people around us fade
long days wade.
And the clouds stay golden tipped
but they look upon a withering world with suffering lives and pained hearts
living in a burning nature
a shallow fog polluted the air and
arrogance engulfs the helpless so deep that they are forgotten.
We dissolve slowly
Extract the blood,
the metaphor for this euphoric movie I had directed under the fall of night, alone.
The film began to develop as the bottles began to pile
and thus I began to envision these delusions which I lust would become a reality.
We were a movie.
Especially when your smoke filled my mouth and you fed me love off worn keys.
Made me hazy it smelt so gentle it burned so numb.
Tacky hands rode my skin,
engraving scars of diamonds.
My ego erupted; became so ******* rich.
Illusion said I could buy your love
but your eyes were guilty of unfazed.
Debuts don’t faze millionaires, we just look like more money.
Millionaires don’t even watch our movies.
Romeo threw stones at your window
Tomorrow he will throw bombs and ****** you beautifully
The bombs explode with a fragrant odour so you fade gracefully in the smoke
He knows you’re alone in that home that once safe haven he alights in beams
You are trapped as the smoke crawls through the gaps as he once did under the sheets
The fire burns quietly at first as if it was simply his cigarette that he was lighting
Alas then it screeches and it reflects his screams he attacked you with once his bottle was empty and you said the wrong thing
Everything about this fire resembles him within the flames
Everything within this death resurrects his presence
Everything you doubted he was he is and he shows
Behold and brace the pain , this anonymous pain.
And it hits you at once, the flame licks your nightgown
coinciding with the first wake of dawn, the sun dwells behind the curtains and lets itself through the inch you left to separate the light from the blinds.
Flights home , 03:30am
Their teeth caressed skin like dust flew Around the room. Simultaneously spirally, unidentifiable and so quiet. His eyes never saw.
Their claws tore him open and his skin shed without blood and his bones were armour and out came wings. The wolves caressed the wings with their tails they were so warm so pure they did want him to leave .
He painted the wolves white and they were so beautiful they scurried in the woods killing everything and everyone who trespassed ( their mentality).
Their hinds took them over miles of land, such bare land everything was the same ; under the cliff there was water and they bathed until they drowned . They found wings and emerged from the water. They were no longer white the water washed them gritty washed them plain. He rode them home and they slept, under the moon which howled louder than the wolves ever had. We never woke up from this trip we are sleeping dead still until we find ourselves until the moon leaves sight until the wind never blows our fur again.
He woke up inhumane his skin was grey his eyes were stricken in the middle and he no longer knew his last lie. His pack lay dead around him as he cried for his sacrifice. He was soon leave and he left them sparingly behind he never thought of them again. Though they raised him he was not them. His selfish glistened in the sun and his isolation blew upon the trees and to this he bathed needlessly. He raised himself reborn alone, deafened .
back to writing
we pursue to confess sins that
have not been sinned.
rather than repent to ourselves
to bathe and soak in guilt that lurks amongst blood.
It’s okay if it keeps you awake
but sins is nothing but a disguise we put on ourselves
when we feel
that we have wronged the world.
We never do.
it’s lips poured spirits and wine
- fresh squeezed-
into my hands, into my system.
And it walks behind me sober. Watching my slurring stumbles
whilst an old sense of strength from inside me
poured from my mouth, spilling on concrete.
my legs fail me and I fall a trance. Into it’s arms.
But only for a sweet second -
and now I’m smothered lying in stone cold slate, it’s so nippy, the cold.
and it’s shadow blocks the streetlight floating above me.
Wait; streetlight is glaring dim orange again
now that it has dispersed away, down the pathway.
With open arms, it’s searching for a sober.
an old one, August 2018
Who ism “it”?, you decide.
drum drum drum she pounds
on my sleeve, upon my neck ; in my dreams.
but we adopt resistance to feelings that hurt us.
now I walk through this art gallery blind I can’t see but I think those paintings are of us