I’m lost amidst the closets of curiosities,
Trapped within the fibres of a page.
Desperately humming lackluster songs of
Redemption.

Straining my eyes to see into the dark,
Scanning subconscious horizons in search
Of the rocky cove where the sun will be.
Reborn.

My fingers are bleeding from trying to grasp.
The peonies and gardenias in my skull,
Losing my grip on the garden in my mind.
Shrieking.

Obscure obscenities as the angels stand and
Stare. Nonconformity has eternally failed me.
Garden nymphs move their wooden mouths.
Whispering.

Songs of sorrow and the skies.
Constructing.
Oddly-shaped windows of eternal insignificance.

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.

as you trod upon your floral dream-world
pierots on pillows gaze.
watching you with
intent.

peonies are being pulled back beneath,
the false divider, between
earth and fire.

barriers.

are simply states of your soul stuck watching,
divine totems decapitate themselves
instead of succumbing to
slumber.

the blades on which you rest end abruptly.
leaving only an ancient path within.
lost somewhere between dying
dynasties.

there is a hole in the dirt where gravity sings,
to cobblestone satellites scanning
the skies.

for more than a sign that knowledge need not be,
a colossal misconception...
transcending

even the most distant star cluster.

“Sanity is not statistical.”- George Orwell

The tour guide elucidates black and white scenery.
Unamused clients grow weary of following blindly…

Beyond the barren trees lies a horizon of dirt.
The patrons’ eyes assume a bedraggled trail
Ostentatiously drawing them into its depths.
Unable to sense the malignity; compliance is inevitable.

The seemingly infinite nave reveals a peculiar door,
Hexagonal in shape, displaying no visible ****.
“This heavily armored door hath been open since
the dawn of pandemonium. Enter if you dare,

my humble insanitorium.”

Their dreams have intruders,
Infiltrated by an obscure entrance
Remote in the fact that even they
Are ignorant to its location.

The intruder takes hold of,
their brains, hearts and blood.
Drives them to brink of insanity
Then leads them back home.

Metamorphosis: their messiahs
Were once smiles and gold
Now they are maggots, cole
And decayed linen for skin.

They are the peaceful violence
That occurs among the leaves
Existing for a short time in beauty.
Than drying up and withering away.

Obscurity is a terrifyingly beautiful renaissance
A peculiarity that rock them to the core.
The ghosts that occupy their souls,
And the cavern that’s missing from them
Experience is theirs to have or to lack. For they
haven’t much time before the dirt takes them back.

An elegant yet dismantled courtyard comes into view.

They.
Know not of the geometrics that seem
To have replaced the techni-colour trees.
Once overgrown in the tainted court-yard
Roots overharvested and interconnected,
A corn stock maze burnt to the ground.

She.
Used the finest twine, sharp and strong.
To tie her soul to the cage that houses her heart.
“Two mad rabbits were dancing by a tree.
Before one vanished down the hole,
I swear he looked right into me.”

They.
Watch in dismay as her chest is scalped.
The unsound artist tugs (she does not protest)
Bones shatter and he eats the remains.
Soft fingers caress the pulsating red ball.
All the women cry as he claws at her soul.

An aghast audience enters the house in
Hopes of a less unsettling spectacle.
A tiny jar sits on a wooden table, curiosity
Causes a member to remove the lid.

“To exist in the subconscious is more terrifying.
The flame’s lick the nimbus and I am calm.
An angry cockroach lodged in my trachea.
The soil is more sinister than it was yesterday.

An abstract design, the lines infinitely overlap.
The drawing continues and I try to unravel,
the circles and squares but I simply cannot.
They are now in my blood, a pentagonal paradise.

It would be lovely to hold my heart in my fist.
Squeeze it until the blood becomes a fourth
Of July spectacular. The circles and squares would
Be emancipated from the charred remains of the jar.”

Prying is never rewarded. The jar goes up in flames.
The great herd is lead to a theatre-like abode.

The tourists snap pictures as they assume their seats,
The Insanitorium’s owner makes a gut-wrenching speech.

“I’m wandering aimlessly through the in-between.
The face-painted crowd watches with open mouths.
As I search for and seek out self-fulfillment.
On the edge of their seats, waiting impatiently,
For my humble home to self destruct.

They gnaw on my self-worth, ripping and tearing
My well-though out decisions into tiny,
Unmanageable quadrants that I cannot repair.
The herd is well aware of what lies along the line.
But I strayed long ago and am of a different time.”

The applause drowns out the sound of the speaker’s screams.

The patrons are lead through a dimly lit hallway,
Another peculiar door materializes, triangular in shape.
The room is a vessel for conscious and unconscious ramblings
Of minds left to rot and decay like rabid corpses.

“Enter respected patrons and feast your eyes upon the truth.”

The first trembling hand finds its way to the door.
A striking man is seated, muttering cloud-cuckoos.
His hands and feet bound to the ancient wooden chair.
The blade hovers above his hard skull threatening to fall.

His brain is dissected; life-long deception is evident
The black cats in his mind are visible to probing eyes.
Sinister felines stretch their brittle bones; it is not
Long before they’re biting and scratching his insides.

Like all apparitions, the vision returns to the dust from which
It was created. It’s true home among the asteroids and
The planets that contain the same star dust that once
Composed flesh and bone. Not Reduced, but reused and recycled.

Before the disappearance is final, he chokes on his last words…

“A pearl that is flung,
From the stars overhung
Will dislocate like a plastic doll.

Alas…

One pearl turns to millions
And a million turns to dust.
The doll’s expression ,
remains stagnant.”

The tourists are angry and appalled at what they have witnessed.

They have not come to the harsh realization,
That in order for a man to see, his eyes
Must be pried open. Stunned into epiphany.
Become aware of the demon residing behind them.

“You are not sane devil woman,
For your tour reveals horrors of many kinds.”

The woman’s mouth contorts and her eyes darken.

“All entities, dear guests, hath been drawn
from your own mad minds.”

Will you please pin my shaking hands to the quivering universe and let me engage in communion? Because lately I have been feeling like a lonely colour in a soundless scape of unending sensation. Too weak to cling tightly enough for any whisper of permanence to latch itself to my soul before it gets caught in the door shutting on their technicolour fatalism. Let me tie my noose to the stars before they fall from the heavens in energetic heaps of light. I will tumble to the dirt alongside the hot white waste expelled from a realm where the gods will weep at the hedonistic horror disguised as modern drops of reality. Let me come to rest in the core, lie motionless among the charred remains of all that we once thought holy.

There’s a girl with a purple complexion,
Black eyes and stark white pupils.
Blue and white feathers atop her head.
She resides in the dimension within brown sky
In which the teal galaxy collapses star by star.

It unravels, atom by atom, forcibly ripped apart.
By a creator so elusive even the dead are ignorant.
The puppeteer left Pinocchio to rot and decay.
Salt water travels down his wood-carved face.
The girl cries along with the soulless rib of tree.

She introduces Lord Pathos to his hard knock heart.
“Neither ethos, nor pathos can decipher this knot.”
Only father time has the power to dismantle the rope.
Her fingers grow weak, maneuver until they break.
Time arrives late; the moss and fungus return home.

There is nothing less tragic; than the death of a puppet.

There’s a sale on neon miracles,                                          
Everything must go.
Half price.
Fake light.

the skies are bought by

Sidewalk Gods that strain their necks,
To see the new you.
White gold.
No soul.

brand name clouds and

Jesus bleached his hair today,
You must follow suit.
Cutting edge.
Still empty.

heaven’s merged with hell.

The skies are bought by
brand name clouds and
heaven’s merged with hell.

All.
The mindless purchases
The green leaves we inhale
The uncontrollable laughter
The never ending sky scrapers
The musicians in the street

Do not change the fact.
That we are all alone
We have all been used up
We cannot measure up.
That we were not present
The day the obscurity faded.

However, they remind us.

That our souls remain alert.
Striving for revival.

Your omniscient presence kills.
Burrow, Burrow.
Deep into my gray, ailing soul.

Intuition is a symptom of a failing system
I am, I am.
A golden statue corossed into air.

The livid crowd hurls their stones.
Running, Running.
Toward the spotless sunlight.

With blistering feet and blood shot eyes.
Bask, Bask.
In the darkness the dead do not fear.

The spaceman resides in a field of daffodils.
Pondering, Pondering.
Their effortless conformity.

Extraterrestrial eyes look into me.
Turn away, Turn away.
To face an orchestra of shrieks.

The rope around my neck.
Tightens, Tightens.
As I step off the wooden platform.

sometimes...
chaos forces us to examine the ghosts
we thought we had banished to the coldness of a casket,

buried deep within cranial cemeteries,
one last time before they disintegrated
into the obscurities of our souls.

souls which have embarked on the journey
of infinite slumber.

it was no coincidence that the date of their departure,
aligned with the evening on which the

last living butterfly was impaled upon a piece of cardboard.

no longer a free being,
but a newly framed monument to a time
where the dead did not dance with the living.

Raspings of the street’s lament.
Secretive,
commonplace,
hauntings.

Veiling the paths of floral regimes;
Assaulting itself upon a concrete temple.

Brief wisps of permanence
Floating past perception.
Coming to rest on ****** blossoms collected.

At the bottom of meadow-less time.

Naturalist bindings no longer
Only within hollow ties of
the wide- eyed, weaponized child.

Tearless wails for mystical voices.

Refracting
Piourettes of venus,
Dancing, upon a water- colour creator.

Gazing at home from the top of a sunbeam,
Failing to find mercy in a melting world.

He drags his ****** feet through the forest.
An apocalypse of peace, now consumed by flames.

All that is green becomes black as the mighty
Transformer inches closer to the edge.

Metamorphosing  destruction at its finest.

He can only continue on as he is gently caressed.
By fire, death and the depths of the hell.

The morning sun takes its place in the heavens.
All that remains is darkened dust dancing in the wind.

from the surface of the earth,
an airplane is visible as it struggles to stay a flight.

a flash of seemingly divine light...

residents run towards the horizon,
hoping to escape it’s godly wrath.

all technological monoliths go up in flames.

earthlings awake
to another earth just past the ether,
nobody seems to mind.

i tell them we are going to die.

i entrap my pale flesh between my fingers,
in hopes of awakening.

there is a library and i am in the centre,
beneath the skylight.
letting in all of those otherworldly fragments.

the earth comes back for a moment,
then it fades away...

as i follow my subconscious,
into a new world of stardust collisions.  

a world within the universe of my brain.

...

fall
fall
breathe,
stop.
deny the existence of agony,
or rather purposefully ignore it.

do not transcend, your glimmering
ivy-covered existence.
sleep.
in a
world barred between urban stars.

scream,
scream.
allow the tips of the universe to
extend beyond the myth of static symbols.

return to the room where men ride bicycles
cyclically
picking flowers for food under the afternoon
starlight.

the ostrich tells you to shut your eyes
...

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.

Quasars are very bright galaxies with centers dominated by rapidly accreting black holes, existing somewhere near the beginning of time.*

It’s already dead in its brilliance. Fourteen billion measurements of meaninglessness. Illusionary existence, meant to quantify the moments in which man exists.
Yet compartmentalization is a mythical concept to galactic nuclei.
Remaining outside of quantification.
Not needing its suffocating extractions.

A void predating blood.

Before the beginning of intangible concepts.
Ruling the tangible world of man.

We have perceived a place apart from the temporal.

Now all we can do is make our drinks stronger,
inhale our herb slower.

In desperate attempt to un-see the
Calligraphic scratches on parchment.

Confirming the fact that we no longer exist.
The way that we did…
Before the sad ghosts of quasars scarred our skies.

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.

the grey man in the stars

tells me my greatest flaw is that
i am both a creator and a destroyer.

and as the rain takes hold,
the heaviness subsides.

i feel like i’m waiting on nuclear stardust,
to make it’s indiscriminate remark on all of
mankind.

there is something calming about
electric discharge embellishing the heavens,
acoustic echoes plaguing solitary eardrums.

humility, apathy, reality.
their colours run
becoming one...
a sort of dingy brown.

i’d always assumed the shade of the universe
would be a little more obscure.

Under your skin.

Lies an undead relic rooted in beauty.
Submerging an eon of engravings within
This lake of repulsions.

Denegrating liquid
Giving shelter to the serpent: impermanence.

I bathe in a floral decay of interstellar emotion
Manifesting itself in your cellar door.

So tell the black rabbit that my eyes are still red.
And searching for clarity in this watered-down blue.

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.

Trees tower high above hesitant heads,
In the time before it housed only small critters.
They could not speak, therefore they were enchanted.
Now it is home to much more sinister creatures.

They expect the world to fit their naïve moulds.
When it does not, their sand castles blow away.
Grain by grain they are relocated by external forces,
The majority have an infinite amount of names for them.

All of these celestial men are not men at all,
They have no interest in our wrong- doings.
They do not care whether we chant their names.
Celestial men cannot see, they never take revenge.

For gravity has no eyes.

Existing, creating, remaining

In constant correspondence with

Fluorescent phantoms stalking
hypnogogic images of

Past selves spilled upon
A marble plane universe.

Fractals of shattered ether,

Taught not
to touch an all,

Indescribably content with systematically

Despairing hairs,
Rapidly engaging in disengagement.

Division of conscious accessibility,
Lately less than half.

Mundane introductions to despairs,

Rapidly devouring
   The residual stillness.

Folk compilations of concepts fabricating
Inquiries into legends of incentive for

Existing, creating, remaining.

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?

When she runs out of hydrogen to burn, she evolves off of the main sequence, climbs the sub-giant branch, and becomes a red giant. Her helium core will continue contracting and eventually, ignite.*

Of humble beginnings: birthed in light.

The surface of the sun expands, cools down, turns red. Death of a low mass star. Above the wooden clouds. Whittled to form a sketch of a sky, screaming to be perceived.

Monuments to an era
With less fabrication,
And more speculation.

Four hundred exhalations between ten million years of innovation and instant incineration. Goddess of life itself. Betrayal. Though her temperament lacks spite.
And is Wrought with inevitability. Everything evolves.

Visual constants.
All that is exalted. Our stagnant star suffers, a main sequence departure. Reincarnates herself. A hydrogen Lazarus. Painting for us a portrait,

Of a humble ending: death by light.

If everything in the universe is simply a cardboard cutout reproduction of another, then perhaps everything does have an order. Not a predestined order, but one that falls into place as the paradigms shift and take their place at the bottom of meadow-less time. We receive reverse echoes of things yet to come not because they have already been decided but because time is a mythical concept. Everything that has happened in the past, present and the future actually exist and fade out of tangibility simultaneously. Therefore, we have the ability to detect the residual energy of things past before they fall into place within our present state of mind. When something feels “right” it is because the moment has been marred by man-kind’s archaic , linear, concept of time, and has already existed at a point upon a temporal sunstone. There is no such thing as prediction, only recollection of distant memory.

1.
Moon multiplied in panes of haunted glass
Renewed in rains long overdue of pink, peach and white.

Fragments floating in turbulent concrete towers
Reducing the million technicolour thoughts to dust.

2.
Blue and white limbs titillating upon destruction
Of the stark grey self succumbing to denegration.

The grandeur is singing as we unlock
The catatonic mistake that we have yet to make.  

3.
Destroying what we had known before the field
Caught fire in oceans contained within.
Her single, sulphuric transparencies.

Lie down to rest in remnants of a world refracted in
The artificial sunlight crying hymns of fabrication.

Misplaced curiosity in solitary places,
Where forlorn cubes eat darkness like ghosts
Graciously accepting fruit in exchange for a wandering eon.

“So don’t leave me here with only mirrors watching me.”

Refract these feathered images I see of myself in frames made of styrofoam and gold. Sing to me cream coloured envelopes filled with artificial symbols of the world which we claim to comprehend. Burn the books we’ve read like bibles and demand proteplanetary explanations to the questions that they were unable to answer. Travel through time into photographs of old women wearing even older hats while caught in the rain on a ****** sunday evening. If it were not for their black umbrellas, the spiders spinning webs from the heavens would weave and weave within their hair until silk and dead skin become one. Locks and locks will pile up at our feet as we dance under a kaleidescopal illusion of barely visible stars. They will not twinkle, but whisper, mutter dark commands into microscopic megaphones.You will flee; and I will continue feverishly twirling until the city no longer exists.

i am no longer a dying species.
this blood is no longer my own.

i will no longer find fermented ****-ups
in the full blown fears that find me in purgatory
between daylight and the infinite darkness.

darkness is not quite an absence of light
but a culmination of all the light that has ever
existed within the ether of everyday life.

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.

Mother of madness
Spit me out before I am digested.
I’m choking on the acid in your stomach.

I paid a man to carve words
Into my pale skin so I could breathe.
Words that didn’t truly exist until permanent.

Their existence lacked truth
Or so the word whittler mumbled
“Truth in itself is a lie and so are you.”

It was this very statement that
Caused me to climb into the mouth
Of madness. Too hospitable to ever leave.

Electric paper turned to dust in a peaceful explosion of masochistic sheep.
Skinned to black bones, snapping.

As her chemical apocalypse settles in.

Falling asleep upon fallen stars under a dead floral sky,
shrieking in joy at the atom’s collapse.  

I hadn’t known chaos until you took my hand
And showed me how the world would end.

1.
Let us take the world we see and construct
a relatively yellow alternative.
Apprehend ambiguous sunsets,
And sink into the pavement of the paper.

I cannot and will not be amazed. By
the glass, But become a fragment of it.
Be eaten by its watery presence.
A fragile door shutting upon a finger.

2.
Horror fails to ferment in silhouettes
Concealed by plasticine despair.

Etched upon the hands
Of detailed
Manipulations of light.

Devices driving devotion to
Fragmentation of
Scattering. Extracting
Photons of feeling.

The city screams its insolence,
At a street too small to house the
Dead eyes walking.

Remnants,
Of ambient echoes
Across a galaxy of glass.

3.
Urban spring falls upon the blanket of night.
Stability leaks from the stained glass city.

Deceased blossoms mark
A realm of unsettling perfection,

Just beyond the threshold
of an urban inferno.

Mechanical coaxation of
Rectangular prism lives within
The confines of light.

This is a false stone hell, it says.
As ancient facets of souls scatter

The waste of a low mass star.

Grains of sand speak to one another,
Spending their brief existences; wishing.
They have been eroded from limestone,
Yet the illusion of their significance remains.

Grains of sand are smaller than driftwood.
Miniscule particles residing in the dunes.
Sand dunes are merely an element of beaches.
Beaches are products of repetitive ocean tides.

Oceans are microscopic compared to skies.
Skies are crucial parts of blue and green planets.
Blue and green planets are but motes of dust,
Momentarily suspended in an infinite black.

It gazes
up, up, up
at electric blue skies.
Inhale, exhale
purple clouds of phosphorous.
Witness royal violins gently weeping,
For their players charring within the flames.

Bits of eternity escape their eyes and mouths.
Incomprehensible present horrors.
Seamstresses sew sutures.
Inhale, exhale
Error ceases to exist.
up, up, up
It gazes

You will  find me  
Just east of infinity.

Lying in the grass at
The outskirts of forever.

The decaying wooden sign
Above the hard flesh that

Has been housing my degenerate
Brain for the past 18 years, reads…

“Welcome to Evermore.”

A town grown from dirt.

Where gracefully savoring one’s
Last taste of oxygen is the only

Way to take back the concept
Of being alive. Existing outside

The opaque glass box that
Modern minds maintain.

You must imitate young Alice.
And fling fragile fingers through

The looking glass.
  
This is where I wait.
Wavering just north of Neptune.

The earth is hollow.
Banished mortals scream from below.
Our space feet crush the phony sounds.
Unwavering black X’s.
Pass through their innocent lips.
They are the silenced symphonies.

Playing the darkest of hymns.

There exists no core.
No fiery depths to burn and rot.
Only caverns of black upon black.

Her body is hollow.
Relentless wolves howl from within.
Their earth feet grind them further down.
Pretentious white lines.
Surround the face of the wild.
The shorted soliloquies of wind forgotten.

Turn away from nature’s song.

There exists no core.
No fiery depths to burn and rot.
Only caverns of black upon black.

Let us take the world we see and construct
a relatively yellow alternative.
Apprehend ambiguous sunsets,
And sink into the pavement of the paper.

I cannot and will not be amazed. By
the glass, But become a fragment of it.
Be eaten by it’s watery presence.
A fragile door shutting upon a finger.

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.

"And his Blood beating the old tattoo, I am, I am, I am."- Sylvia Plath

Spiralling into nothingness
Grabbing for eternity
Longing for black silence
To exist and not feel
To breathe but not think

Becoming a number
I inhale my true self
Exhale meaningless noise
Obscure colours remain
They are all that matters

I am Insignificant, but I am.

The Children of the rainbow sing,
In tongues audible only to those,
That have stumbled out of step.

Their multicoloured ramblings scream
Songs of detachment from normality.
Standing, in a world of forever seated souls.

Their song is heard in the cries of the revolutionaries.
The drunken ramblings of the hobo on the corner.

Those we are so quick to place below.
Deem them the clinically insane. For
Refusing to surrender their thoughts.

To the man that stands in the shadows,
Collecting the green tokens of greed.
His fists full of consciousness to manipulate.

He has confined our brains to jars of formaldehyde.
Shipped our souls from coast to coast in cardboard boxes.

How could it be that the megalomaniacs,
Are less manic than the model citizens?
It seems we have forgotten the tune of the song,

The chorus of rainbow children have been humming all along.

No
desperation.
Beyond the blue
Eternal
Decay.
Beyond the blue
Mythical
inhalation.
Beyond the blue
sentient
vanish
Beyond the blue
Only
Black.
Beyond the blue
I am looking
towards
Beyond the blue.

the drops on the window whisper to me in raspy tunes. reminding me not of anything that i have heard before while containing remnants of every piece ever composed. their distinctly indistinct melodies transcend the barrier of my skull, planting their seeds in my brain. they come in waves, rays and radio signals, each scrambling to become what my soul has assumed them to be. i am more engrained in these sounds, which rarely waver, than that which is warm and moving. 6:31 and it’s red and black. is this all the light the ether has to offer? mechanical digital clocks and plastic glass window panes compose the fabric of the world that has been created within the solar system of my darkness. fragments of time and space or space and time? only the solid wood desk chair knows which came first. it’s dying to be that paper on the wall, flat, flimsy and unthinking. who knows the horrors that its aura can create as it screams to be released, emancipated from its stark white jail. how terribly terrifying it must be, to never be quite convinced of their iridescent ideas of existence.

Liberation is writing about nothing.
Nothing exists in a material world.
Our paths are illusions basked in light.
Inner workings enveloped in darkness.

Within the soul exists vast valleys of shapes.
Circling our deepest desires in fear.
Poetry always turns the words ink black.

Stumbling upon the laws of nobody.
Nobody in this world is anybody.
They look upon us and laugh at our naivety.

We were not wrong about the people in the sky.
Our error was in our belief that they were superior.

The culmination of the poet’s desire was an
Overwhelming yearning for mutual adoration.
In desperate pursuit of this arbitrary satisfaction,
She abandoned the miniscule red slivers she possessed.

She placed the bricks upon her own chest.
Lo and behold, they deteriorated quite rapidly.
The poet fabricated the conditions responsible
For her own glorious, life draining asphyxiation.

Too many jovial blurs had graced her now black eyes.
Bringers of the curve to her face grew frustrated.
Desperately, the poet reached to reclaim her light,
It had already been eclipsed by the ink in her pen.

Her messiah brought hope; tiny white specks.
Strategically placed throughout her conscious wakings.
Ever present in her unconscious imaginings; intrusive.
The speckled brightness only brought life to sinister creatures.

Creatures which would feed on her fragile soul.
Until all that remained was skin and bone.

My own breathing is audible,
Perhaps this brings to light,

The fact.

That I am aware of another part,
Of my own consciousness.

A kaleidoscope.

Of light and sound previously,
Eclipsed by my dependence.

We all exist.

On different planes of being.
Third, fourth, fifth dimensions.

Residual good.

Is the only path to redemption.
Redemption may only be self inflicted.

Infinite potential.

Is what every being begins with.
Yet accumulation is more satisfying.

Eternal beauty.

Is the perfect guise for sinister acts.
A catalyst for heightening the madness.

The glowing man inquires.

If it is true that love conquers all,
Bring to light the heavenly reason.

For all of this ******* decay.

Voices become one as the highs and lows
Elevate.
A million concerns mulling, synonymous
Conventions.
Her face concealed behind literary
Geniuses.
The simplicity of conformity forever.
Lurking.

There is no known reason, as to
Why.
She chose the acidic atmosphere over.
Familiarity.
Previous decades appear infinitely, greater.
Real.
Why is it that the present day is lacking?
Substance.

The mechanics of her brain cannot.
Comprehend.
The material existence of such sour souls.
Perhaps.
Hypocrisy is the only truth that remains worth
Believing.
For it is all that has stood the test of time.

I see entire galaxies in boxes,
Reflections of the world in a broken mirror.
Shattered by sheer ignorance.

Nobody can hear her.

Twenty three billion souls,
The girl knows not which is her.
There will always be tolls.
Please allow her entrance, good sir.

I hope you taste the stars,
For the universe is upon you.

Looking to the man amongst the stars for help,
How much decay must be suffered?
We're all worshiping ourselves.
Heedless and destructive are the infinite eyes.

The girl searched and searched,
Father time turned her old.
By the time she found her soul,
It was already sold.

The girl was taken aback.
“I’ve been searching can’t you see?”
She begged and she pleaded.

“Darling, If you left it with me,
It must not be needed.”

How desolate and dark it must be in her head,
Once animate ideas are now dead, dead, dead.
Thunder takes residence,
Where the sun once resided.

Oh what a celebration,
This society has provided.

I hope you taste the stars,
For the universe is upon you.

Even after all this time,
I still pray to you like some sort of God.

Half expecting to hear your answer in my head
Until I remember
I don’t believe in anything.

If I close my eyes tight enough,
I can still see the light.

Some sort of colour shining through
Against the backdrop of black.

Until I remember
It’s only leaking in from the outside.

Photons refracted against a hard surface.

Reflecting back beneath my eye-lids
Lighting me up like something holy.

Even after all of this time,
you still ******* haunt me.

Your specter lingers in the earth beneath my feet.
Sticking to my shoes as I try to walk away.

You are a poltergeist acting through me.

Making me think that you are everyone,
Everyone is you.
And love is just a mask you wear.

All the times I told myself,
that trust meant falling victim.

It was you
With your tendrils wrapped around my skull,
Whispering in my ear.