longing, and two of moonlight
They speak of a tongue under deep scrutiny
They wither to write and that simply can’t be

These Paperbound Heroes surrendered their souls
So that which they speak can never be controlled
Each one lingers about in a leaping house
Their structure of thymes, their words of coals

Do not forsake them for long

A dreamer bedridden to some old device
His mind of electricity kept out the lice
They’ll take your deep pockets and show you your heart
What “folly’, what “fool” will bring about a start?

The capes and the crosses, and their simple times
Where one could live free without begging a dime
They can’t save us from the books where they’re bound
But it is enough that these stories resound

These Paperbound Heroes sacrificed their souls
To fill what’s within, the new century’s hole
Each leaps about like a larking mouse
Their stature of crime, their works of tolls

They won’t follow for long

Where are the beat-down, the colleagues with crowns?
The always around, knowing what’s going down
The knowledge-filled lungs in the smoke-filled rooms
An idle guitar, the ideas to groom

The poets and dead-beats that you spit upon
Welded our worlds, those vast vagabonds
Vain as they are, rough as they come
The smallest of pawns are still parts of the sum

These Paperbound Heroes, they silvered their souls
In pure desperation to decry the poll
They lark about in the loneliest house
Their stolen rhymes, their worn-out goals

They are forever strong

The boy in the bed, well he wrote for a while
He was transfixed by the drawn, timeless smiles
So who’ll be the one that will get in his way?
And trivialize every word he will say

The girl with the gun chose to lay her arms down
She chose to cease with such visceral sound
I believe they’re happily married today
It is bittersweet to throw oneself away

These Paperbound Heroes are weary and sold
Their grasps so that they may simply grow old
But if you fret that they belong in their house
In due time, the kids will grow into their soles

Move forward with your song

I float out of mind, or the visages of time
Born from the gusts of a star’s mighty stillness
I fly to a sphere of lovers and mimes
Still, no one can bear to notice my dress

Dear- she is silent, yet stands so close
The eyes pierce my body, smiling fro
The human gaze is one of repose
Is there something the cosmos did not show?

I'm an actor! The Guile! Kaleidoscopic motion!
In the midst of monotony, the lumbering locomotives
I laugh on stained tiles, I'm a star of devotion!
Know me, fools! My essence is votive!

O vile and veiled stage, which I perform under!
Is my passion redundant, and my words so tasteless?
This is my dream, that fate struck asunder
I can't feed myself at my worst or my best

I think I will go back to star Sirius' caress.

Years- the passing of time
Insurmountable to my looping eye
Not so much as a dent in their grime
The vice of the purpose, unhinged by a sigh

What can one choose to bear
When ******* the clasp of cosmic hands
When all one sees are fleeting stares
And their last teacher is time’s command

Not a single ear hears
Not a single voice cheers
No hands, free to jeer
For I am not here

The joke is as old as the star that birthed me
As careless as a rampant sea

When I’m late for the party
Will my friends realize
That I don’t need anybody
To gaze at me in the eye

I’m alone in this chair
I’m entranced by my hand
I wear a stop motion stare
Watching Murmillos dance

I watch a billowed Boeing
Waiting for its head to yaw
I hear my matter flowing
But it’s yet to reach my maw

I’m alone in this world
My convulsions hold my tail
I’m still searching for a girl
Should I burn in the hail

Find me in the cinema
Find me in the cinema
Find me in the cinema
If you miss me
Find me in the cinema
Find me in the cinema
Find me in the cinema
If you miss me

When I’m lost in my folly
Will my friends peel off my eyes?
Will they find my reels of squally
Bite and tear at my own guise?

I’m alone in this seat
I am called without a smile
I will fold under the heat
Of the night’s airless mile

Find me in the cinema
Find me in the cinema
Find me in the cinema
Could you kiss me?
Find me in the cinema
Find me in the cinema
Find me in the cinema
Could you miss me?

Here, behold me
What say you?
Here, you fold me
Teared and true

Here comes Jacques
On the pavement
Screaming at the sediment
Of conditional skin
People calling out, “a hack!”

When’s the next race
And when’s the next attack?
Who’ll be under the tracks?
Soul’s got no control
No more, ‘till the look is late

They seem catatonic
Stuck in the soul of fate
It is a gene state
Someone ought to stalk the hawk
His language is sardonic

See through the bottleneck?
Reliance on sonics
To repress every chronic
Malfunction of compunction
Here’s the future, bloodlet

We may not see what we deserve
Someone birthed us to forget
The role of a conscious pet
What’s within the ship’s fins?
The well-fed wield a coat of fur

Scream into the water well
It might throw something up to sell

All the women in my life
They- I cannot deny-
Have shown me love unknown
To men who vainly roam

Their words of dew and sway
Bring rise to dawn and day
Their hymns and fabrics blown
From their sylvan loam

They bear me in their arms
Where sorrow breeds no harm
And turn my mouth to crow
Of harsh and fleeting home

In time and hastened feet
Approaching skin's defeat
I recollect and row
Through times of sky and foam

Perhaps its best we cannot sleep
That eyes burn
That fingers weep

In the morning, should we still blink
The breath returns
The feeling sinks

Under the noon, where dreams are cold
The chest will collapse
As memory folds

Before the sea, where light is frail
The arms will creak and wrap
Around the shallow pale

When favour leaves the lame and young
They will speak in toothless tone
They will pay to use their tongue

As statues lead the morning choir
The children all wear shoes of stone
For fear of seeing any higher

The willow bursts and spring combusts
Onto the row of newborn nimbus
A sight beyond our awe or disgust

The angels lift us off the ground
To the gilded cliff of old Olympus
Where heaven was murdered by one last sound

The stale sound repeated, and pounded with sour trembling rasp
The sun was defeated, retreating a coward with the angel's gasps
As they too were shot, ****** dry by leech with pinioned skin
Now lay in their rot, plucked and beached on shores of sin

O, the sound of horrid noon
And every lasting ache
Came from the hidden moon
Begging me to wake

To trade inebriation for derangement.
Therein lies the answer.
Let “sensucht” envelop you.
No time for pity.
Allow oneself time to grow, but never stagnate.
Thus, time must be spent in constant motion.
Let hesitation- the cowardly sort- be minimal.
Know that regret will get you no further than those before you,
No closer than they were to eunoia.
Flow free from one action to the next,
Fully knowing that you are wholly enraptured by emotion and duty.
Remember:
Your mind envisions the goal,
Your heart serves it.

The poet, decadent
I and he and it
In old shivers and inebriation
We take virtue and fold it
Into ink-beguiled truths
Formless vocation, rough vernacular
Soft from jagged distance
Come closer, now insincere
Hard and ragged, vile fingers
They hold not beauty
But seething desire
Uncouth ambition
Trained to sour excellence
Impeccable sin of tainted life
Bless the fiends
Build them a nest in hell
Allow them to earn this prize
A prize of ailing drink
Drowned in saccharine agony
Are their unnamed tongues
Speaking new extremities
On a road too severe
May they write their own coffins
In the image of a mirror

Sleeves worn by broken trees-
I repeat
As the world goes on in glee
Defeat
No less a somber fellow
Borrow now he borrows

And burrows into your cotton cave-
A man
With a fluid feeling he misunderstands
Dead land
Where pain is of no mention
Tension here there tension

Indentations and stipulations on the seed of a neutered soul-
We must
And you lose or have lost it as you taste the cavernous hole
Of trust
Ribald fellow your weather betrays you it hangs your skull
On a lacking cloud that paints your spindly skin so dull

Gather what you must in the pool of shallow loving and shame-
No spine
As eminence confounds you and status escapes your stolen name
You shine
With the charms of dead brothers and the cruelty of a mother
Should you seek the soil now know that none will be bothered

Epitaph of viscous fellow
Of whom I knew well without asking
And befriended while basking
In his whiskey nozzle chin
Milking his Acadian shin

Suffice it to say
How aroused was I!
To pet this neutered butterfly
His legs a stiff boulder
Caressed by petaled shoulders

Thick, incumbent man
Dream yourself a body
Where you are all but folly
And laugh at the notion
Of your ceaseless implosions

Farnham sat on the fringes of education, sweating his mind. He observed a charlatan wearing a paper hat in the corner of the centre and proclaimed,
“You will be beautiful in my dreams”
And thus felt at ease. It is a frustratingly slow day in March, as the mister’s heart began to loosen in the literal subjectivity. The sun shone with the dominion of a mad titan, yet at Farnham’s request, acquiesced to a simmer. “The class is finished. you will start again in sorrow, some time tomorrow” were the words that Farnham heard, which duly prompted him to click his heels towards the doorway with great ebullience. What is the day to him, but a measurement? A tightrope, so it seems. He lingered like an unwanted scent to his locker, having dropped all but one of his cents in his classmates’ pockets. The locker opened and greeted him with a lifeless moan. He stuffed it full of his insides and began to feel like a muted songbird.
“Where will I find my voice?”, Farnham wondered aloud, “Who will lend me the right to sing with immense volition?”
He can fly with unbridled confidence yet cannot convey its feeling in a universal medium.Such a poor state. Walking up to the most aloof passerby, “Point your finger! Point it, and I will follow in good faith and stringed navigation!” The unremarkable fellow adhered in mock comprehension, fearing for her wallet. To the northern wing she pointed, where lingering soulmates lied in the garden square of Bohemian export. Farnham, capriciously fearing impermanence, flew like a bird yoked to a noose. The tiles of ivory institution felt uneven below his head as he sunk into the cacophonous call of propriety, where his streams were superimposed onto innocent scholars. In an attempt to escape liability, he eyed a man twice his stature and importance and duly clambered upon his back, steering him by the ears.
“Fellow man, I am looking for something unattainable, but don’t peg me as a defeatist! It is akin to that of enlightenment, which I’m sure you have dreaded over for a time. I have extrapolated the knowledge we have attained so far, and have concluded that attunement is inevitable, and thus applicable to life. You will take me there, to that answer, and in return, I promise to feed you tangerines from the Proverbial Garden. I will love you for your duty and kiss your feet. Please, come with me.”
Moments passed. An answer was being formed, and Farnham waited patiently, wanting to catch it like a fisherman sailor. Then, reply.
“I should take you for a fool, were you not so soaked in this sort of significance. Let us journey, and journey well”. Farnham caressed the ears of his companion and pulled forwards.

Tired, so tired
Counting forlorn tires
Tired, so tired
Of what?
Life and loving
So take me
Forsake me
On the beak of my spine
There is no greater quarrel
Than this love of mine
I'm not happy
I'm not sad
Just glad to be walking
On plastic bags
Glad I'm still breathing
But struggling anyway

Erase this day, erase this day

Walking alongside the horizon
Of the striped tie trees
And living for a trump card
Wasting in patterns of living lard

New melodies that caress me
With colloquialism cascading over the sea
It’s what they’re born to do
Do not add it to your mindstew

Link the speech diligently
Live your dawning belligerently
And don’t run out of too many words
Don’t flutter your mind over spells like a bird

My sweet greatness, give me some bones
Nothing else is holding them still
Would it be trite to watch my tone?
I am as flippant as a burning windmill

Help me here, it’s easy to be a stranger
It’s easy to stay filled
It’s easy to ****

Help me stay deprived
It’s better than needing more to be alive

I do not wish to join the school of the wise and impotent in later years. I do not wish to join anything but nature; something to make amends with as twilight nears.

Rolling over encumbered waters and their peelings. I am deloused in the sanctum of brazen ladders that were manufactured in a tunnel in Somalia now that tunnel lies, sinking gradually by attoseconds. Africa is connected to Arabia via this passage “and how could I know?” I hear you ask. Well you don’t know, and you never will. But lo’, am I not making your mind nod? Stubborn as you may believe yourself to be, I remain an anvil and you are a blanket. So, there is no better reason to acquiesce. Beneficial, it will remain. So what say you, friend? Shall I continue? Well, here’s the second frame that has materialized within the half second: I’m writing vigorously, beholden to a contrived cosmic thing and erratically, I dream of a mauve *******- I reckon it’s an amphitheatre. The fiery rings of chairs are segregated according to the stature of the ***** that rest their heads on them. Briggyn Losyandr, a fisherman Thraex, assaults me with a Macedonian lance. Its blade is merely a tongue, and an oxidized one at that.
“Begone, man! I’ve got no role to play in your firetruck ambush.”
“Sir, this conflict isn’t for me, but I belong with you.”
The writer is supposed to be disconnected. That’s a constant, you hear? Dig? Up? Soil? Out. Out, now.

Pianos are crashing inside my head as the yellow light of the city and the sun force me into an excruciating halt. An affectionate young man- who is now old, yet remembers the skin he shed- sighs about ****** premonitions through the medium of digital frequencies. A car edges its way to my side- my father tells me “we’re almost there”- the car is positioned in such a contrived way that should I turn my attention exactly ninety degrees rightwards, I would be obliviously vying for the driver’s attention. The thought unnerves me, so I encourage my divagated musings elsewhere. Why did my father tell me that we were nearing our destination? Did he meekly say it, with the meagre velleity of keeping me aware of my surroundings? Where else could my head go, but up?
Pedestrians, their knees adorned with snow trinkets, fall within my periphery. As our car fit itself into a fleeting crevice on the cliff face of concrete, I adjusted my vision into a volitional telescope, narrow and explorative. Among the constellation of humans lay writers in poses denoting propriety, cigarettes suggesting esotericism, and face begging for denial. Facsimiles of these characters dance between the ivory-laced walkways of the interconnected district. I am disgusted by this labile beauty. I am fearful that I will witness its extinction.
I crossed the indifferent street, sure that my haste wasn’t apparent, and therefore, non-existent.
“Disappointingly, the record store sat waiting, knowing of my excitement”, said a fool, pricking my ear. I almost ran for an officer, indignant in my role as a victim to his verbal impotence. When I regained my composition, I paid full attention to the unassuming door between a burger shack and some unidentifiable after-thought-structure. This door, pedestrian to most, contains within it what a common walker would consider heaven. It is, to me, a strenuous Sunday stroll of impulse and and opulence. There is no point in resisting that which makes me happy yet unstable. I could not do without it. To deny is to doubt the music that I loved, and am currently beholden to by chains; the lobotomical sort.
I scoured the store and bough the prized possession. It was quite probably a Tim Buckley record. Here comes a man, quick and close, with a chartreuse disposition.
“I see you thinkin’ kid, it makes my brain throw up alllll funny things. If my erradition ever had anyin’ ta say, it’d shout that you’s too rowdy a rider.” Good sir, a sharp mind and apt humour is all I need to keep myself from harm. I wrote that down, walkings as if the stiff block was nothing but. Such a misdemeanour, to be so passive. I lingered forward and onwards.

In the event of me writing
And that fool’s subsequent passing
There will be word, tied tight like a rope
Exhumed slightly, the “oscilloscope”

It is a fleeting word that I grapple with
Clumsily, with pink convulsions as accompaniment
I know not what brought it, what it ever did
But it hardens in my brain like like nostalgic cement

The sentiment is where I strain it through
The dream that conquers my starving brain
The word that stirs a visceral brew
The dance of the neurons, and their thinker, estranged

It is under a glass ceiling, this electric swing
Where the Oscilloscope Orchestra comes to play
Their transparent tools and conceptual strings
(Through and) In the oscilloscope, for their incessant days
The masked marionette cuts the air into pie
Wave wielders gape through their saccharin sighs
The stringists and streamists play the Forever Sky
Wave-waked comics turn the egg of the eye

Its proper definition eludes my intuition
The time of its birth, closely distant to mind
It may be a device, or a conception of my vision
Or the gestaltic train of my cyclical grind

An oscilloscope sees the passage of time
Through electric currents of a lost frequency
I’m glad and amazed that
I rhymed with the finger of a poet
And could show it through the arms of a mime
Without the immaculate depravity to know it
These conclusions are married to time

I’ll aspire to thank my thought-crime
For my ignorance can unveil the sea

Give to me your old vagabond
Show me what side you’re on
Englishmen, weary and guileless
Or tannermen, charming and blessed

There’s no need for your splendour
When you believe in a saviour
Holding on to the sky
Wondering and answering, “why?"

What can I be now?
What must I be?
I have lost you, dearest
Though you’ve been gone for a while
What I shall be
To the world’s sea
I will be so for you
Dearest

I will become a figure
Lest I perish
For I am sure you were equally dire
Who else could teach me the dance of a lyre?
And the hymn of a quire?
A debilitating devotion
I have no obligations to myself
Not anymore

Only my labours of love
Will be shown to the world
All because of you, my love
You have given me the reigns
Which I crafted by my lonesome
Then, the nations will extend
To the far reaches of a forlorn nebula
And I will meet you there, soon

Many people spend their lives laying still in most abject- albeit veiled- horror, afraid to admit that they traded their personhood for a comfortable stance.

Take your idle day
And gasp in abject horror
When it slips away
Past the dime-sized hole
Of a bygone tomorrow

Make sure to light a cigarette with a previously lit one. I’m a smoker, yes, but that doesn’t give me the right to be a waster- butane is a fine commodity!

Mother, I hope that finally caught your attention. I know you are busy, so I will make the upcoming statement as brief as possible. If you cannot be bothered to understand an ounce of wit, and I know you will not, then it should be my duty to make this very transparent. Forgive the plainness of my speech. It is, after all, the most you can handle. This must be quite the task for the likes of you. Make of this what you can:

I'd like to insert a bullet into my head, upon yours and father's bed.
I would like both of you to see it, I would enjoy your aural dread.

In life, we all need a kick every now and then, I find.

Shall we defend each other’s right to defend ourselves from each other?

I slept rather roughly in the coldest fall
Then I heard a raven starkly call
“You thought of her as you went to bed
But its merely minutes before she’s fled”

Amidst electric tongues and serpent eyes
I perused the room for alibis
Good friends and company, I do not stir
The reflections remain as one of her

Drunken rooms and worn-out talks
Dew of dawn brazenly knocks
I did not try to catch her eye
So there’s no harm in saying goodbye

I remember the friends that I made in a blur
But if that is returned, I’m not sure
I have not had enough to stall my mind
There is a happy dance I wish to find

The tastes of love and camaraderie
Fall like a cold blanket upon me
Seek solutions like stars under purple nights
And wish for our bed below to give us flight

As familiarity escapes
Every itch will take its shape
Into a conversation, you can smile and lie
So there’s no harm in saying goodbye

What’s done is past, but who’s to say it’ll wait
To turn itself into harmless fate?
I’ll imagine times where I knew them before
And lose myself so I can know them more

The scents of youth often try to bloom
And yet she stands softly in the room
Past rambled gawks, uttered, muttered slurs
She will not know that I dream to be hers

As faces race behind the door
There is no one here anymore
She has no memory of me tonight
So there’s no harm in saying goodbye

I will ask tomorrow’s vices to wait
And stay at the porch of morning’s gate
Oh, to sleep with an arm inside the pocket of your mind
Oh, I refuse and confess I fear to find

What’s left of my painting as night’s drawl drones
The image shown is of the travel home
The foolish thoughts lay on the floor in knots
I never asked for what I never brought

The sun is duly calling me
I beckon at her waving sea
October is not far from July
So there’s no use in saying goodbye

Willow
Like a stark, marmalade tree
Carry your grasp to me
Your bedside river, warm and soft
Leading to a loft

Willow
The green blinds in the room
Paint a path for the sun monsoon
And here, the world fits inside a frame
Holds you and a cherry lane

Blankets under our heads
I’ll paint what time has seen
The clock has fled
To entropy

Willow
Keep me in your eye

The sky will quake
The neighbours rake
And I, in your wake

The chariot men will have lost
When the world is frost, I’ll be under you

Willow
The arch of an ancient tower
The bells of a dawning hour
I wrote it in my sleep
Hoping it all seeps

Willow
We’ll grow old with our brigantine
On planetary seams
Morning, diurnal moon
Don’t wake too soon

Trinkets over our eyes
A screen of sateen
The past speaks loud
With doubt

Window, open
Leaves fly through

The sun, it bends
The world extends
But I’ll find you again

Hum the words, engrain the worldsands
In the hand of time, you’ll meet me in golden lands

When the room has grown a skydome
I will leave it, knowing that you are safe at home

No need to say it when it has been expressed lucidly in thought and meditation. Now, take from that well of origin and turn it into something greater than parlance; allow it to earn its own breath and purpose.

I've fallen so badly
In the loveliest way
She is youth and hope
Peace incarnate

She will lead me astray
To the strangest of lands
I climb up her rope
To life's golden sands

Should I give myself fully
She would do me no harm
She lifts the whole sky
No earthly alarms

To the void's long keep
We'll breathe with the angels
In softened sighs
To the top of old Babel

Amidst harrowing storms
Jagged, veiny towers
The zenith of brevity
The brassen bellows

On top of this sap-laden tree
Where the stars finally contort
And intercept the grass itself
We will rest in a cedarn cove

My shadow is as authentic as my flesh. Under the deep cover of the day, it comes out to play, mimicking me in such a ragged manner. At times, it is ahead of me, as if its automation is one premeditated dance. Other times, I feel as if it has given me the reigns, through no request of my own. It is so faithful to my identity that it may as well be independent. Why shouldn't it be? Detractors would call me foolhardy with my whims. They would say, "Oh, but where does it go at night? Little child, where has your friend gone?"
What villains these people are. Of course, the shadow must rest from the pains of this earth; from the sight of mongrels like them. Every shadow has the right to fear the aged and the gnarled; their eyes domineering over every present pebble beneath their feet. It is as if they spit on their homes. I would burn the world twice over to protect my shadow. His own realm must be something of a sanctuary, or a holy womb. It ought to be my duty to protect the last vestiges of nascent, naïve innocence.

A discolouration of the world you knew
The sun is so few and far between
The walls are palettes that have grown on to you
And your urban heart, not a single green

The bedroom, your refuge, the cellar, your home
The lamps and all mirrors, coerced into fear
Despite unread letters, you don’t look so alone
Is it your talks to the wall, or someone so dear?

Dearly, so, but not close to side
For this house is alone, but creatures down under
So where is your dear, your dream-sunken bride?
Are you living out on pastel pictures sundered?

For your eyes are colourless, yet hers so vibrant
Yes, there is more to a festival than the full moon
So close your eyes, fool, don’t be so stagnant
Only in dreams, can you bloom

But when I woke, tears coloured my view
To have and to hold, and to lose to flight!
I fall asleep again every passing hour
To escape, I grow vacant with every passing night

In the cellar, my home, I miserably belong
And fate would never have it any other way
But secretly so, I still dream, and I long
Of a forest outside, where colours take place

Be quick. Gagging on blood.
Quickly, before the flood.
Brain is winding up.

Overflow

Crowbar eyes prying
Concrete wings flying
I am a passerby
Unaware of it all
A mathematician crawls on dad
A Cockney is ***** and filled with sand
Liquid sound
An accountant sings
Like the world is caving in
It must be
I feel it in my toes
Two muted trumpeter swans
Feed on a lake of rice
And I need no anger
To notice such beauty
Nor pain
For I feel it all
In equal amounts, incessantly

Thin-blooded. Such is the nature of the dreams that offer you a sliver of paradise, only to be whisked aweigh at the slightest breeze of stale consciousness.

I wish to stretch out eternity into a more tender, finite time.

I pulled my fingers out of the gutter
The Priestess turned her head to me
With her velvet pearls and trumpet stutter
"Do you belong to eternity?"
She twisted tight on my headlight
I widened her eye socket out of fright
I told her "honey, I like the look of your nose"
Which twisted up to the cosmos

Then she looked beyond
Like some small vagabond
Looking through a door
That wasn't there anymore
The black sea stretched across
She wielded my hand
Against the sleepless night

The town was crooked
People were empty
Tied to balloons and corpses of brides
The beds were shallow
The shore bred mountains
Yet there she was to taunt me
To envelop me
In her majesty's vice

Thunder shattered lightning o’er the moor
The hoarse women spoke of what’s to come
Beneath the set of sun, they adjure
The fated, bloodied fool of the kingdom

Written here is an early epitaph
Of the golden well and its fall
The order’s domain, once in paragraphs
Stained, slain and cursed by its thrall

The Captain of the ministry of peace
His bloodied steel, speaking of some rage
The fires hung, the creases on their knees
The pawn, the hero, of a noble gauge

Major Mylland and General Barnow
Emptied their guns and scarred their bones
A rebel slain, the traitor thane in tow
Mylland rested on a stolen throne

They stumbled on the old women of fate
Who knelt and spoke of riches yet to come
For them and their own kin, a golden gate
They fled with a quick tongue of costly sums

These men, taken aback by many a dream
Mylland’s fate, it seemed to serve him well
The sinister truths have given him royal seams
How close to hell must one want themselves?

King Dunwell heard of Cornell’s dead
Cried out freely, by his silvered son
The thane confessed, now less a man by the head
With the fall of boys, came ****** won

Mylland and Barnow were revered
With carpets of sand and diamond busts
It was heir Mnaleer, the son he feared
Shall Mylland be a king, return him to dust?

The silhouette of the once-great gestalt
And its walkways of emerald tongue
In thickened, wary blood it found its halt
And rides in the pocket of fate’s lung

Lady Mylland received a letter
From her love, who did not take the reins
Unsexed herself as the cosmic order’s debtor
Duly indulged in some gain from pain

Dunwell arrived on the palest day
Praised the charms of the seething Myllands
In this jovial banquet, he sways
And greets the ravaged likes of ****** hands

Mylland caught himself and his drink
And sought to render prophecies untrue
But his wide did not fall for meek links
And spat on Mylland’s wishes to rue

He happened upon Barnow, who would tell
Of cursed thoughts and nightmares neighbouring
His pillow, Mylland shrugged and claimed all’s well
And set a later time for his flings

Mylland happened upon a floating blade
The blood stained air beside a shaken mind
With reflections, his cowardice fades
Promptly adheres to his calling’s binds

The blow to shake the sun, committed then
Perpetual stains that water can’t wipe
Murdered was the sleep of the kin
The loyal, now chained to the void’s gripe

A drunken porter named Bazeleu
Mocked the visitors outside his door
Drank and whispered of a distilled dew
Droopily continued his chore

Mygdla, a righteous fighting man, walked in
And greeted his hollow heart, a vicious sight
The blood of kings that dwelled within
He called an echo of the kingdom’s blight

Sons of the king, Mnaleer and Delireey
Sought to flee from miming as a home
With sharpened smiles and daggers, merrily
They escaped from corruption's shattered dome

Mylland, granted a crown by all and none
Broke the stationary cosmic hierarchy
It brought eyeless nights and blood-red suns
Oh, to find oneself in fleeting patriarchy

But he grew weary of the women’s words
Anxious of Barnow and his kingly son
Should they rule, or be ash under his sword?
Now Barnow rots, his child meekly runs

On the finest feast of the night
Mylland’s sins appeared in tattered rags
The dead Barnow, a ghost, a visage, a blood-addled sight!
The guests fled with his sanity in bags

In his rage and royal dissatisfaction
He duly had Mygdla’s family maimed
The truest, newest colour of his deluded faction
Of one man, shall comeuppance be his bane?

Mygdla, in righteous fury and despair
Sought revenge and gathered men of war
And found Mnaleer in hopes to repair
Their lost purpose, ****** be Mylland’s scar

Lady Mylland talked into her pillows
Asleep of the dreaming, newfound dread
Of her guilt of fate, she would bellow
Dead is the heart of the pierced head

Mygdla’s forces came in forceful stride
The sweeping vanguard of the vengeful eyes
They walked as trees to the kingdom sides
Sharpened their resolve for due demise

Mylland pondered on a hollow throne
A fruitless crown and a plastic sceptre
Relied on fate’s dubious loans
And found his wife’s visage, now a still spectre

Tomorrow, tomorrow is to never come
For life is foolish, with its voices and vice
He steeled himself for his solitary kingdom
His shield, a shining rut of chance’s dice

The smoke and fire, war rages true
Screams followed by screams of vain quarrel
With Mygdla’s entrance, vengeance shall ensue
And hereby comes the full fool’s final peril

Mylland and Mygdla clashed with rage
Mylland fell to his vaulting ambition
Mylland’s head, severed by the closing page
Mylland’s final breath of his mind’s attrition

Mnaleer became king
The people, overjoyed
Merrily sing
Of the ceasing void

This was the story of the Whirligig Well
The beaming gestalt, the golden land
The dew of morning, drank after hell
A sempiternal bond to fate’s twisted hand

Take heed, take heed!
These are malleable times
Purposeful places
Stringed pages

The mind is- oh, stop. Stop!
My mind is swirling,
Leaking profusely.

Ah. Ah.

Help the deranged.
And the lost.
Amen.

I cannot see my ears.
I cannot see my ears!
Oh, weary wing.
It hurts.
A great deal.

Contrived? This is not contrived.
I am a facade.
Canvas..... canvas. Where?
Where did my brush lie in the moment that has
Escaped me?

I wish: that seeking help,
That, it could be so much easier.
Help with a craned hand.
I spit at myself, for how little I've provided!
To anyone, yes
No one at all.

I. I don't belong! Hey! Heed! I! Don't belong! Here! Anymore!

The bus yawns like an ambulance
Running on the gleaming road's cadence
A boy who fed himself with rain
Shut his eyes and rested on a pane

The jesters and dukes run their mouths
They laugh at their surnames in cloaks
All of these keeners would stay their hand
When ****** into a maskless dance
Yes, that's the joke

"Surely it's nice in the court for some moments"
He says,
"How can one be silent when they can afford to undress?"

Lafarr, what can you say?
Can we fit in a throne in different ways?
Lafarr, what can you say?
Beauty moans before it fades

This gleaning boy yawns like a braggart
And gives his footed stick a stagger
The sail-headed mind stings
For an ongoing ring

Her lambasting mouth has fell old
Her heart in ten paper-folds
The movement is new
But time accrues
Until every dance is a joke

“Surely, propriety’s paid by the cents”
She moans
“Who can be trusted to keep this world alone?”

Lafarr, what can you say?
Can we see the throne on different days?
Lafarr, what can you say?
Beauty moans before it fades

Cocoon, dreamer, larva, schemer
Seething with beauty
Leaking for eyes
Trained for doom
In skinless disguise
Particular boy, flailing
Punctured at the *****
Tethered to mother
Throbbing, gnarled, sumptuous, old
May this newborn insect never be sold

If we may stop you,
Are we alone when we die?
And are we easily shot out of the night
Like billowing butterflies?
Battered and shot
Bruised and bought
By our headmasters

All this fear of the stronger
Are we not like mites?
And will we easily blame our fright
When we burn from the light?
Holding our clots
Proud, all for nought
As time grows faster

In the dawn’s old hue,
Will we sigh when we sleep?
Or is there no rest after the leap
Beyond the deep?
There is nothing to hold
For rust and gold
Are all the same in the rapture

Must we run much longer
Away from the keep?
If time keeps us under its sweep,
Is living terribly cheap?
We’ll burn to spite the cold
Despite not being told
Beneath the ice, was a pasture

With trees holding the fruit
Of our untold labours
Now, dried from the pursuit
Of the trunk's ashen paper

As I peruse past words of great design, I feel as though I am writing them again, and what a feeling that is! To be imbued with the power felt ages ago, and to be made less sterile by it. That is how I will step forward in older age, and older age upon that, until oblivion.

When I am put beside my heroes, I wish not to be compared to them on the grounds of substance, but instead, the frequency of essence.

The distinction, simple and succinct enough.

May he submit his truest fear?
The kind that withers into one's spine
For all his ventures, and all his colour
There is one thing he could not find

Would you guess, and play this game of man?
Trivialize him into a fact, or a song!
Fruitless, you will be, unlike his mind
He could not bear your answer for long

You see: he flies and he is well
He sees: only flies and bothersome dreams
You see: his ventures as a lonely dust
He sees: his truth, which is not as it seems

Truth, the obsolete, the sordid word
For it claims to deny anything but
You hang on to it, to define the worlds
That he wrote himself, like the galaxy's mutt

So you scream, and you *****, for the words that he sold
To portray him well, out of lust or pity
"The Caricature of the New Age Think"
The medium is lost, for a name in the city

So they'll point their fingers, at the primary antagonist
Of itself, the life it chose out of need
For what is one's purpose in some long-gone galaxy
When it writes for humans, when it needs to feed?

IT is longing, and IT is impossible
But tangible enough, to know of it's shame
That it was not born where and how it desired
So it manifests into me, and I am duly blamed

"I am restrained, and that's of no concern"
I will sell that line to give it sense
For friends smile bright and they mean well enough
Even if I must live with petty pretence

Is that truth? Well surely it is
You read it well, and I suffered to write
If it is art, and you are captivated
Then this is my closest to a star, and this is my blight

So, do you know my truest fear?
The dying of the word
The contradiction of truth
The self-denial of who I must be
The forgetting of my adventures
The extinction of my art
All to myself, only myself