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the dead re-materialise by the side of the roadside
they are visible as though seen through a spotlight
it is a brutally interrogative light
that magnifies these corpses
makes them resemble the fragments
of suicidal terracotta pots
it magnifies them as symbolic equivalents
of their real image
its beam dazzles broken glass on the pavement
the breakage an impersonation of their cataclysm
causing the edges of seeing to hurt
and hearing to submerge itself
in a turquoise blue aquarium in fear
as speech sounds a primitive retreat
in its atavistic echoes of inveterate distraction
there is a disorder of blood stains on the road
where all emotional impulse is volatilised
causing a wild distillation of programmed anxiety
which in a different vocabulary becomes
a figment of somebody else's imagination
causing a sinister, stuporous, stagnancy of sound
in palpitations, dropped heartbeats, nausea, headaches
and a foul change in bowel function
three blue
three blue
three blue
can’t you
hear it
too
the unutterable
sound of silence
oh what sustains this mind

a mind that teeters

on the edge of a spiral vertigo

that sways and rocks

in an unease of palpitations

attempting to escape

from the brutal insensitivity

of the granite faces that occupy the streets

a mind of hallucinated perceptions

with a constant stream of imagery

that finds a difficulty in the self negotiation,

the articulation of its inner geography

where a frightened availability of disturbance

in the vocabulary of its chemical graffiti

leaves speech vacated on the tongue

where eyes are pushed to see

a discord of sympathies for different dimensions

that has one disassociated, cut off from the immediate

living in an inner dialogue

of rebellious and unconventional preoccupations  

a self alienation that heightens

the poetic colouring of the imagination

causes a ******* of the mind

that makes me cripplingly aware

of the abyss at the heart of my inner disquiet

makes my toes hover on the jagged edge of the world

yet I jump choosing discovery over societal dictum

to do rather than be
how long to live through the next thought
to have a brief encounter with time
an impossible time of intolerable anguish
where embarking upon a sentence
is a violent wrench from perceived notions
of reality, one that causes nerves
to flay upon my body with weal's of words
where vatic poetry is wrought in trembling rages
spilling, dripping upon the traumatised
parchment that is my pages
in de-congealing interrelated drops of image
that crack the pavements
in a visual vibrancy of taut creative tension
where these words keep their own company
and speak in interrogative tongues
causing a fragmentation of earthquake fissures
to radiate across my mind in a cataclysm
of universal poison that quiets and dissolves stability
and asks, no demands of me, what can you see?
there are dimensions of time
sometimes entered
not always of ones own volition
a sort of hyper reality where the world
becomes a darkness with red lit shadows
It’s as if time slows down
so it can be experienced frame by frame
as if the consciousness has become
separated from the being
it is the slow decent into something unknown
of which, at this stage
it is unknown if the author will be able to
or even wants to find the way back
for there is a welcome in this wasteland
that makes melancholy love of unknown pleasures
where all looks are concentrated
fixed yet constantly absent
and on looking skilfully
it can be figured out
what terrible riddles
have been created in the head
those who know when and how it is
those who sail in memories
who are terrorized by the imagination
and who get angry with God
ask a question a simple question
which is always the same
as is the answer
an answer that resembles
the rise and fall of cryptic waves
that ebb and flow
scorching a shore of silent sorrows
lapping ferociously at the
arc of a whirlpool within the mind
whose decreasing concentric
circles **** one down
into an eternity of terrible beauty
Pink, blue and purple pigs
Tap gently on my window
They have suicidal grins
there is heard an amplified distinction of sounds
smells of accelerated inner vertigo
a feeling of immanent death
the distillation of blood stains on the sheets
an impulse of volatilized emotion
that generates a different vocabulary
creates a fixation with a considered state
of inner concerns, entertains other dimensions
discovers with sinister undertones
that one is a figment, yes a figment
of someone else’s imagination
that you are a a fascinated but unfortunate escape
from a brutal insensitivity that sustains a mind
that teeters at the jagged edges of the world
for is it you… are is it who, an hallucinated perception
of the I, the we, the them and the me
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