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clxrion Oct 2016
Silky sopranos twisting thin: crystal notes
Spilling, glassy beads from a fat music jar
Soothing as the nightly breeze against our shores
Bearing new and forgotten scents from afar

Midnight dew forms on freshly mown silver grass
Slides down pumpkin cheeks to settle finally
Unperturbed as the scarecrow by the red skies
Rumbling low, the whispers of dreams yet to pass

The sighing willows still sway under the weight
Of the cold luminescent moon, even now
As it waxes and wanes and rages at fate
Whose warm breath yet still stirs the earth deep within
clxrion Oct 2020
Dusk's fire vanishes into me these days,
a simmering that chills the soul,
an eternal gravity of parted ways -
yesterday, a lifetime ago.
Those resigned retreats I have beaten, it seems,
have all folded upon themselves
in this samsara of half-abandoned dreams
with their twisted trajectories.
Words stoppering my throat return to the pen;
they come out all messy and wrong
in discordant collisions time and again,
denatured by decrepitude.
The alternating current leaping through weeks -
snippets of a life without me -
rampages, heedless to memories it wreaks,
feeding the voltage in my brain.

I have confined you to a prime number beyond my own imagination
to turn my blade on a yet time-frozen heart;
but all I find carved upon the blocks I chop it into are your initials,
indivisible cube roots of memory.
clxrion May 2020
this week is melting into the last again,
an unspooling reel of denatured days whelmed in a geodic cavity of suspense.
entombed air turns stale quickly, curable by neither smoke nor innumerable crystalline mirrors refracting the lightning blinking in my window.

occupation's familiar musk hangs heavy,
pierced only occasionally by storm sounds.
the flightless beast of languor growls an uneasy thunder
rolling adrift in a hollow sky, phantom wingbeats striking my temples
as I recoil at the realisation that my tormentor is my pulse.

lucent orbs of twilight gemmed in a shapeshifting head
stare at any number of absent realisations guilty talons rake deep into the void,
yet even this suicidal contemplation snares in ephemerality.
we barely remember to maroon the latest self-undoing consecration.
clxrion Jul 2016
The man leans forward in his seat, reaching down with bony arms
His hunched back jerks every time the bus jolts - often enough
That the concern leaking from me almost covers the empty seat between us
While his shoulder blade rocks against the textured purple grab pole he leans on

Bright evening sunlight floods from the clear glass windows
His sports shoes gleam a blinding white against his black long pants and high socks
The laces on the right shoe have come undone
Thin fingers wrestle with the half-tied knot, plucking at the tangle

Just opposite him sits an old woman with short grey hair
Her cheekbones sunken in a permanent scowl that reaches the eyes
I cannot fathom if disapproval is directed or a decades-long feature of her face
With clasped hands she stares into space and never meets my gaze

The laces are fully loosed; the man now loops them around his leg
Several inches above the ankle and his trouser cuff
They circle once, twice. Then they intertwine haphazardly
I am reminded of a confused toddler with strings

We stop once again and the woman gets up to alight
He does the same, inching to the door with a crawl - he has no cane
She scans two bus cards; he goes straight out
Each unsteady step threatening to collapse his bent frame

The bus doors close. In the evening heat she grabs the crook of his arm
Pushing him down the sheltered walkway of the bus stop
At a sickening pace. As the bus drives off
I glimpse a pair of white laces, flapping around black trouser cuffs
Almost a month ago this scene struck me immensely and I was overwhelmed with intense pity. The image will never erase itself from my memory.
clxrion Nov 2016
Two is company, three's a crowd
We halt the steep hike, me, myself and I
Solace seekers stuck with each other
Lonely yet overwhelmed and we don't know why
Campfire is kindled; we gather around
Rubbing numb hands and flexing sore toes
Nobody speaks as we stare at the ground
With its half-frozen mud and crackling dead leaves

The flickering embers hurl our shadows
Like blood spatters against the clouds
My marionette falls as its strings are sliced
Cosmic ****** painted on the dying sky
Our riddling commences on the next thunderclap
I find myself asking what it all means to me
Gulping the heady steam of trepidation
Standing on the precipice of the caldera of dreams
How can we still hope when we remain unfathomable to ourselves?
clxrion Jun 2016
Are we to be knights, valiant and courageous?
Who leap into the fray with eyes ablaze to drown in blood of foes
Or grudging conscripts, having held just enough ground, with
Sullen faces due the touch of the next dawn
Whose names never make it into tales

They detest bald carrion-cleaners so, they do
Even as winged beaks rend the flesh of fathers, sons, brothers
Stripping carcasses from putrid decay to liberation, clean-picked white bone
To spare their loved ones the odious descent into pestilence
Misguided hate hovers in place of black clouds of flies

Weep! Bemoan! Execrate! For all the use it may be
Brick by brick watchtowers fall and signal flames choke into trails of smoke
A portent; walls recede, the castle shudders and recoils
Screaming crow murders knell the looming storm

Are we to be knights?
A piece on morality and the struggle to grapple with loss.
clxrion Jun 2013
Lying on my side in bed
To the sporadic hum of air-conditioner
Out of sight.
Shuffling my legs under the covers
At filtered glow seeping through
Soft, thin-veiled curtains
Ethereal cobwebs dyed in silver.
I cross the floor and part them
Ever so slightly
For the cold warmth to fall just upon
The edge of the bed.
Pillow-view periscopes
From vantage point
Blurred fluorescence
Against expanse of night.
clxrion Nov 2017
A muted fluttering
In hallways hollow that smell of dust

A bunker window it perches on
Square slab of nothing carved from solid grey
Beside the faded scuff of a rifle ****

A still breeze it bears on its back
Between shame-stained wings
Waiting to stir
The cycle of the solitary
Into the company of ghosts

A gentle glide, the last draught ride
Down to petrified tomes
Stacked high and sealed tight
Covers trembling from horrors inside

It settles here
Where the concrete melts
Cradling, folding into itself
Less than life and more than death
A chrysalis
clxrion Dec 2015
Some grant release in the same way as an emptying of bowels
Temporal relief slightly soured by recurrence worries

Some as shadows unnoticed in the midday sun
Gradually shortening until they lie beneath your feet and
You only realise they're gone when you look hard
Maybe by the time you notice mere minutes are left

Others, as smoke; your scrabbling fingers net naught but wisps
Too hopelessly material to stem estrangement
Watch, as they dissipate. Surely and slowly

Yet not all go that way. Some waft back in spectral flashes
In random corners brief phantasms recur, memories of places and traces in people
You will be strangers with polite smiles for greetings, faux familiarity distilled from tenuous acquaintances

And the last we painfully hate and crave:
The accidental auroras, sky-splashed above the lone wanderer
Lullabies of brilliance and bewitching beauty
Your breath is swept along in their wake and when you finally find it again it is all that's left
A lost stirring awakens in your gut, a giddy cocktail of emotion
The sweet aftertaste twists to regretful desire that sears a cruel bitterness deep
People leave in myriad ways, one or the other. Sometimes even memories fade into memories of memories, dream-lined clouds of oblivion.
clxrion Jul 2019
The jogger stops a while to catch his breath,
a sweaty grimace painted on his face.
Perhaps in half-light it appears a grin
to others - actually he feels like death.
With averageness as his only sin,
he thinks, how apt to go in such a place.

Her memory is blank beyond this place.
She draws a rasping, thin and ragged breath,
inhaling scents of forced carnal sin.
The caked make-up is falling off her face
but all her thoughts these nights have been of death;
a cigarette will reapply her grin.

The old man looks around and gives a grin
at all his children gathered in his place.
For months he has been waiting for his death,
his lungs to finally run out of breath.
The ghost of life still lingers on his face,
a long, benign existence free of sin.

Bejewelled silky hands still slick with sin
support, neck-like, a head which wears a grin
that looks like it's been stolen off the face
of mannequins and plastered into place.
Her role in hastening his final breath
still haunts her. So it shall unto her death.

This industry is headed towards death.
They think intelligence is just a sin
and try to cut him off at every breath.
He finally allows himself a grin.
With this he'll put them in their proper place
and wipe that smug expression from their face.

The kiss of malnutrition on her face,
a souvenir from those merengues with death,
lies testament to horrors in this place.
Though poverty may be a fatal sin,
she bears the burden with a toothless grin
and croons her lullaby under her breath.

Behold my face! They all know I am Death.
But truth is, there is sin in any place;
I'll grin the same before I stop your breath.
All are equal in death.
clxrion Sep 2017
the slumber in the coffin of my dreams
is restless. weary whispers of the past:
black box effluxion, bursting at the seams
(they rupture violently until the last).
sometimes i feel perfectly fine alone,
accustomed to the comforts of the bland,
without another soul to call my own,
or living warmth to press against my hand.
is there a need to fill this cavity
with that which everyone proclaims is love,
as insurance against depravity,
a last reminder, Aphrodite's dove?
meanwhile in here there is but space for one;
hold just a while more - soon i will be done
#sonnet #iambic #pentameter
clxrion Sep 2015
By my own contrivance (or not)
Cloaked in some distant shroud obscure
There was a little fire (I thought)
Floating, phantom angler's lure
Will-o'-the-wisp on brittle ice
Beguiling in its sinuous prance
Waiting for lost souls to entice
With symphonies of fervent dance
With final breaths it doth abscond
An elemental Charon, gone
To the bottom of its frozen pond
And endless sleep without a yawn
Breathlessness of ebullient flight
Effervescent, long out of sight
clxrion Aug 2013
They vibrate for such a long time
After your fingertips have left
Gentle tremors shake these heartstrings
When only your scent lingers
On glossy surface of straight-grained wood
You touched my neck and twisted
The white tuning knobs in two neat rows
I know that you are far away
But the sounds reverberating within the space
Of this hollow beautiful body
Traverses miles of road and soul
clxrion May 2016
The lights shining right onto my face have finally been turned off. I double-check my bed's position - too upright and I'll have trouble falling asleep, too low and my back will ache. I ask for one last drink of water, but take just a sip and place the cup on the bedside table. It will have to last me the night. The man in the bed opposite mine is still on the phone, conversing in deep tones. It is joined every now and then by an outburst of piteous groaning from the old man near the window, restrained by lashes so he cannot get up and pull out the catheter leaking dark yellow ***** into the bag on the floor by his bed.

I drift off into a restless sleep, roused every few hours for my vitals to be measured. Your heart rate is low, every nurse says. Athlete's heart. It's as reassuring as the cool night air, the silent peace when even the mentally unstable moaning old man is asleep (he wakes muliple times throughout the night, moaning himself hoarse and back into slumber). The nurses come and go, gowned wraiths cloaked in the semi-darkness gliding with their equipment and medicine trolleys. The red fluid level in the tube by my side heaves with each breath I take. Alarmed, I wave someone over to tell me that the blood will not flood back into my lungs.

Mornings creep from the windows into the room, no more than a purple light that turns to orange, then white. The chill of the night gives way to a steadily rising warm humidity that seems to dilate time, the minutes worming into sore patches of my torso from laying too long without changing position. I waste away bedridden, lung collapsing further. The course of the day contains little more than still more waiting in vain for good news, interspersed with bland meals that I painfully finish, hunched in a half-sitting position with a limp left upper body. The ward comes to life again, a sickly bustling blur. The slow heat lingers several more hours after the last visitors have gone, long past sunset. There is scant comfort here but sleep, yet even that never comes easily.
The verge of death seems so distant it's hard to believe it's been little more than a month since I stood on that horizon.
clxrion Mar 2016
To err on the side of caution here is not to try at all
Fold, unfold and refold to stare at clipped wings
With the icy squalls and treacherous winds
Perhaps not to fly is a blessing after all
Tarry not, come whispers from lonesome depths
Subterfuge is no sin for a weary heart
To receive and not give and not come apart
Only the lucky and the naive dare take the plunge
Down the crimson stained ravines in which the fallen still lie fresh
Dashed on jagged edges of lovers' valleys steep
Embitterment on their tongues as the rocks on jellied flesh
Plagued with numbness by day and nightmares in sleep
Lock, unlock and relock this sepulchre of emotion then
Let me out of here and perish with these thoughts
Tread forbidden paths all over their souls
They crisscross like passions and tangle in knots
Unscathed forevermore, immortal be the insouciant
I'm not sure which is scarier, the realisation that I might pose a danger or the one that I cannot bear to care.
clxrion Nov 2013
dregs in the teacup
it looks blacker today
perhaps it'd look better on the tablecloth

it stains a deep brown
splotchy, disorganised
it spreads so you can't control it

maybe it's better suited
for the whitewashed walls
trickling down the surface
did someone cry?

you can feel the bitter burn on your tongue when you pour it down the sink
maybe it's better left there
don't look
clxrion Feb 2020
I am the hedged question put to a bland catalogue. Perhaps there is no right to expect anything more than diluted answers.

The rose buds are falling off, a bell tolling in silence, an uneasy clock slowly sweeping fairy dust with its bare hands.

Soon the paint will dry, congealing thick and fast on the brush tip it has never left. It is pungent as a rotting flower.

Watered-down doubt flowers, its roots grazing my conviction. I fear the simple answer will undo my seasoned justification.

There is little good in ex post defibrillations. Ambulances are not made for chasing after Frankenstein fairytales in various reincarnations.
clxrion Aug 2013
We were running together, side by side
Slapped by fat droplets of midnight shower
Which burst upon touching our pale foreheads
And streamed as tears down the sides of our cheeks
We drank in the presence of each other
As the wilted trees around us, the rain
Letting the poison ivy scratch our legs
While we escaped from those in people's words
With all the venom coursing through our veins
You untied your hair; it streaked behind you
Blacker and more beautiful than the night
I still remember - I can still hear it
The way our ragged voices would unite
As we sat upon the wet, shining grass
Tilting our heads back and howled at the moon
clxrion Dec 2013
Your shingled roof keeps the sunbeams out of your head
Greasy grime-stained glass windows tint your cracked worldview
Spite dripping from the meaningless words you said
Time and again it rears its ugly head anew
Tiles misaligned by the slow shaking of years past
Rusted doorknob yielding to splintered wooden door
Vestiges of reason leave your mind all too fast
Eaten by insecurities, razed to the floor
Graffiti and dirt lie intertwined on your walls
Fractured wallpaper peels away in strips and flakes
The answering machine inside holds no more calls
The dusty mould on the tabletop swells and cakes
Broken pipes and tangled wires climb up your side
As varicose veins snaking up your wizened spine
All your flaws leak out and there's nowhere left to hide
Groaning in the wind, your voice hissing "They're not mine!"
Your boarded-up middlesection is always torn
Wind-ripped by desolating gusts of delusion
The flight of fancy, the gloried facade you've worn
Hangs from bitten brick, a decomposed illusion
clxrion Jun 2015
Some scrawl the names of people present and past
Some drench theirs in pearlescent candied nacre
Shapes and hues exact, stencilled down to the last
Pretty copies of individuality

There are those who have it forced upon the face
Growing into it, it feels more natural
To don that dress, to hit the gym and say grace
Becoming the things they are needed to be

The flawless surface ever in flux stirs and returns to slumber.

Still others, indecisive, searchful, hover
From pile to pile, over fractalised discards
Picking out their newest favourite cover
For their brittle blandness blushed by exposure

Mine has grown inwards, claws entrenched beneath skin
Reverse quicksand; raking scars old and fresh
Valour marks in the battle I cannot win
My silence percolates. Outside it accretes

It glows in flickers of luciferous fluoroscence, firefly flashes.

Hope is but another addiction to break
Yet this air hangs heavy, toxic to inhale
A frigid gut burn with every breath I take
Soulful tremor smothered in despair's cocoon.

Fingers roam my jaw. Phantom edges they seek
Futility dawns. It has long disappeared
As have the haunting echoes of devil-speak
I have swallowed it all as it consumed me

It changes, chameleon-like, dissolving pixels on a screen.

Is it me, or am I it? It matters not
Its pulse fills my veins with something close to life
Yet I musn't bleed - the fluid does not clot
It leaks slowly like a punctured memory

Inside nestles the tangle of cobwebbed dreams
Silken sojourns unwittingly petrified
Quavering mutedly to my stifled screams:
You cannot, you shall not, you must not come in!
clxrion Mar 2020
A compass in my thumbs deposits me variously reincarnated on the doorstep of our conversation,
yet each time an infant wrapped in a different blanket.

Long have I pored over the spectrum of untrammelled human emotion,
spanning cover to cover in this self-forbidden grimoire prefaced with bearer risk warnings.

Now my tongue plays host to an intermittent rebellion of intangibles,
each laconic usurper alacritously poised to halt a never-ending coronation.

Hope-marbled milky shadows beckon softly with a sleepy seduction,
searing the remaining threads of her stitched through my fibres: a cyborg-like tingling.

I wonder if we have all along been welding another contradiction onto our feet,
birthing the latest excuse for returning to our destiny under the yoke of newly-minted gods.
clxrion Sep 2015
The tide of dawn breaks in a surf-slap of forced urgency
Its backwash the limb-snagging routine of mechanical puppetry
A spray of dazed haste, clock watching and checks
Until the silent road is tread under the floating pale moon
Nature holds its breath, still waiting for sound to awake
From bent trees hurtling by on the familiar asphalt bends

The first arrow volley across the meeting table looses
All nurse wounds, some incapacitated for the day
Dull-eyed dashes for cover soon ensue
In the dust cloud kicked up by time's dragging heels
Through which the future whispers of release and light
But until that day knees shall buckle and heads shall bow
Amid carnage of fault and blame and fractured logic

The hours end in meager relief, draining with light
Back to the roof of a shell no home to the heart
Its inhabitants look askance in the perpetual clamour
Eroding the final bastions of serenity
Excess decibels resound off walls too close
Tugging on sanity's tattered edges
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