We're bored like monks
in the margins
of ancient scripture.

We want to leave behind lazy hieroglyphs
and accidental red herrings
feigning illumination

rendered by the deviousness of time
in its enclave,
running a brush of flaky gold paint
over delicate decadence
and sprinkling dust like a fairy--

we are to believe it is all
some ancient treasure.

We prance in the ether of the material world
in junkyards where we sift through the wreckage
coddling memories like drying uteruses,
realizing our generation will not leave behind artifacts
worthy of nostalgia's ensconcing embrace.

With that realization we weep and

We continue to dig.

I don't want to write poetry.
I want to rip apart my brain
and feed it to my thoughts of decay.
I do not want to think of you,
because it is evidently clear
that you cannot be a constant,
So I shall extract you
(and all the thoughts, words,
and phrases too)
from my mind.
You may not enter this home,
I locked you out long ago.
Your little petty games
did you no favours,
tied tight to immaturity,
it looked too much like
not committed,
so I sent it all away from me.
In this case, not knowing no grey
is an advantage,
I would rather not choose to
sedate my appetite with your
little crumbs of "love"
(good morning, how are you?
every birthday).
It may take years but I won't forget
that I am not in the business
of decomposing yet.

It's time now.
Cut back the roses
down to earth.
Cut back the canes
that bore the flowers,
raising brave heads to the sun,
Now, gone to hips
or browned remains.
A fading tangle on scrawny stems.

Cut back the canes,
sturdy but yellowing now at the edges.
See the old scars of past
cuttings, notches in the plant.
The places where growth ended.

Yet, new canes grew anyway,
bursting below, above, around
the stumps and scars,
or pushed, slender,
new from the ground.

Pile the cuttings.
See the brown, the green,
the yellow.
Marvel at the pile of growth.
Look at the plants, now
small. stripped.

Ready for rest.
Waiting for spring.

Tooth decay and
lie in cheek.
There’s a rotten
part of me
that
continues to
manifest.
I am bitter
and this is
why I
wither away
rather than
fall to
pieces.
I am a slow,
dying,
rotten,
seething
piece of
flesh.
I am pale
with
society
and intoxicated
from all of
the pointless
conversations
we pretend
to have.

News flash
News flash
News flash







nobody is
listening.

Death played hopscotch he threw his
touch then his feet grasped upon the
souls of mortal man and there hearts
were stopped twelve steps of death.

He lifted his cloak so to see where
to jump, one jump, two jump third
jump and three drop dead like fallen
trees they fall in the breeze.

He could play this all day the pebble each
one a heart, he lifts it up jolting in his
bony fingers and then looks as it beat
within his palm then crumbles it to dust.

Then anguish and pain the daughter of
death that help him in his role in the world
"father let us once again play our game,
He smiles and skips on broken spines.

Mother please, As decay walks over asking
what is this scream not of mortal breath?
Its daddy he is ruining our game,
off the children's play thing I say.

Death wallows as his fun is ended, and
once again death now cant end their  
suffering as his children once again
Linger there misery on human kind.

"My husband I no you meant well,
But children must learn from mistakes.
Now come with me and let us rest in
the earth and linger in corruptions embrace.

The gap between the platform and the subway car
seems to grow the closer you get to it
Until crossing it seems like the worst idea you could make
But you close your eyes and brave the void
Taking care not to thin about the tracks beneath
So alive in their snaking routes and tortured screeches.
The doors shut abruptly once you've sardined inside
And its all you can do to grab onto something, anything
Before the wheels begin to turn again
And you're lurched into some other time,
Some other place
As the tunnels decide what your fate will be.
And the doors will open again
As a ghost of a platform appears
But commuters be weary
For the tunnels and the tiles can be deceitful
So as you leave the decay
And the fractured tiles behind
Take caution
You might not notice it at first
You might not notice it at all
But the subway tunnels are unpredictable
And they enjoy making the rules
So the vortex you thought you imagined with the tunnel's lights speeding past the windows of the train
Might have actually transported you to some unknown city
To some other dimension
And there's no turning back.

apples lost
to early rot
first blush of red
on mottled skin
a sallow death
sure as sin

crow of night
crowns the branch
boldly pecks
a hole so wide
plucks the worm
from inside

Part one

Pull my love with me into the earth
Where all that is heavy is laden in decay
As all thought brings the sleepless sleep
Harvesting nature with words of despair that form the great unread
A hopeless emotion that offers no function

Part two

Do we exist as a definition of existence
Is this existence the gift of life
Or Is it our place to challenge that this is the will of God
As if life is of man without God
If I am pulled underground
Then there will be no light

i am hollowed bones that are completely pervaded with disease that causes them to be heavy. i've managed to drag my slowly decaying mind and my rotting body out of bed every afternoon but i feel like i'm languishing in some form of purgatory where i died a thousand years ago but my heart, although ridden with misery, is still beating and i've spent an eternity on hands and knees in some attempt to reduce the agony i am in. my suffering seems to imbue some sense of gratitude into those who surround me, for they are lucky they are not a walking corpse with a soul, aren't they?

My heart is wide-open to everyone but no one ever walks in
No one ever wants to walk into such a broken and depressing place
No light shines in
The dust, it collects
The roof has caved in
And living things have come in only to die the ugliest death

There are no inhabitants,
Of course,
Were there ever?

There is nothing important in this ice cold house
Everything dead, dark, and dying
No light will ever shine through
No hope will ever enter

And some day the wind of the world and its people will blow
And with it a spark sets the house aflame
They laugh and dance as they watch
This dilapidated, ugly house be eaten
From the inside, out
Just as it had rot
Something was let inside
By accident
But the house payed the price