It's always two minutes to midnight,
and we're always in the Garden of Gethsemane.  
I don't remember when
moonlight started to burn like this, but
it seems like this is all there is, maybe all
there ever was, ever will be.
The brain has never felt more like
spoiling meat, nor the excoriated soul itself
more reassuringly transient,
as we dance these slow, sad waltzes
with mute, irradiated ghosts
beneath the branches of the doveless olive trees.
The night is sharp with splinters and iodine
and other traumas.  Muffled voices, raised
in song: listen! they are singing inside
the fallout shelters.   Ash drifts like
apple blossom.  Wolf skeletons relearn the
ability to howl.  Everything we fear
is inevitable.  Much of it has
already happened.  And maybe tomorrow
won't bring betrayal, crucifixion or torture, just
something else,
something like agony,
I guess.

Part I

Out of death,
My shallow grave,
I rise.

My eyes
With godlike vision,
They can see through

The dark
The gloom
And the mind.

Lonely is the road,
tread by wheels,
Watching them go.

Spectrum of colors,
Halo's gold,
All fading into oblivion.

Vacant houses,
keeping - lost words
- in

Lines that cross faces,
so familiar,
Don't write their names.

No recollection
of the light
in their eyes.

Captain of the Titanic,
Sail on.
My skin is cold.

Stale blood running
in veins,
I can't help but to overhear.

Roses on a wooden box.
The world is dying,
I remain.

Part II

Of eternal life
and punishment,
I confess:

The sin
of Nostalgia
in my static heart-

For longing
to burn
down the world,

Not for creation
of new
in the ashes,

but for destruction,
that will
end all destruction,

for one last collision
of life and death
joined into one.

black and fuzzy and walking through a vivid nightmare of things moved around and skewed. rushing and a sharp zephyr that grazes your skin and rustles your hair. its incredible. there is bright light. burning my retinas and pushing on my brain.

i walked around again last night. pulsing in the temples and sniffing e+++rs or whatever you call them now. the urge to binge boils in the pit of my stomach.

infinite visions of infinite timelines of infinite versions of me and myself and everyone around me. my bougainvillea froze and slowly obliterated my memory. the page turns and the blur comes to wipe out the color from my eyes, shut now, fractals danced and the phosphenes came. then stuttering im coming out of it. what?

is this? what is this? another shallow poem that considers itself? low art on the internet begging to go viral? an avant garde approach at a genre begging for something new? just a puff of smoke?

the yellow is nice it takes the sterility of my surroundings the color of it all drained and depleted. at night I choose the sterility and let the colors sharpen and blast.

the smell of earth. that dirt and wind smell from the rain and the loamy soil. the imagery and lucidity glows in the background. feeding on my periphery. come and whisper with me.