I live in the basement, never venturing
upon those stairs, I hear her voice...
"Come up and see me its been to long,
Holding my ears singing my favourite song
repetitively until she is drowned out of
my thoughts. rocks tied to her voice as it
sinks out of view.

I use the stairs that open to the outside,
Lingering looking at this place I called home.
Venturing in the old ford, she lets me drive
it when food is but breadcrumbs and eggs
old enough to birth the dead fetes of a partly
grown bird. I look out though a ***** window
screen, this trip takes two hours each way.

I always wonder if my bald tyres are ever
noticed, but I'm not hindered by the thoughts
of this. So much to see when driving in solitude.
I stop at the side of the road picking cherries,
I slump them in the boot. I may eat upon this
morsel or just hang them outside watching
them swaying in the gentle breeze.

My father just looks out the window.
Doesn't talk much these days his eyes are sunken
like the titanic splintered between two pools.
I move his chair and his arm falls at his side.
collecting it, I put him palms resting on a blanket
He's so gaunt now, he was a strong man now but a shadow.

I look at those cherries lingering above the ground,
shaded from just picked to becoming spoilt, but i
just leave them swaying the aroma fills lungs with
life's eroding perfume, I breath it deeply within.
This is my home, "she never calls me for dinner anymore,
I just make my own, the washing up is festering in
my ignorance, like a garden of petrification flowering.

Saying bye to my dad, I get in the old ford.
Its time to pick some fresh cherries, the tree
is looking unkempt. Its blossom is in honour
of a mother, I hang them all there. My
Mother hung there for a long time ,but she's
long gone. So I bring other cherries to the tree
to show that she'll never be forgotten....

What shall I do, while I slowly wait to die?

Make a time-lapse movie of my withering decrepitude?

Tell a thousand jokes on Twitter that people will scroll past in their own journey toward death?

In trying to create meaning out of no meaning

We come up with some really strange, elaborate and often internally inconsistent ideas

All of which are designed to distract us from the mirror.

Words float in lost eyes,
broken veins are calling me.

Nothing to feel
One foot in the grave
Tired and weak
Let go of all dreams

Sleepless
Tired
Dying
Extinguish

Days never end
Mustn't all life someday fade?
Meaning(less)
Empty and cold, I am

Sleepless
Tired
Dying
Extinguish

Biding my time till Void I do become
Dissonant waves carry my husk through rivers of time
In the waters of Nihil, grim hopelessness ahead
Take comfort in knowing that all life must end

Sleepless
Tired
Dying
Lifeless
Extinguished

I'd like to live in a small town
where no one knows me
deeper than my name.
I'd like to live in a small town,
living in a small house
where the kettle is always boiling
and where I might not be
so life controlling;
a town with no disasters,
an endless museum of skin
so we can watch all the flowers
break through the ice
we've brought in each other
and truly love what's within,
a town where we'd be smiling
from all the lovely things
said from all the lovely people.
And one day soon,
I might just have to roam away
to satisfy my wanderlust
before the hour of my decay.

Listening to smooth jazz
As valentine roses -not mine- wilt.

Touch the sky with me
and we can fly, fly, fly
away from these places,
wrong faces, all the traces
of the spaces we created
between our lonely hearts
and forgotten minds;
the parts of us that shouldn't exist
crying in their cavernous
pinholes, echoing
and rupturing in feeling
through the waves of something
more, something undeniable
and true. The pinprick
in which my emotions
are contained
is gargling with a blood
that pours black yet,
as it trickles through
me, I can feel it restoring beauty
to the yellowed valleys of my skin.

my heart is bronze.
patina ridden and decrepit
burning with rust and slaked with scars. it is too late for it. it's engravings are scratched through and through its middle lies dents and indents and doubts. Hollow ringing.
surface level decay.
but it's never enough is it?

it's never enough.