Where, my friends, have you gotten to?
Now that I no longer listen to the call of the creature.
Were here you ever?
Or was I so imbibed I imagined you by my side?
As alone I stare, aware of my fear.
Fear that I held at bay with a shield of aluminum.
I regress to being last chosen for red rover,
A long way from the awestruck crowds of Dionytes
That fed my thirst and called me Saint of Taverns.
As mine eyes crystallize in focus,
I see naught but a wasted life
That I must taste un-wasted.

To where now?
It's not like I'm at a fork.
More of a spoon in the road.
Collecting stagnant fluid.
Rotting.
Plotting events hidden behind unseen horizons.
Skylines I'll never see.
I keep squinted eye poised on pathless route.
I fumble with maps drawn in crayon.
I keep ear to wind in earnest hope.
Hope of hints.
Hope of tracks in morass moss.
Some indication of somewhere to be.
Some plod, or plot, or spot.
Carved in my image.
Calling me home.

Is a circle truly infinite?
Or does it have two ends that meet?
Perhaps hundreds of beginnings and ends.
Music, Science and Magic
form a perfect triad.
Each two defining the third.
Like the aurora of Father Jupiter
making music with Europa.
Dancing like children in a solar wind.
Defying divine chaos.
Do your best to distance keep
lest you brave the eye.
Mystics trace the path.
Travelers... we fly.

Lost in a petri dish
Alone with a wish and a can
A list of excuses and a spinning thirst
First and foremost insatiable
The parasitic host of the ball
Falling in a familiar black swirl
Alight and ashamed
Defamed and demoralized
Dancing in divine depravity
An imp to the flame
A slave to the golden glow

Transit garbled messages
From beings unprepared
Train-wreck waves of sound
Divine noise and ***** static
The foul breath of humanity
Tattered pieces of mentality
**** flavored carbonation
Steeped through alienation
Morbid tears of laughter
Plastered on demonic brick
Thrown through windows to the soul

Toward the mire, my life,
To sink and to sleep
Weeping bog of lost intentions
Bleeding fog of misconception
A widdendream of corraded slumber
My bed of lumber rotten
Forgotten and untended
Befriended by ill-humored spectres of pain
Oaken cane in shards
Buried just out of reach
Remind me, worms, of my frailty

Detain my mind,
the rind my brain.
Again, again, and again.
To what do I owe,
this mindless dowry.
What harvest I've sown,
misery... in company.
I've the mind of a poet,
and the mouth of a sailor,
which completely negates
my valor.

**** my bloated corpse  
into a dance of devilry.
Deliver my demons  
flowers of condolence.
Leach my bile,
for a while... for a while.
Save hand-me-down roses
in grave anticipation
of greater nothings.

Latent mystic
rising through my fog,
etching symbols of universal understanding,
that none comprehend.  
What secrets have you hidden,
in already hidden places?
What knowledge have you escaped with?
What knowledge has escaped you?
And have you forgotten the hidden truth?
The one that hides behind her eyes.
Or is it, from it, that you hide still?

Despair is the ware of the weak.
To seek the pinnacle, to seek the peak,
that is the mantle of a true warrior.
To fight... tooth and nail,
to bite those who want you to fail,
prevail,
to set fire to the veil,
to expose,
to propose the impossible.
That is true strength,
to go the length.
To be... truly be.
To see beyond,
to fly with barren wing,
to sing with barren soul.

With my tribulations on trial,
I smile with the pride of a lion
laying upon its trimmed victim.   
Eyes that of a drug addled cannibal,
soul that of an ink stain.
Black harvest moon, evil like my fingers
lingering too long on long forgotten chords.
I'm bored, and that is a sin.
A win for the devils of chewed intellect.
Victory for the ignorant of heart.

As the crow drowns
Insidious profound friend
End of candor
End of the end
Rose roots and runic worm trails
Fail-safes left unattended  
Unmended vain tatters
What matters?
What truly matters?
Dreams of red in ribbons
Seething bloodlust and dead intent
No rest for the wrested

It's more than broken,
my destroyed vessel.
I fear that it may never again
run with efficiency.
Decay plays upon the shell,
death emits a smell,
a rotten hell of necrosis.
For this, my friend,
is my penance.
My payment for thankless disobedience.
A sense of burnt offerings
never offered.

When you're lost,
carry a post card of who you are.
So, near and far,
you carry an illusion.
Pressed between pages like moth wings.
Folded in a dry rose petal.
Locked away in a magic stone.
Born upon a mind absent.
I'll lend you pocket lint postage
for a never-where journey.

Prayers downpour
like cremated birds,
falling on tombstones
made of glass.
Passing shadows nod
in solemn greeting.
Bread for the feeding
of psychotic worms
and brimstone mushrooms.
I mourn with laughter
and greedy tears,
this brackish silence.
Then I pass,
just a shadow amongst shadows.

Bring out the reams of broken dreams
so we can charter buses to hell.
Do tell, my friend,
of promises fallen to shade.
Ancient tales of rust,
of lust left unsated.
Holes dug left unfilled.
A vacant grave for words left unspoken.

Peel my dystopian fruit,
the empty husk of my labor.
Abhor me again,
or still.
Fill my nostrils with hate,
a mate for my disgust.
Bleed in colors only dreamt,
secrets kept as seed for youth.
Drowning abjections,
pearls of wisdom kept in tight-lipped shells.
Smells of conspiracy and shame.
Is this what I was suppose to learn,
oh, wayward parents?
Is this what I was suppose to find,
destiny unkind?
And find it I did not,
I woke to it's rot.
Laying upon my shoddy pillow,
face the same as mine,
death in the eyes.
Yet, therein, still, is kindled
embers of lost fires.
Pitfall rituals discarded,
hard-hearted and fitful.
All for the glory of no glory.

To where do I traverse my verse of sentiment.
Sediment set in said increment
played upon the ears of a child,
wild upon the planes of plain immortals,
powerless gods, and ill-statured titans.
Widen my view to see nothing,
or, perhaps, nothing noteworthy.   
Divorce my discourse with abandon
meant for one that cares.
Stare into the bare soul of half-eaten fruit.
A point as moot as I am mute.