Brazen rusted iron-scent of blood–
there, before him, a river of crimson and failed dreams.
No boat, no oars.
Just plain chivalry and bravery and yesteryears’ scars
that manifest all throughout and within him.

He dips his feet.

There were scattered skeletons
and crunched broken bones
basking under the dunes of the night.
There were ghosts clinging
unto his own ghosts;
creatures against creatures.
The tip of their swords
sinking down to his own tired flesh
in attempt to find refuge
in the treacherous wings of the forests.

He swims along.

And his shoulders were battered
and his mare was tainted–
with dirt and dust and ashes of the enemies;
with memories and silhouettes buried
sent flying along the caresses
of the north winds.

He gasps for air, and stills himself under the ebbs.

Under many moons and scarcity of life–
Scarcity of Life–
the recurring sight of the gaseous light
and the inconsistency of the breath-intervals,
he remains still and proud.
His soles burnt with pain and interminable suffering
as it crossed the stretches of the savanna.
This is his life,
dwelling on the dawn borealis
and stained with apparitions of the past
and demons and absurdity.

*He has crossed the river.

If you are absurd
And you love it,
Then you would probably
Love this tale as well.

I love to be in the nostalgia
Of the bitter and blatant;
No cream, no milk,
Just the black swirls and whirls with rivulets of tears.

And postcards were scarce
And you play Ella Fitzgerald
And drink seven cups a day,
And no, honey, it’s totally fine.

Delve and dive in the nightmares
Of the past and the disgusting cheap latte,
And add tears instead of brown sugar;
It’s the best coffee you’ll ever have at two in the morning.

Explore the timid quiet night life;
Hear the billows of the gushes of the wind
And the orchestra of the grasshoppers
Within the blades of the knee-high grass.
And as the fairies and nymphets,
Dance under the umbrellas and mushrooms
And the star-clusters of constellations,
Walk past through the lane where lovers embrace,
And you, all alone, with no lover or so,
Just have to fall in love with whatever there is
To fall in love with.
The wax of Artemis, and the wane of Diana
Beams at you in static cinema-like spotlight;
The ghost of a girl with a battered heart
And the dew-damp earth and rain
On an empty 10pm cafè
And the scent of a purple paradox,
Oh, it’s death and so lively magic,
Fill the night.

Pick a petal,
And pick another one
And feel the stardusts coming into life.

You deafen yourself with the billows of your mind.
The infrared waves ebbing
that crash and bang against your brain corners,
leaving blotches and scraps and holes
of tattered exhaustment.

My dear, you delve and revel into dark waters
rivulets of teardrops and insanity
travel down through your nape
as if they are atoms that constitute
your whole existence.
Clashing with the demons and phenomenal apparitions
that reside within your internal gates of hell.

Hear the clang of brazen swords
of mind thoughts and spilled ink.
Hear them paralyze you from the mind
to the futile pinky finger of yours.
Dispersed souls and impenetrable
stringed quartets of words.

Love this.
Embrace this.

This room wherein you caged yourself
With detrimental insanity that sale past through
seas of thousand madmen’s minds.

This is your all.
This is what composes your all.

Greater than the universe that
your knowledge has managed to stretch its feet upon
and all the elements you ever know combined.
Greater than all those fed up imaginations
of your childhood.
See them with your eyes,
see them and bask in its beauty
that has its venom sink down
to the ivory crystal of your bones.

*This is your all.