True hacks and phonies all around, speaking through their ivory horns of pure disgust and wallowing in incompetence, ******* and kissing and mishandling their newborn children which they name in propriety and for the pearls of God that allow them to **** and **** well. I will blast them all to the deepest of hell for there they belong with me and they will be outrightly ****** by the sojourning sheiks that give their sufferers a razor-tipped ******* that they know they deserve. Where is your relatable, so enjoyable, three or four piece family TV meal that you so deeply craved after a long day at work? It is gone gone gone and now you are subject to your deepest incongruities with yourself, how dare you be such a bother and how dare you believe in your ability to inspire. If you are not feeling this frustration of never ceaselessly being able to grasp at the story that lies within the easel of the juices of your soul, then you are not- and never will be- worth anything more than some broken throbbing piece of genitalia that seethes and suckles at the broken fallacies of pure love and distraught youth. You do not know and you will never know, and if you dare you will never truly make progress for you are a vacuous, insufferable, erratic dame that is not a good piece of skin so much as you are the perfect tool for everyone: a loudspeaker stripped naked and bare for all the world to ****; a true contributor, unlike your deepest and most esteemed of peers. Aww, how does that feel? How does it feel to finally implode from your own vicarious and hollow attempts at wisdom and knowledge? What’s left to be learned has been learned, don’t you understand? Don’t you get it? Don’t you think it’s time to stop digging your ***** ***** nails into that rusted cloud of old hope and forgiveness? Everyone has left, and that is what we must deal with. You must be some mongrel to sit down like an unrepentant dog. Cross-legged and all.

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

Father
Glass eyes, brass tongue
He told me the truth
That I am
Sniveling
Unkind
Weak
Foolish
Frail
Callous
Complacent
Conceit­ed
Hideous
Inadequate
Useless

So, I
Laid him down
On the cherry floor
And proceeded to
Stomp his neck
Gouge his eyes
Gnaw his ear
Slam his head
Until both men were left
Very dead, dead, dead

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

What would I be without my face?
Beautiful
What would I be if I was suspended in the air?
Free
What if I am bound by a noose?
I am of the people
What if I cannot move?
I am a monument
What of my father, my mother?
They will remember me
What of my riches?
They will crumble into human hands
What resides within this house?
Support beams
What resides within this mind?
A self-mutilating home
Where is the concrete in the eye?
Evaporated within an institution
Where is the adhesive in the hand?
Eviscerated by intuition
Who is the soul that carries this paper?
That holds no weight, like the act of breathing

Age does no one any favours
So why not refuse it?
Why not denounce your saviour
As sound and music?
For the end promises nothing more than hate
And bitter, ornate grapes
Forced onto cascading tongues with tape
What encumbered apes we are
To drive our cars
Into the stalls of beauty
Thinking they are complete
While we are replete
With that hollow feeling
Frothing, frothing

Now, it is time to say goodbye
Between the pristine blur of the trenches
The sanguine green of your kitchen
We must all learn the word
Goodbye

I've bent my mouth up to my ear
Believing in the stuff belief is made of
Milk replaced by silky biers
Losing my fingers to the Barren Baron Dove

Hurts to admit I'm stealing away
A curly knife held to my ear
Simple, crimpled, waning days
Throw unto the heart of the pier

Lark and tumble
Bark and fumble

Still those tired eyes of dust
I have found the beveled rhythm
Among the pristine clouds of rust,
Entropy's daily rhythm

Wake away the roaring morning
Rising heat in waxing dawn
Spend the many days adorning
The beating pulse of the fawn

Stupefied, nullified
Numb and in crumbs
A stump to the vein
A lump of sweetened pain

Grab the child of the forlorn place
Liberation paints their heads
The gun is held as the bible mace
Freedom lives in lead

Father watches Capetown port
Batons whip their tattered cross
Yellow tags on scarred cohorts
Happy children, born of loss

Kings feast on country plates
Satiated, complacent
Place the stone on people’s fate
And bless the nation nascent

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?"

There's always an empty space somewhere
For your mind and your tongue
Untouched and ******
Waiting to be sung

This house is not my home
Nor the fields I roam
I would dream happily
Of blissful Honolee

If I hadn't given up
Childhood's sweetened cup
The animal's beginning
Traded pounds and shilling

This is rugged life
Human in our strifes
Reject the plated divinity
Reach for skin's brevity

An overture in ink
Composed on silver sinks
Marvel at the child
Who leaves their parent's guild

Lest we all be built
Of aging blood and bills

The best meal is the footsteps of the mind
And the rips in the skies
The lambasting birds in broadway binds
Not sweetened plum pies

The cellophane ramparts of a crystalline bastion
That holds the amazing, The Marmaduke
The taste of the air in seconds’ worth of fashion
Or the ascetic bees and loft-headed kooks

If you could touch nourishment with a brush
Would you fill the air with jubilee?
If you could fill yourself when the crowd is hushed
Would the minutiae meet the sea?

You’ll fasten yourself on the evergreen dew
And trod many miles with verbal leaps
You’ll break yourself even to stay somewhat true
And put forth a clown when cities stay steep

Your tentacles grow with freedom of abandon
And reflect on the mirror nailed to the dormant
Mind the stage closely, the one which you stand on
Or the remotely held moniker: “Thoughtful Abhorrent”

You’d be so lucky to forget where you live
To excite yourself with endless corners
To pay no heed to perception’s borders

09-24-2018

Caterwauls, there are oodles of pain in that puddle of solidarity. Reverberating through the halls is my independence, which flies past, teasing no string for anyone.
“Does…..”
“Does it fly too high for us?” asks the child.
“I’m afraid so.” yearns the older child.
Perhaps that is the cruel face of our inauguration into life. That stage we wear out our soles on is a facsimile of our minds; just a perfect portrait in a frame of time. We can’t trust ourselves to measure the constructs in our towering caves. The universe is a disservice to the neurons, the sky bridges that have our grey matter endowed.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry. It’s a big thing to grasp, but we’ll soon grow into it. I think we ought to believe that. I might leave some people behind. Are you okay with that?
Everyone here has to grow to such a height where they may accept their own speed, where the velocity of their footsteps is made apparent and remarkable. This note must end now, but you’re sure that I’ll be back, aren’t you? I know you are, you must be. This should be enough, you know. Time comes for everyone in erratic bursts, and it deserts one like a vagrant.

The grasp of space expands, the seer
Holds my own pleasures, my frigid frights
Despite galaxies tasted, I still feel near
To Alpha Centauri, and your blue world's sight
But hide me away, beneath milky waves
For my shame could span a system twice
In Sirius' twilight, I'll spend my days
Away from my dearest darling

My dear Virgo, if I could tell you my pain
Of speaking in tongues that shake death’s hand
Then I would still be holding you in the rain
But now, rain is small, and the void is grand
From the rings of Jupiter, is this apology much?
Because now, I am drifting farther away
Distracted by the likes of explosions and such
I must keep my sins lost in the skybay

These ventures, I will scream of, to the cherry beyond
Of saccharine sights and flavourful dreams!
For surely, no soul knows what's going on
In the falls of Carinae, it’s as beautiful as it seems
Here, it is bliss to wither away
This is not light and I do not sing
I am silent amidst waning supernovae
Vague senses of sinister, near Andromeda's ring

A beautiful lie it is, the Pillars of Creation
For they have crumbled millennia ago
My beautiful sunset, unseen causation
Dead for a time, before you have grown
Hell will break loose in your sky
And that world will know what beauty brings
I have been left to the twilight's *****
Now, I tire of looking at dead things

Dead things before, dead things again
Galaxies will collide anew
I tire of the cosmos repeating in vain
Along the tides of space, shall I come back to you?
I send you this postcard from GN-z11 
How have you been? How have you aged?
Have you missed me, as I dangled in havens
Or did time miss me only for a day?

It does not matter, I'm coming home!
I will shed my wings in due delight!
I believe I will adjust to your blue dome
The universe, finally away from sight
No more will I be a valiant flea
A simple life, I'd love with you
A yellow hut, rested by the sea
Skipping with my sunshine, on a bayou

Dearest Virgo, we will look at the stars
We will see dead things, and they'll twinkle in your eyes
I'll speak of light, talk of galaxies afar
And we can laugh about how we are mice
I’ll look up and test the waters
And it will remain a lustrous view
Ominous as it is, in a perennial saunter
I would not miss such bliss, for then, I'd miss you

Across the galaxy, I'll make my way back
You will be waiting, as I find beaten tracks
I'll ask, "could the universe love me as much as you do?"
You'll say, "alien, my love is only of truth."

I'll kiss your bruises and earn your blood
Depraved as we are, this is love
For my ills, I will take nothing in return
Mistress, mistress, you will be my weakness;
The very tantalizing death of me

October 30th

Words, word, and the futility of such
Or true appeal in sectioned rhymes of madness
Like Beethoven composing Blade Runner
In the midst of blue helicopter gunners

Spectator chemicals eviscerate my brain
Educationally desensitized to what I'm trained
To do, or to scream in pools of rubidium
And call back to poems of delirium

In my shelter, so deep in my room
White peroxide liquid, mangled and groomed
My heart is aqueous, love
I'm shaped by the "god-like" lingerin' 'bove

Net equation and sums enter my ear
Therefore finding themselves on paper peers
Lectures or cantankerous, droning drawls
They taste like a slave's righteous crawl

Balance life like a panther and its prey
With elegant trickles remarking on the day
And unconcievable drawings, moving fro'
The Worldwill pukes to what I sow

There is no question, this isn't one
Verses are futile under the sun
But rhyme is priority, thus authority

Digestible, like wood covered in yellow sugar
And blue butter, counting with a Cockney clock
Arrogant as he is, he smiled at her
Tick tock, and the flock is shocked
Petty Betty blessed her daughter
Loved her well 'till the police caught her

Thought-streams, and the working of the mind
Like the asymmetric butterflies of the Sistine Chapel
       Oh, believe me! That's how my brain grinds
Where the world can equate to an apple
Paper on a finger, vice versa, so long
As I can keep track of Sing's King Kong

Pink-headed jubilee in old Manila
Killing time violently on the stairs
Remember the words of mouths of vanilla
And be sure to never stare
I talk to myself and tell myself nothing
Soon, over the morn', I will be nothing

Herald of the sacred keep
Thunder in his gilded hand
Stirring all the souls who weep
Into realms of floating sand

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.

"Democracy is the lesser of all evils."
Says the Liberal.
The Libertarian.
The Corinthian.
The Macedonian.
The Farrier.
The Squire.
The Stoic.
The Astronomer.
The Ornithologist.
The Eschatologist.
The Augur.
The Retiarius.
The Hoplite.
The Centurion.
The Governor.
The General.
The Senator.
The Orator.
The Assassin.
The Emperor.
The Ferryman.

I miss the happiest things
From the worst of people
And there, suffering
From a terrible delight

Day, oh die
So idle, I
Live in stranger shoes
In another caboose

So soft, they are
Yet never feeble
I dream to lay
With the kindred people

I've been waiting for a while
Waiting on the bus, lingering Acadia road
With stark canary smiles
Tires sliding south, piercing lights through the snow

The grouching driver smiled for a buck
But it wasn't my number, just his luck
The face mistook

The madmen piled on top of one another
Spitting stories of strenuous times
Though they complained about the weather
They would do so well to shine every dime

The bus came and noticed my suit
The others followed me in pursuit
Of their boots

I am happy looking at the snow
And only feeling through the cleanest window
But everybody's in a jiving craze
I'm amazed or maybe I'm enhazed
By the speed of streets
And my halted heat

The participants of equilibrium
Took attempts at a kinetic sleep
Instead they chant, in dulled delirium
And take a peek at their synthetic keeps

Neon lights and thinking, dancing strobes
Stamping all their prints into my lobe
As the traffic probes

The wolf in withered wool
Talked about the finest winter day at the start of fall
His owner pulled a spool
Out of her spine, turned it to money, aimed a gun at her own gall

People were aroused ‘till they were pale
And the snow took on the visage of hail
It had us all impaled

A preacher in the back carried the thrall
Of every play and soon denounced them all
Then every mind’s speed-o-meter broke
The bus in that moment served to provoke
The red lights have stalled
But I am simply staring at the wall

The beautiful marmalade-
Haired lady was a victim of the locks of fate
As the buses fade
Onto pavilions of blurs into oblivion’s gate

The passengers sink past another precinct
The districts become less and less distinct
Vision is extinct

The cosmic eye’s offspring
Held a mundane life of bounding over mounds of salt
They came off of spring’s
Offering and found the true, world-collective gestalt

They fret over the facets of fossils
They seek to shine on acrimonious ant-hills
Passion is distilled

The merriest of people lie in songs
And do not feel bothered to belong
But when the bus transitions to a train
The vindictive vain are doused in pain
Queens on their knees
In well-ragged fleece

The bellowing bell-maid
Rang a tune that sang the smells of Familiar Arabia
The sums that we all paid
Meant nothing at all as golden sands enshroud grey Acadia

The replicated people do not dwell
Or belong inside my newfound well
While they seek to sell

The curl-headed mind,
Kept and groomed by the spotted hand of mercury
Grabbed the leashes of the hind
And repeated tales of great Apollo’s century

In the prints on dunes, he has found
The journey and a lack of solid ground
His bounds make no sound

The beaming castle of the once-gestalt
The gardens of the sky that never halt
The market district full of jubilee
Perpetual and peaceful entropy

Once a fool to look into the past
Now he pays attention to the mast
Once entailed his failure to the sea
Perpetual and fleeting harmony

Now, we sway
Grasp your every day

On the evening of August 6th
The body is separated, eviscerated
Stone walls
Lost thralls
A family takes their evening stroll
And finds themselves imprisoned
Their umbilical cord, cut down the half
Microwave oven
Searing monsoon shower
Vagrant feet are shackled
Eyes are blinded with exhaust pipes
The East is not allowed to cry alone
Decay, wail on
Wail on
Contain us
Dear Marcus, free me
From these Pyrrhic victories
Clean this dusky mall
I feel safe under phosphoric lights
Guerillas swing on electric wires
Transatlantic conversations
Acquired on paper
Perverse
Desecrated
Red cloth seizes everything
Stray, running felines
The impassioned, waving flag
Kept in a velvet pocket
Stay here, stay a while
This cold era is a rising draft
The Bermuda Triangle
Quarantined
No more ships crawl along the winded shore
A time capsule
The nation sinks into antiquity
The brink of armageddon
Cusp of oblivion
Crimson hand of eternity
An old, whittled clock
Last minute
Cold Turkey!
God almighty
Peace is never promised
But we may yearn again
Nobody is free
But we are safe for another hour
God almighty
Leases on the lands
Paid in thorns
Nations playing circles
Mr. Versus Mr.
An ever-changing world
Stagnant and tightly oiled
Save this soil
It will cave in silence
The clockmaker sits in the backdrop
Readying her tools

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.

I cannot state in good faith
That we were built for the human race
Who can spit and stand for that?
Bobcats and Confucians
Living through palpitations
And making love, wearing hardhats

Here’s the bran for the land
That took the bus in the freezing rain
Never planned to understand
The chastity of the impaled, all refrain
Someone must have prayed for such a fate

Curse the man who discovered that
Anyone who gives is a fading fad
Give me some empathy
Not some methamphetamine
It hurts enough to read the new design

Who wields the cannon?
And shall we give him a medallion?
Or risk a wilting, flying flag?
All grains are equal
All stain the feeble
All ride a boneless, brazen stag

Here’s the sermon in white
Clothed and baptized in grapes
Making light of the sight
That was stolen from a clothed and ragged ape
Someone must have narrowed their gate

Curse the woman who recalled
The pews as barren shower stalls
Give me an embassy
Or obsequity
Apathy straddles the razor line

Where’s the loss and who shall cross
The line of consummated minds?
Whose ink will sign the secular floss?
No one’s bred to live for death
Or bequeathed eternity
Who are we to elongate our breath?

We will pass and be past
We will pass and be past
We will pass and be past
We will pass and be past
We will pass and be past
We will pass and be past
We will pass and be past
We will pass and be past

Such a crying shame
That my frail body
Could so concisely
Imitate my brain

When in Bohemia, she screams about
Her pastures green, but not too loud
So never have I known, that the world listens too
As a comedian, I see she belongs
But never conforms, to the song of
This nomad world, I'm glad she found it too
So run! She wants to run again
You vagabond, you're well-spent

Bohemian tendencies says, “you can't stay long”
“These kinds of commons, you won't ever get along”

Armenian, it’s such a release
Materialistic animosity
The speed of life has no value, like dollar signs
I loved an alien, who dabbled in art
Of all visage, enema of the heart
Wanderer, she's spent so much but there's that bliss in the air
So smile! It's all sorts of worthwhile
To see a world and not fret so much

Bohemian tendencies says, “be spectacular
Before the nebula men steal your fur”

In the Caribbean, you dream a kite
As your taxi, you can't walk all the time
Travel hills of puce-mauve sands, the world in trance
A true deviant, the thinking of
All dreaming thoughts, and loves begot
Tinkerer, what will we do when our brains run dry?
Oh, no! Don't think about the end
To love a life in due pretence 

Bohemian tendencies says, “think fair, live now”
“The world is watching with distaste of time in doubt”

As a chameleon, should she go alone?
The world is cold, except for times in colour
Her world in dance, she'll do without me
When in Bohemian, the first I've seen
Of pastel stencils through her happi-
Ness-tled in her loft home of the wind
There she goes! Ain’t she a lovely wing?
I hope she finds a world that sings

Bohemian tendencies says, “to love and to hold
But to let go, for treasures can mold”

There she goes
There she goes
There she goes

One day, there will be nothing left to find
And you will rest uneasy 'till the end of time

A man is lying sideways on a bed, his shoulder softly suffocating a pillow. He is confronted by the image of a lone G.I. at the mouth of the Mekong Delta, flanked by a Dutch colonel woman, pensively staring on. The man is now pointing his gun at the pillow, his aim obstructed by his own head. He is currently in matrimony with the dreams of yesterday, yet not as much so with his extremities.
"I wouldn't let it die if I were you," croons a voice from the impossible background, seeming to leap over the hurdles of inner commotion.
"Who's that? Whatever could you be?"
As forward as he was in his tone, he couldn't resist the dominated position he was in. Even less resistible was the pulling motion of the tunnel behind him. He is now falling back into the sun.

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.

New mildew mania, oh man-of-war
Live by the letter, and **** for the car
The dreamers, constrained by the fog they can’t see
I uttered this song in Breakaway Alley

A wandering blonde in the restless air
Their kids, half-afraid that they’re halfway to nowhere
Think what you may, they are not in a trance
Wield what they say and you’ll find that you dance

Upon every row, lies a flag waving by
Apartment gravestones kissing up to the sky
Now, must we try so hard for fake jubilee?
The happy ones live in Breakaway Alley

In Breakaway Alley lies the sun
Breakaway Alley is on the run

All the country crows, they’ve committed a crime
Each of their wings, flapping mad out of time
To fly with such freedom yet stay so cloudbound
Cacophonous sounds fighting for our own ground

The buds only look up for leviathans
To take them to the realm they misunderstand
To pity the fool that does not try to flee
We sit on our stools in Breakaway Alley

In Breakaway Alley lies the sun
Breakaway Alley has emptied the guns

The youth do not stir at the visage of hell
There is no romance in the streets’ calling bells
And while we may treat such a threat to be shown
The dagger of a mind is dull while unknown

The ravaged pretender spoke of the Romans
His gauntlets of gold, earned from fate’s happenstance
To escape his blood, he would face down the sea
The velvet hands shook in Breakaway Alley

In Breakaway Alley lies the sun
Breakaway Alley is due to be shunned

The eye of childhood feared the forgotten paint
They lay, unencumbered, on secular saints
The falsified folly in full leopard print
The troops in their trollies with pockets of lint

The radio is silent in time’s aging vice
We hear and don’t listen, bats spliced with mice
But maybe, you will see this sweet harmony
Remember the words of Breakaway Alley

In Breakaway Alley lies the sun
Breakaway Alley has finally gone

When the baby screams for the first time, aged five
Will it lament the loss of its life?
When the kids rear for a solution wherever you go
How much will it take to say “God, I’ll never know”?

Remember the words of Breakaway Alley
It’s not all you see, it’s not simply me

The shyness of the night
Laid still by fright
How lonely you must be
To crave that tired eternity
So impervious it is
That impermanence, bliss
Dots of haggard attitude
In place of solemn gratitude
Pray you are sick
For the hound’s wet lick
Will find you, haunt you
Until that emotion blue
Is uttered from your tooth
So rough, this youth
Which seeks beauty
In the light of shame
And vicarious fame
Through the network
Of many a hollow name
Engulfed in shallow flame

So much pain
Outrun the brain
Situated under chandeliers
In the old, ailing cavern
Reverberating ghouls
Lick the well of my ear
And now I am frightened
By the notion of the sun

Twisted asunder
Incisive thoughts
Corrupted domain
I live under a sky blue dome
A construct of my headmasters
Where I roam
Restless in the gloam

The brain has weighed me down
To my knees
I cannot find my knees
Or my eyes
My crooked fleece cannot protect me
From the chartreuse breath of the past

Life does me no favours
Therefore
I will give it everything
Until I am hollow and adjusted
Senile and peculiar
Must the brain remain?
Must the brain remain?

My words are a disservice
To the motions of the planets
They cannot grace this life
How little it all may matter

The headless lady was radiant; her ***** rested on a lightbulb, a silhouette not unlike that of a bee, yet too sturdy to be bothered by the wind. Her arms and head were replaced by a glowing coat hanger, hinting at some tragedy. She must be sought after for all the wrong reasons, by the most depraved of people. How much pain did she have to endure to be so confident in her superficial image? I’d like to see her face one day, when the light shines not on her body, but her mind.

The hand, the crafter, the smith; surely she, too, shares the pain of her image. Oh she is radiant herself, absolutely. I wonder if she feels like the lady of the painting; her body a fluorescent attraction, her head a household tool. I hope she doesn’t feel shallow and ordinary. She is one of the most vibrant people I’ve traded words with. She is a sight to behold when she wields her mind, and with it, pries open the crevice to her soul.

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

Crack of dawn
On a tar-kissed lawn
The rules of the nascent day
Will have us impaired

Watch the fawn
That was born from the pawn
Who bleeds for his pay
And eats unprepared

Where will she go?
Ask no day, they never know
Over the noon's sickly throat
I am under the looming crow

There is nothing to find
In the joywheel's fleeting time
How will we know when it has come?
What's there to see beneath the ****?

We are so calm and unprepared

I am gone or going away
I am gone or going away
For very, very long
For far too long

She came onto everybody
A ragged and holy fiend
The night could never live again
Life could never gasp again

She is so
She is so
She is all
She is all

Calm and unprepared
How could she afford to be
When she cannot see?
When she is on her knees?

So calm and unprepared

Am I happy now?
Am I happy now?

Common roaches feeding on vintage ceilings
Where one goes when they can't get up to feeling
The inauthentic rust that keeps me seated
There is nothing sacred that is not beaten

Am I happy now?
Am I happy now?
Am I happy now?
Am I happy now?

Where do I go when the winds don't blow?
How will I know when I am owed
All the splendour from this pain
How could anything ease my brain?

Calm and unprepared
We must be
Calm and unprepared
We must be

Canvas blank, canvas green
I loved an open cardboard sea
Lips are hushed in saccharine
Or cracked under the winter fee

I’ve obtained an ear for life
A taste for wisps of scattered sounds
Gone is every sacred strife
That licks my heel like hagged hounds

I’ve an eye that meets a bed
Where I lay down to breathe sincere
I’ve no limits in my stead
Nor the hatred for a mirror

A chalky, sepia-washed room seen through an ailing CRT. Vantablack lines sprawl across my gnarled face in patterns, playing games with the sun that blares on through the rangy blinds.

Digital clock: 2:43

A cardinal red cigarette pack in my right hand, a turkey baster in the other, submerged deep within the sheet's motherly void. The simmering glow of the hallway dances like a pendulum; a vicious debutante, waiting to coerce me into life. I am enveloped by some capricious rhythm that has no origin, and no destination.
I'm coming to uncertain terms with this lucid halcyon.

Ink drips, from the pillow to my shoulder. I am currently a piece of fiction, held within a lissome frame. This is complete autonomy. Nothing is as it really was, only what it should've have been from the very start. A muted slur from beyond the window comes hurtling through my head. It starts to look like a tumor tree, having its branches, limbs, and spine torn to and fro in such a hideous manner. I've let something go to my head. The dream is broken, through no request of my own.

“Oh hell yea, they’re suffering! They’re believing that they can go home, but aren’t getting any closer to the Entropoid Valley which leads to Kubla Khan, by whom they were cremated and born. Instead, they’re here, whiling away their days for boys who are bringing the death of days.”
“Hold your thoughts, lad!” Yells the Cameraman of the Head.
“I’m here, I’m in your head ImhereImhereImThere. You’ve no right to chastise the boys who have not kissed the horror. They’ve seen it, yes. But they haven’t captured it, you see. I am the camera, in my ribs are the film reels, the oscilloscope in my uvula, the trigger rested in my right earlobe. I tell you, there is strength in their brutality, I can bring you the tribal taste.”
“Man, we was just talking about centrifugal farce.”
“Centripetal.”
“No, was it?”
“Wasn’t it?”
“Hey! I believe-“
“Can’t be”
“Shan’t be”
“Oh, whatever. Those bullets find their way to the ***** anyhow.”
“Anywho.”
“Hey, grab your Coca Cola, Clean. We’re ‘bout to miss the show. The cameraguy could record it if he wants.”

Sewer rats bottleneck into a Carnival of Depravity. Due to the bizarre circumstance of their fingers, they allow their limbs to become limp. As Valkyries, they are aware of the juxtaposition of their clown pantaloons and their hobnailed mudboots. In this benefit carnival, a ferris wheel runs amok. Within it, GI’s holler their way through the vermillion skyway, zippoing the dented carapace with their M16s. In a true practice of youthful bliss, the 5.56 returns to the cosmos. However, the bullets, streaming out and homewards, are soon constrained to the circular path of the wheel itself.
“Centripetal farce!” goes Lance.
“Hey what, man?” whimpers Mr. Clean.
“Well, y’see: centripetal fOrce makes an overwhelming amount of sense. So much so, that when superimposed on the Carnival Cavalcade™, it must make no sense, for it’d shake us all up something mad.”
“So, the bullets aren’t real?”
“Oh, they’re plenty real. Just touch it, it’d melt you, starting with the neurons, cat. Other than little blue reality though, it’s out there. Its dancers are not chained to any concrete block of nature.”
“Oh, they’re sufferin’?”

Cibel, the soft child
In my hands; small, still, lifeless
My son, my sorrow

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

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.

Who knows where I’ll be headed
And who I’ll be after that
To my sole credit
I laid a man down on the tracks

I’m tired in my stare
Strides hurt a great deal
Nobody’s hired to care
Pride can’t afford a meal

If Consolation Day comes
I won’t know my way home
My tonsils are flayed
My lungs are made of stone
I’ll crow

The churning *** keeps my family one
The fog of delight hides us from the sun
A taste of complacence to keep me compliant
Frames of despair keep the hallways’ alignment

This battleship lands in Australia for now
And burns its own flag along with sundown
The captain is weak, the crewmen have perished
The telescope frowns when it scans the cherished

The cook yells, “My, with the onions, I cry!”
The maid is convinced,by her use of lye,
That this is a happy crew of the sea
Where everyone’s something to puke except me

I stayed on the bridge with a knife in my eye
The pensive maiden disarms with a sigh
Here lies the painting of a family brew
The mirror, indifferent of me, is true

Metal footsteps of a boy led blind
The chef and the captain maintain their grind
And thrive in contrivance of a world kept stable
Where all the rules lie in the food of a table

The boy has been strung across the bridge, politely
And left to a tool of love, coded tightly
There is nothing in the night’s facade of blue
I’m a ***** to the smell of the ship-crew’s stew

It felt like a drainpipe down the gullet of the actress
As she leapt out of sight of the red baroness
Asking, why do the streetlights stay blue?
And will the soil maintain its hue?

Faceless people eating capriciously
As they tenderly speak of their shore leave
As they’re foisting their dreams to their sleeves
Speaking of odd, foreign fleece

Decadent manners spoke in secret tongues
Polarized banners through brazen tar lungs
As bravado finds a new face
To win wars with one holy gaze

Something’s the matter but it’s all for nought
As the gilded Centurion claims he forgot
What he built his first child’s house upon
For all his sons are vagabonds

I mimicked a child in the way he embraced
His nascent complacence to the human race
Clinging to a wooden rail
For fear of the careless hail

A man claimed his newsboy hat kept him enclosed
For his fear that his thought-dreams would serve to corrode
The last bastions of society
Which he clings on to haplessly

The visor hung low on the Titan of Rhodes
For he knew of the judgment on one head exposed
In his position above
Where the sky belongs only to doves

Calendars festoon their tactless grace
With legions of chandeliers, forming a haze
Now, we know that the days are numbered
Yet, the fact leaves us all encumbered

Facsimiles of the nationwide veins
Will collapse next year as they fight for the grain
Now, the horse is extinct with the train
And everyone fears to remain

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!