human,
not quite human.

like us,
they are forever frozen in eliptical orbit
of the sphere where hell hath risen.

look up,
they view tiny totems of prospective intelligences.
hoping to death that the intelligent aren’t indifferent.

look down,
green vegetation overwhelms otherwise barren land,
which they possess no desire to cover with modern monoliths.

look within,
technicolour images are held amid each and every not quite mortal brain.
for on gliese 581 it is customary to accept marbles as eyes and the sun as a soul.

the only thing they ****
is the darkness that defines the earthling psyche.

“does this make them human?”

what is human?

macabre menaces resided inside,
all surviving on only organs
and
reality.

the earth and the ether
were far better places,

the day prior to the outbreak.

before the madness..

like dust motes,
we were collected in the sunlight.

after the madness...

like dust motes,
we were erased.

When infantile eight-legged freaks attack,
I do not feel remorse that my bed is
littered with their microscopic corpses.

still they live.

Emerging during slumber,
my mind’s eye sees them creating
intricate works of art

across my nose, ears and mouth.

I see them using their precious silk ribbons,
to repel down my throat.

Where they will continue to spin insanity,
forever binding everything in the ether of my soul
to inconsequential, everlasting
madness.

“slumber seeks companionship from horror”

screams the tiny freaks as they squint their
twenty three eyes.

I cannot help but wonder if they are ancient windows
to twenty three tortured eight-legged souls.

Their tiny bodies are continually crushed between
fragile fingers.
a single ****** will not suffice.

I will never leave this waking realm
until my genocidal tendencies,
have been fulfilled.

Every infantile eight-legged freak must perish.

I am drowning beneath an infinite ocean,
entrapped within a world of chrome and plastic.

plastic lacks understanding of the way
that the wind has been blowing for the past

hundred thousand years.

the breeze has allowed souls to set sail
carried consciousness amidst colossal waves

towards crimson creeks of hate.

chrome and plastic knows not of the black or the white,
for reality is composed of repetitive sounds and vibrations.

perhaps it is pondering the peculiarity
of the projectiles stunting the growth of gardenias.

or perhaps it is simply appalled that
when we tilt our heads backwards
and open our eyes...

we are no longer mesmerized.

salvation seldomly succumbs to desperation
solitude is swinging it’s black bat at my ribs.

i must be insane.

all i am is a culmination of
things upon things.

i located meaninglessness
waiting solemnly in aisle twenty three.

for me to fall in love with it,
treat it with care.

allow it to define me.

meaninglessness makes me new for a moment,
serves as a symbol of my normality.

i walk along the road that my colossal brother
has paved in silicon and encrusted with diamonds.

bodies upon bodies are suffocating just below.
expired coal in their eyes, noses and mouths.

not a soul on the surface seems to mind that
silicon and diamonds seldomly serve as salvation.

we are all born sane.

it’s the neon.
it’s the money.
it’s the plastic people.

....

mass megalomania.

the girl in the spacesuit,
she haunts my dreams.

my ever-deepening thoughts are
building homes on the vacant plot of grass

that is my mind.

the girl in the spacesuit whispers her warnings

she tells me i am dying.

shows me photographs of the black
that i am riding gallantly towards.

on the back of a black horse.

the smoke is the only thing under the sun,
that will put her to sleep.

she keeps screaming to determine,
just how far her voice will carry.

or perhaps she is screaming
to someone on the shore.

begging them to relieve her of constant

seasickness.

because the girl in the spacesuit
is leagues and leagues under the sea.
trying to untie the recurring knot.

she is obscure, yet familiar
she plagues my mortal brain.

one dark evening
her face ascended from the skylight

of a crowded ballroom.

******* and
you.

**** that glass room under the sea.

**** the day that they told me,
the girl in the spacesuit was me.

I have always found nightmares spectacularly beautiful
and beautiful dreams spectacularly nightmarish.

For when one is awoken by images of
blood plummeting from the heavens.

They are completely grateful,
if only for a nanosecond.
To be conscious.

Alive in a world where the worst thing to come from the clouds
Are chemical drops. Subtle reminders of brief existences.

When one is awoken by images of
Their own unique idea of heaven.

They are completely disenchanted,
if only for a nanosecond.
By their own consciousness.

Alive in a world where there is an explanation for everything
Under the sun. Subtle reminders of never ending tick-tocks.

While awake we are mechanical beings.
Our freewill existing solely in slumber.