The cosmos is deaf,
and mute, too.

We are the beings
who strut about
muttering words
we turn into stories.

We then call these tales
our lives and blame
them on the cosmos.

The cosmos can't hear
our pathetic laments
and wouldn't care
if it could.

It is too busy
just being the cosmos.

~ mce

Tonight the moon stalks my steps,
it watches me with baleful stare
daring me to break my pact.

I know it wants a sacrifice
a body laid out on ice.
But I dare to return your stare.

These iron bars cast lines.
Lines I cannot cross.
Crimes enshrined in moonlight.

You stalk my mind, my soul, my dreams.
You keen to me, to be seen.
You beg more bad to be done, you stalk me when there's none.

My life, this pantomime

Still cold water
Clear dark skies
im your daughter
with sorrow filled eyes

Vanish into the void of they heaven
for thou wert never, nor shalt thou ever be
yes the acme of human perfection
into the eyes of delusion you will see

we know not
we shall know
what was lost
and gain control

the dark lord wipes those tears from her eyes
we have seen pride glorified as days go by
Demons live inside me from wickedness done

so who does that make me?
am I one person?

or six?

do you exist?
or are you some twisted nightmare I live again and again

if I **** myself, will I die? Or wake up to the next circle of hell?

if I'm delusional
where does my reality stand?

up to the end of the long, dark tunnel she walked up,
a thought occurred for a second"None waits for me here"
and she walks back; a dark apparition waiting her arrival
gets wild and tries to chase her, but by now, she found
the light was on the other end of the tunnel, from where
she started, "Which was that sweet voice that spoke within me?"
embracing the light she nearly missed, now she wonders!

There’s a guy I know
Who’s into spirits,
And not the liquid kind.
He stares sidelong at the world,
Twists his head from side to side.
Imagine what he might find.

Vampires drink wine in Soho,
Sipping from fluted necks
In late night **** stores.
Werewolves run Hyde park ragged,
Robed in riches turned to rags,
If only in the lunar mind.

Police pigs snuffling
Through street trash,
Hunting for him shaped treats.
Televisions watching
His living room and recording
Names and faces of all his kind.

The media he scorns,
Puppet masters pulling strings
For their puppet masters.
The government and the media
Are in it together he opines,
Waving a rag with that in mind.

Aliens control the government,
Sinking sinuous senses
Through simian skulls;
Prodding, poking, pulling
Political factions to provoke
A return of the fleet they left behind.

Codes in hoods hide in churches,
Linking mathematical shapes
To chain centuries of history;
Statues wink and leer at
Myopic armchair men and women
Hunting for the doom of mankind.

Millions of rubes bought over
Shop counters using nonesuch
To sell their souls for trinkets;
Illuminati design adverts,
Flashing commercials;
****** for the public in mind.

Big name pharmaceutical
Selling death at a point
For the sake of profit over parent;
Buying stats to lie to the mass,
Doctors demanding dummies
Despite the way the stars aligned.

Taken for a ride,
We queue with tickets in hand
Waiting for our turn on the rails.

Lie on lie on lie.

He sleeps with one eye on the sky.

Tracking cameras on a road sign.

This guy I know,
He thinks too much.
I don’t mind.

She wanted a child  .  .  .
Rushed from one suitor to next,
  .  .  .  Clock set to maybe.

Appeal to their projections

Be a figment of their imagination

Fill the voids they can’t seem to fill in themselves

Fulfill their unconscious unmet needs

Give them the worth they crave from within

All of this, while being physically attractive too —

So attractive in fact, the projections get lost in lust and rationalisations

Settled in days of wine without rose
And forever nows we trudged along,
Making our way to the ordinary
Greeting of the always new.
For we always knew, our time
Together was but a means,
Of make believes and almost
Alrights, a travelogue to nos
In destinations of plain, we spoke
To each other as if then never was,
We drank coffee in meeting places,
Where grown ups frequent as they
Barter to themselves, in cursory
Smiles and similes unsaid, for they,
As us, knew that no future would arrive                                                
As we numbered to each in numbness
Searching for one breakaway day,
Seeking to blind ourselves looking
For what was already, maybe there.
How timeless is a child in fantasy?
What play dates we revel in,
With others we do not know?
This is a song we played, we played
At being joined, as if our lives
Depended on it.