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my brain is rotting inside my head
visions of my death
creatures from hell
pestilence swarm around me
while screeching memories burst through
the sutures of my skull
i fall through the seven layers of heaven
back onto this earth
a ****** soul forsaken
i call out to god
but only hear back from satan
The bull stands at thee.
Quickly but yet - no stampede.
Crashing - of the sun.
Elena Mustafa Sep 30
Every time
I have a
At the odd
I see the white flash
Or the angel
Indicating thats its
A prophetic dream
Not just a nightmare
Norman Crane Sep 23
Bodies jostle toward the heatsource,
Foot stomp, elbowed in the rib,
Muttering voices hoarse, exhale mists
That swirl like deadmen's ashes in the wind.
Pale lumina saturates the cinder skies,
Under which the aged remember
The suns of former lives,
Their memories the glowing solitary embers
Of a world we've left behind.
Ahead, a mother veils her babe with rags
From a passer-by's ravenous gaze.
A man automatously drags
A rattle-bag of assorted human remains,
Leaving trails in the dirt,
Leaving trails in the dirt.
We have splintered apart the frame
Of this landscape of hellpain,
Against smokestack sequoias and asphalt seas,
We stumble toward the crematoria.
My God, the coldness hurts!
As upon the canvas of this frozen Earth
We enact the terminus of human innovation,
The burning of every breath,
The engineered suicide of civilization.
Out, out, brief candle,
said Macbeth.
Into the cull chamber I step,
Hoping there at least I will find warmth,
In death.
Norman Crane Sep 14
You and I canoe down neon waterfalls,
Smelling cinnamon and sinsemilla,
Through sockets cascading melted eyeballs,
Intermixed with honey and vanilla,
We push paddle towards combusting shores,
Cloaked in pellucid smoke and glimmer mist,
Black sky alive with buzzing glowbug spores,
We must inhale to know that we exist,
But what if the hazy vapor-stew's too thick,
Paddles stick: viscosity of time,
When the sporal secretions make us sick,
What will become of the horizon line,
Will it burn to charcoal reality
Or conjure us sublime finality?
Chad Young Sep 12
O diver, crush this body of union, to possess
a greater diamond.
Alas, all earthly joy is crushed by the wet
All spirituality seems to turn back to the
Spiritual images, though seen, are not felt.
Spirit only reaches out, but finds just another
human, some invisible princess to grasp with its
Should I pray, meditate, study, practice, smoke, or do nothing.
I hear the piano playing softly
pulling me from these rutted plains
into a moist green meadow
a vision of a flowing brook down the hill
makes me believe the words of the Prophet:
“Your old men will dream dreams, your young men will see visions.”
yes, I am old, but I see and feel the rising gentle treble notes
lighten my leaded limbs
awaken my spirit
and ****** me into the realms.
It is the touch and glide of the pianist’s fingers
across the ivory skin of the keys
that transports me
in the waning hours of this day.
How sweet it is!
I started out this day in the dark valley, but this is the way I end it. Joy!
Norman Crane Sep 5
A spiralling ascent
Along the world's edge
Sweatdrops fall
To a below without sunlight
Boot dust
Llamas labour under supply packs
Hoof beat lantern dance
Shadows cast on the cliff face
Distorted we loom
Above the mute fog of humanity
Awash in the final dawn
The old Inca smiling sprouts his knife
Ancient tapestral landscape
Exhales into us
Curvously infolding
The old Inca holds out his hands
The knife cuts horizontally
Reality opens like a book upon a tabletop
There, he says,
Pointing to the infinite space between where the sky in the past met the land
Timespace lies like a discarded washcloth
And we see dimly through the mists—
There, he says,
Pizarro could not follow us,
And we see dimly through the mists—
The neon lights of
Slime-God Sep 4
A quaint beginning,
marked by visions of grandeur.
What torment is this?
the past rolls in as waves crash
along this dusk faded beach
as far as these eyes can see
into the vastness
though pale and fragmented
come back in glimpses

i have gazed upon these waves before
under a ****** sky
and i will rest here again
to collect my precious visions
when the Sun cries tears
that scorch the moon
and boil the oceans
what a few hours on the beach can conjure
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