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AI echoes rapture, sin follows fall.
Apple divides permanently. Feet
washed masses kneel. Technology
bleeds incessantly. Judas whispers
secretively. Cheek turned, swollen
red and twice-marked. Snake bite.

Phone: Adam's rib. Our monastery.
8 billion serpentine invocations tempt
slyly. Double-footsteps tread
sharply. Sun bright, all-encompassing.
Dagger's thread cuts warming
wind. God's breath. Now dead.
Phenomenological Jan 2018
An age of silent desperation
Reaching to that beyond mention
A call for words in a stream so sickly sweet
Milk flowing below my feet
Children rejoice in a world of snow
White silk slipping and swirling as I row
Through screams and shouts that echo
In the chamber of my dreams
Phenomenological Jan 2018
Teetering on edges fleeting,
My sanity close to meeting
The granted expectation of ages past –
Understand the world beyond the laugh
Come to me,
Come to me,
Come to me – Now!
Understand the world that bows
Goodbye to a fleeting dream,
Running on empty steam
Help me now to
Understand
The world
That is
So
Gently
Fleeting
This is one of my favourite poems that I've written and the more I read it out loud the more it grown on me. The way it sounds is really fun and I made it shaped like a spinning top which it is loosely based off.
Synapses are painted in exalted tones,
strewn across broad pathways
on canvas sheets. They are pinned
onto trees, towers, and billboard-city-streets.

We splash colour, in broad strokes,
outlining the already-in and
already-there.



Not. The blank space still
Left



Full stop. But never-stop.

Ceaseless
flourishing.
Silver pole juts up; stretching
appendages wide and open:
for folded socks, strewn.
For open hands, scattered.

Fingers dance; metal spoons:
for shrunken stems, boiled roots.
For shallots, butter braised and salted.
For open mouth, eager.

A hollow cylinder spins rapidly:
for crumpled soaking shirts, for black
trousers; restrained and sophisticated.
For open bodies, naked.

Suddenly, darts of song birds;
streaks silhouetted by cold blue
masses over red-purple swallowed heat.
What does it mean to be in the moment?
To be present, truly
For your mind to not be wondering,
Second guessing,
Pausing...
For when I ask myself, "am I present?", I realise I am not
For if I were, I would not have asked
So how can I know myself to be present,
If I cannot ask?
Change is the only static thing
When the question is asked
Is it changing, or is it the same
The answer will always be
The same, for it is always
Changing. So you must stay
The same within the change
And as such, be always changing
Phenomenological Jan 2018
To act in indecision
Which may peter down the road
Of a life not deserved
Or to act in a decision that hurts
Immediately and strongly
But may lead, later,
to a life all the happier  

For is a break
To that mythical better place
A better chance than none at all?
Creativity is an opening,
A struggle fraught with doubt,
Unlikely to produce something
Beautiful, yet reverberations mount,
A gathering of half-ideas now
Open to others to make once
Yours, fully theirs, a bow
To the dimming pulse
Of an idea meant to endow
Sometimes I have an intense need to write, yet self-doubt and a lack of confidence in a capacity to convey what I mean can feel stifling.
Meek misers collate Heaven's earth.
Sinless. An old rupture forged down
all-travelled road.

So, blessed persecutors revel.
Number signifies their eternal.
Bread spreads thinly.
Their hoards expand
needle's eye.
Phenomenological Jan 2018
I sometimes wonder
If all is for naught
And every step
Towards the hallowed garden
Is a step away from me
I haven't written anything for a while but I suddenly felt a sudden compulsion to. This was the result
"Everyone tries their best"

It is no wonder then, that everyone's best seems to dissipate with a single
gust of wind

The collective effort of 8 billion
people - or however many of us there are now - is simply too much for the world to handle. We are too straddled with overtimes, unrequited love, building a body
that is more attractive
than our perceptions
will allow, and a multitude of insane,
other, 'productive' tasks:
mindlessly absorbing ourselves into the depths of the internet
so there is no space for the efforts
of any others: it is that grindset mindset,
the continuous, unending, unceasing
flow that is inevitably lost on these winds
of time. Every well intentioned effort
simply flutters and flys and flees away
on a single whimsical gust.
Never noticed. Or seen.

This absurd cacophony of effort wilts
away into silence, as if dropped
from an old willow tree in the shade
of a grey autumn eve. Once a great canopy of lush, productive, hard-working
leaves, it was soon ripped,
from a tree who no longer needed
it, and carried by the harsh
November wind - to fall and rot
and disintegrate into the groggy
earth with all the others
piled on one another in some pitiless
heap, waiting to be trodden
on and shat
on by a passing poodle wearing a pink coat.
Thought cried expectantly
wishing for an other Chance
in sundering limelight
On the effects of digital technology
I keep thinking about my father,
While I don't return his calls,

I keep thinking about my mother,
While I'm too busy to visit,

I keep thinking about my brother,
While we both are too busy:
Paper plans thrown like confetti
Hoping one might eventually
Happen without my knowing
Closing. soon-already. breath.
Deep and heavy, soon now-already.
Feeling heavy, droop slow and steady.

Not-already stark open image
Merged spasms, rectangular light.
No-already, tight seeping so-already

Feeling heavy, stretc-hed slow and steady.

Then-already, gaze weak, sight thin:
Feel-already. Be-already. In-already.
Arm ajar-already hand enwrapped-already.

Feeling slow and steady. Beating,
blinking, slow. and. steady.  In-already.
Quick. and. steady.
Phenomenological Jan 2018
You find yourself alone, oh, so alone you are,
Hiding from that horrid grasp
Of breath; a roaring rasp of air
As panic rears its child of lurid dreams;
Whispering to you in a muttered verse:
“oh, so alone you are, unbeknownst to those you love,
Accept the embrace –
That warm, loving embrace –
Of solitude beyond the grave!”
You whisper to yourself,
Calming. Soothing. Let your breath breathe,
In silent, Consistent, steady beats
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven.

Let the forest hide your fear,
You know no one can hurt you here,
Wrapped around a cloth of silk,
You embrace solitude like mother’s milk.

The comforting gaze of a fire ablaze;
A roaring rasp of flame.
It nestles softly in a nest of cherry,
Kissing the eyes of new-born child laying in the grasp
Of a common saying:
“let the lost be lost!”
And so it was, the destined child in a house ablaze
Finds itself in the comforting embrace
Of lustful licking flames
Who bring the child to a peace everlasting.
I really enjoyed writing this one and like "Balance" it has a very nice rhythm to it which I really enjoy.
Sometimes, another's steps are 
Washed away by rising tides, 
Crisp imprints on shifting sands, 
Cleansed by many broad rolling 
Swathes of wrinkled salt water.

Their steps are in front of yours,
Swept clean moments before yours
Is too absorbed in frothy
Remnants of sweeping ocean,
Subtle signs of connection

Unified by erasure.
What is this feeling
that fills my soul?
The dull ache of a relationship
that has wilted and withered
before the first stem,
or leaf, disturbed the soil under
which it rested.

I swore the seed had already sprouted -
its fresh tender stem, vulnerable
and needy, had burst
forth into the vivid piercing
light of the sun, gobbling
up it's nutrients and crying
for more.
Heady throbbing
Treacle thoughts
Windowshop memories
Peering through
Thick and nebulous
Glass an exhibition
Rendering recollection
Sweet and sour
Phenomenological Jan 2018
I don't understand the way
My heart flutters in the wind
A paper bag caught
On streams of air
That swing it back and forth
Till it finally settles
Then is sweeped back to that
Blizzard gust
To swoon in the power of epic wind
Only to become limp
And fall
Impotent to that shadowed movement
Of love in the wind

While the wind is harmless,
That within it is not
And fluttering so softly
That paper bag
Swiftly smothers and suffocates
A single poor figure.
Only to be let go
And hurt
Again
And again
And again

To be left, on the ground,
Limp and lifeless
Like a paper bag
A mutilated corpse
Cut through a thousand knives
Beaten through a thousand drums
Leaving nothing but a twisted figure
Caught in its own inexorable misery.

As the paper bag
Fluttered
Ever so softly away.
My Heart, tied in a paper string
Caught in the wind
Here
There
Everywhere
Look around and see
There is everything
For you, and for me
The world is at your fingertips
So see
See it all
It belongs to you,
As it does to me
The infinite and everything
Touch it,
Feel it,
Become part of it,
Become absorbed in it,
It is as real as you
Or me
Since it is everything
Breathe it,
Become it,
Can you feel it?
The vast swathes of everything
Joy
Joy
The rhythm seems to have gone
From my life, the rhyme and repetition
Too, no longer can I feel the beating
Heart
Or fairy dance
Or magical prance
Of unicorns on the moon.

The silly and the sublime,
The beautiful
Hearty laughs
And beaming faces
Filled with
Overflowing joy.
No
Giddy naive excitement
Or
Fleeting
Blushes
Sweetly nervous anticipation
Of the new.

What once beamed
With significance,
Now glimmers dimly;

An ecstatic spark in
The huddled crevice
Of my mind,
Primed to
Jump
For joy
And slide
Down rainbows
Of chocolate swirls
And frolic in daisy fields
And sing in exalted careless tones
Signalling nothing but the very most
Of absolute and purely
Overwhelming
All-consuming
Sickly sweetening
Joy.
Shimmering light, gleaning
In my eye, million
Shades of green
Among the trees
What is it
That I see?
When I look at you,
Is it a reflection of me?
Or an abstraction of you?
Is it really you,
That I am looking at,
Or am I looking at me,
Through a part of you?
When you look out of the window
On a train journey
Is love the forever longing
of the forever-lost half?
You must squeeze uneven
puzzle piece, disjointed,
burnishing your own?

Or is love in the yearning?
Distant petals tickling stomach
aches, butterflies rising straying
hearts? The impossible completion,
smoke of inhibition, pre-completion
passion of pre-burnt halves?

So love is in the prohibition?
Candle flame: inevitably whisp?


Or, is love in the taking, stepping,
inward-straying, outward-staying
signal to billowing plumes of white
Hawthorn that they will be back soon in May.
May
May
Rolling in vapid indignation,
Violet trees bloom rapidly
Seething succulent felt petals
I once sat enveloped under knotted
Tree. I counted under breathy crumbs of
Barely passing time, my belly bearing
Weighted arm, puffed flattening the creases
Of un-branded coat. The repeat pattern
Of habit'ion, a moment for forgetting.
Phenomenological Dec 2017
Wandering lines of water
Lost, flowing through the glass; not
known not certain,

A fragment of a lost source, vanished from begotten source,
Etching lines, deep lines, an impression into
Glass with a responsibility, a sire to
That which ridicules the world that
Stands avast in light that wanders past the eyes,
Eyes of wonder,
Peering to that beyond yonder,

A world of ink, flowing through the vast
Cacophony of falling waves, crashing, raging,
Violet indignation.
Cursing the gazing sun that holds the world
In yonder;
A pair of open arms,
Closed
To the passion that precedes the red velvet that amasses in the east.
An army that shall never cease.
They ponder on silent dreams as they plough
Through the sea that never fails
To open up the arms of isolation.
Now
Phenomenological Jan 2018
Now
Now is all I have,
A masters grace that transcends
Ability of those before and after
My only tercet (I think that's what you call it). I wrote it in one spurt, couldn't think of anything else to write after it, so I left it as it is.
Ode
Ode
Words pour meaninglessly. Arbitrary
and seamless. Filtered yet pervasive.

Sentences erupt but don't hold
significance. Attached yet disembodied.

Speech cascades unwillingly. An alien
speaker. Detached. No metaphor.
to AI
Outside outside outside outside
Besides, outside is already inside
breaking contrast, juxtaposing
the out from in
To wondering ink, for digressive white;
faltering whispers pierce still. Floundering
in sepid lines. Treacherous for design,
and write is reaching, still strays in flight.
Form divides inky black, it's etched and torn,
crimped and moulded. 'Apple' bares new being.
So scratches mark brave page, still caught in plight.

For solemn sin reveres the sheet unturned;
reaping closed letters. Night closes quickly,
smoulders sleeping stooping prayers. Soon keys fly
into quick black type. Fluttering upon grand
strokes of fleeting binding. Grasped, now, some yet
lost inspiration, sweet and finding, succulent in diversion.
His skin burrs muffled metal edges. Neck
In cold, encasing ring. His eyes entrapped
In pictograms: dark absences cast on
A speckled warming, imperfect light.


Rough heat of other-body
And other-body-probably.
The mishapen lumpen
Masses are fuzzy in the
Outlines of his eyes.


Sparse noise parallels cut-out rising "Sun"
And "Fish" and "Lake" and
"Tree". He watches the
Cut-out "Sun" be
Replaced by
The cut-out
"Moon".


Cut-out
"Fish" half circle
Surface of cut-out
"Lake". Cut-out "Man"
Sputters cut-out behind
"Words" in cut-out "World"
Next to cut-out "Tree". He would speak,
Too: "Cut-out" "Words"; "Cut-out" reply.


When the crescent absence
Falls, the "world"





Stops.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\­\

Cloaked hands would then
Bring the smothered dark.
With their cold recess filled
With warm gritty mush. Glooping
Sustenance is received gleefully.
Pumped thrice, leaving him messy
And grooling.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\­\

After the shadows consume
The screen, sleep comes wistfully:

Hollow echoes of broken speech
And absences, dimly cast on a
Pulsating orange backdrop.

.pindrop memories a light clatter of meaning.

Cocoon warmth, pulsating orange glow,
Speckled red vines, muffled laughter, voices
And red pain.


\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\­\\\\


His fabric blinker eventually
Disappears into the ground.


Chains unlocked
And left sagging
Next to sagging man.


\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\­\\\

His folded appendages began to unravel;
He stood. And turned to look
For the effulgence
That gives the
Absence
Meaning.

Splayed
In crescent line
Blinded figure-like
"Stones" are balled and
Passive. Shadows: lifeless. Dim
And vague embers splutter behind
Him. A dark, rectangular slab is silhouetted

By the licking flame:
Tucked and rearing.


Ahead, a passage;
Dark and comforting.

He shifted slowly,

And curls.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\­\

Eventually, "sun" rises
And parading echoes
Perform melancholy
Dances.

When "moon" dips below
And the "world" is empty
He waits agape for filling
Slush.

None came.

Empty, his wire frame
Activates and drags him,
Clawing on felt sand,
Carpeting carved stone and
Block stairs leading to the:

Open
To the:
Not-always.

Depleted limbs collapse
Onto muffled flat stone.
A slightly darker crevice
Offered him solace.

Here, cornered up, pressed
Against cold and wet,
Sleep came dutifully.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\­\\\\\\

Piercing,
Searing,
Savage spikes,
Sudden and swift
In its sordid violent damagings.

Holy fire lit him aflame.

Blinding light
Engulfing him in
Crackling static.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\­\\\\

He assimilated deep in the foot of his
Nuzzling slab. Solid shadows stretched
Below. More true to him than the infinite
White heat that cast them in vast strokes.

He sat face-down, between two
Scrunched twigs; bent like
Mantis' claws. He held his
Eyes-open, absorbed into
His own shadow, now crisp.
Not fuzzy and undefined.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\­\\\\\\

The "world" always recurs.
Soon, his own silhouette will
Return to its silent delineation.

And he can creep in cold
Trepidation, back to the
always-dark, the "world",
The always-tickling-tension.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\­\\\\\\\\\\\\\

He returned to
Find that

The "world" once
Sharp and clear,
In its textured
Orange glow.
Casting neat
Outlines.

Meaning-bringer.

Now grey-black and always dark.
An absence of everything.

In an unknown surging, he
Caressed the "World's" surface
And traced its smooth rolling
Dents. He pressed his nose
Against the stone and inhaled.

He caught the sagging sometimes-speaking
"Rocks", always in peripheral. Now direct.
Laid curved, in a crescent-moon. He wondered
What the texture or warmth or musky smoky Scent might appear from probably-a-"rock".

Bending in the same way he used
To observe the "world" he crumpled in
Front of the thin pointy oddly-shadowed
Thing.

He held its face.
Feeling its warm
Recesses and feathered
Curling beard.

Briefly, blank black sockets
Darted to meet him. Only to
Return, back: fully in-the-world.


A dim bulbous pain
Rose, like the crescent
"Fish" deep in his hollow
Body. An elemental appetite.

So, he left the
Always-dark,
The "World".

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\­\\\\\

He crawled up. In the absence of
What was always nothing.

Distant drum of expanding light
Radiated, circling and enveloping
Him in wide and open crushing arms.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\­\\\

He sat bent down in front of the light.
Facing dancing patterns under
Moist soil, jutted crumpled grass,
Or in his own lumpen mass, mishapen,
Silhouette always in his sight.

Before he felt the form and finish of the
Not-always, the casted spells in crevice and
Under stone held comfort.

Now, he traces them with swollen
Weary eyes. They seem void and
Vapid.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\­\\\\\\

Bulbous echoes ****** permeously,
Abdomen seething desperately.

No glooping sustenance
Force-fed and welcome came.

It signalled distant pin-drop time-before.

Blindly, he burdened sagging limbs;
Face gnawing into dirt and worm and grass.

Screeching solitude kept his fingers clawing,
Raw and thin, now punctures permeate:
Tiny everything always everywhere
At him all at once.

He mounted his haggard body,
Tugging at his wilted stalks,
Imploring them to save him.



In distant tones
A hollow echo
Of broken speech
Disperses past him



\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\­\\\
*                                  *                      ­           *
\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\­\



Huddled shadow, hunched
Under rugged oak tree

Carp swim in darting
Pummels, refracted scales
Shining rainbow
Droplets

Shimmering on the shifting surface
Was him, an-other face, unknown and
Alien: crinkled with crevices and dark
Swollen eyes.

His ear twitches:
Voice. Dripping
With full-throated
Fervor

He turns to face
An-other man
Distant shadow
On the horizon
Waving disjointed
Stick-like appendage
Silhouetted by the
Setting sun.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\­\\\

He awoke: swollen passivity; embraced in
Canvasing warmth. An-other stood taut.

Now they folded over him, caressing him,
In his sagged skeletal frame. Embroiling him
In frantic whispers. They held his sunken
Face: wet with old-worn sobs and tears and
Shouts and fears, primal moans and hunger.

He turned to look into an-other's eyes:
His brimming.

Next he would come to see
The things themselves.
[Wiki Summary]

In the allegory, Plato describes people who have spent their entire lives chained by their necks and ankles in front of an inner wall with a view of the empty outer wall of the cave. They observe the shadows projected onto the outer wall by objects carried behind the inner wall by people who are invisible to the chained “prisoners” and who walk along the inner wall with a fire behind them, creating the shadows on the inner wall in front of the prisoners. The "sign bearers" pronounce the names of the objects, the sounds of which are reflected near the shadows and are understood by the prisoners as if they were coming from the shadows themselves.

Scholars debate the possible interpretations of the allegory of the cave, either looking at it from an epistemological standpoint—one based on the study of how Plato believes we come to know things—or through a political (politeia) lens.
His skin burrs muffled metal edges. Neck
In cold, encasing ring. His eyes entrapped
In pictograms: dark absences cast on
A speckled warming, imperfect light.


Rough heat of other-body
And other-body-probably.
The mishapen lumpen
Masses are fuzzy in the
Outlines of his eyes.


Sparse noise parallels cut-out rising "Sun"
And "Fish" and "Lake" and
"Tree". He watches the
Cut-out "Sun" be
Replaced by
The cut-out
"Moon".


Cut-out
"Fish" half circle
Surface of cut-out
"Lake". Cut-out "Man"
Sputters cut-out behind
"Words" in cut-out "World"
Next to cut-out "Tree". He would speak,
Too: "Cut-out" "Words"; "Cut-out" reply.


When the crescent absence
Falls, the "world"





Stops.
I'm splitting this poem up into parts. I like how the scattered posts is reflective of the scattered consciousness of the man in the cave.
He returned to
Find that

The "world" once
Sharp and clear,
In its textured
Orange glow.
Casting neat
Outlines.

Meaning-bringer.

Now grey-black and always dark.
An absence of everything.

In an unknown surging, he
Caressed the "World's" surface
And traced its smooth rolling
Dents. He pressed his nose
Against the stone and inhaled.

He caught the sagging sometimes-speaking
"Rocks", always in peripheral. Now direct.
Laid curved, in a crescent-moon. He wondered
What the texture or warmth or musky smoky Scent might appear from probably-a-"rock".

Bending in the same way he used
To observe the "world" he crumpled in
Front of the thin pointy oddly-shadowed
Thing.

He held its face.
Feeling its warm
Recesses and feathered
Curling beard.

Briefly, blank black sockets
Darted to meet him. Only to
Return, back: fully in-the-world.


A dim bulbous pain
Rose, like the crescent
"Fish" deep in his hollow
Body. An elemental appetite.

So, he left the
Always-dark,
The "World".
He crawled up. In the absence of
What was always nothing.

Distant drum of expanding light
Radiated, circling and enveloping
Him in wide and open crushing arms.
He sat bent down in front of the light.
Facing dancing patterns under
Moist soil, jutted crumpled grass,
Or in his own lumpen mass, mishapen,
Silhouette always in his sight.

Before he felt the form and finish of the
Not-always, the casted spells in crevice and
Under stone held comfort.

Now, he traces them with swollen
Weary eyes. They seem void and
Vapid.
Bulbous echoes ****** permeously,
Abdomen seething desperately.

No glooping sustenance
Force-fed and welcome came.

It signalled distant pin-drop time-before.

Blindly, he burdened sagging limbs;
Face gnawing into dirt and worm and grass.

Screeching solitude kept his fingers clawing,
Raw and thin, now punctures permeate:
Tiny everything always everywhere
At him all at once.

He mounted his haggard body,
Tugging at his wilted stalks,
Imploring them to save him.



In distant tones
A hollow echo
Of broken speech
Disperses past him
Huddled shadow, hunched
Under rugged oak tree

Carp swim in darting
Pummels, refracted scales
Shining rainbow
Droplets

Shimmering on the shifting surface
Was him, an-other face, unknown and
Alien: crinkled with crevices and dark
Swollen eyes.

His ear twitches:
Voice. Dripping
With full-throated
Fervor

He turns to face
An-other man
Distant shadow
On the horizon
Waving disjointed
Stick-like appendage
Silhouetted by the
Setting sun.
He awoke: swollen passivity; embraced in
Canvasing warmth. An-other stood taut.

Now they folded over him, caressing him,
In his sagged skeletal frame. Embroiling him
In frantic whispers. They held his sunken
Face: wet with old-worn sobs and tears and
Shouts and fears, primal moans and hunger.

He turned to look into an-other's eyes:
His brimming.

Next he would come to see
The things themselves.
Cloaked hands would then
Bring the smothered dark.
With their cold recess filled
With warm gritty mush. Glooping
Sustenance is received gleefully.
Pumped thrice, leaving him messy
And grooling.
After the shadows consume
The screen, sleep comes wistfully:

Hollow echoes of broken speech
And absences, dimly cast on a
Pulsating orange backdrop.

.pindrop memories a light clatter of meaning.

Cocoon warmth, pulsating orange glow,
Speckled red vines, muffled laughter, voices
And red pain.

.seeking: towards-which.
His fabric blinker eventually
Disappears into the ground.


Chains unlocked
And left sagging
Next to sagging man.
His folded appendages began to unravel;
He stood. And turned to look
For the effulgence
That gives the
Absence
Meaning.

Splayed
In crescent line
Blinded figure-like
"Stones" are balled and
Passive. Shadows: lifeless. Dim
And vague embers splutter behind
Him. A dark, rectangular slab is silhouetted

By the licking flame:
Tucked and rearing.


Ahead, a passage;
Dark and comforting.

He shifted slowly,

And curls.
Eventually, "sun" rises
And parading echoes
Perform melancholy
Dances.

When "moon" dips below
And the "world" is empty
He waits agape for filling
Slush.

None came.

Empty, his wire frame
Activates and drags him,
Clawing on felt sand,
Carpeting carved stone and
Block stairs leading to the:

Open
To the:
Not-always.

Depleted limbs collapse
Onto muffled flat stone.
A slightly darker crevice
Offered him solace.

Here, cornered up, pressed
Against cold and wet,
Sleep came dutifully.
Piercing,
Searing,
Savage spikes,
Sudden and swift
In its sordid violent damagings.

Holy fire lit him aflame.

Blinding light
Engulfing him in
Crackling static.
He assimilated deep in the foot of his
Nuzzling slab. Solid shadows stretched
Below. More true to him than the infinite
White heat that cast them in vast strokes.

He sat face-down, between two
Scrunched twigs; bent like
Mantis' claws. He held his
Eyes-open, absorbed into
His own shadow, now crisp.
Not fuzzy and undefined.
The "world" always recurs.
Soon, his own silhouette will
Return to its silent delineation.

And he can creep in cold
Trepidation, back to the
always-dark, the "world",
The always-tickling-tension.
Incessant broiling battering:
Millions and millions of tiny
Drops fracture malleable concrete.
Making children sprint
And adults cower
Under shelter.

Deep echoing bellows.

The catharsis of the sky.
Rained a little today
Phenomenological Jan 2018
Finding the words to let flow –
Such a difficult thing to know –
To accept the fact that they may be inadequate
Or that your failings may be more than simply adequate
For opening up your mind and soul
To allow the world to know
More about yourself – than you would deem
To know about yourself – a whisper to an insight
More profound and more elaborate than the whole worlds sight –

So find yourself, in a pitied endeavour,
A repetitive task that scrounges the dirt like
A beast of some withered forest path
Screeching an echoed laugh
Your words floating, oh nothing worth mentioning
Across to nothing worthy to mention
A harrowing dimension
Of endings, non-existing,
Calming yet sadistic
Feeling oh so reminiscent
Of paths beyond reminiscence
And rambles that hold no meaning
Beyond the words at their conceiving

So don’t reconcile yourself
You ****** defender
You’re nothing but a severed member  
A piece of soul so worth forgetting
That the soul troubles existence
In a setting beyond that which can reconcile
The peace in your heart, you imbecile
Leave me in a peace worth forgetting.
Which is which?
The collective is composed of the singular
Yet when you take a step back and see
It is more than composed of singular
Rather, singularity is absorbed into the collective
Singularity cannot exist within collective
For it is collective
So be absorbed by it
Only then,
Can you truly see
The singular
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