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Piercing light through shattered windows;
I wake to smell of the ocean and the plucking of guitar strings by the old Cuban man who spends his mornings in the hall playing for money.
Turning over, I found the indent in the mattress where you laid as the false fingernails and caked makeup of some other profession, smelling like coffee, smoke, and the yellow essence of strangers.
I turn over to my other side- looking for my wallet, digging my hands between the mattresses, I find that, too, isn't there.
I found it near a river,
While a million gods fell from your throat,
And made home in your veins,
I am no augur for this,
I will not correct your flaws.

What's yours is mine, what's mine is yours.
What is yours and what is mine,
I have a nosebleed; I have no father,
My father is dead.

Self-destruction is a thing reserved for addicts and poets.

Annihilation is euphoria,
I don't blame the addict, and I don't blame you.
After all, you said I was pretty,
Find me a cross; this is it.

You said that I remind you of a slave.
I don't like this one.
The walls crack and chip around me,
The paint peels from its home,
An old radio sits on a table nearby,
A relic of a time I could never be part of.

When my father dies, I will be the only one who looks like him.
I'll decay and become a relic, I'll be just like my father.
I'll be like that radio, the walls, and paint.
I'll be a drum made of skin, echoing my lost generation.
Point it into my skin and run it across granite counter-tops dense with layers of intricate thoughts.
Slice your tongue on appetite and drop the influence of your lover into the perfumed atmospheres of animus.
Press the supple horizon constructed of saltpeter with its softening fields and breaking waves.
A finger tells me this- a bruised finger dipped in moss, concealed in trees and rubbing eyes-
The city is a concrete cathedral adhered by iron nails, rods of fear and unfamiliar faces; a colossal fist hangs over the soundless clumps of worshipers, seeding them with deceptive ease.
I carry the finger in my mouth, and it trickles heavy sound into my stomach; I hold it in my eye, and it does much the same.
A "stream of consciousness" piece.
I've been reading a lot about the surrealists and I've come to find that I enjoy their form of creative expression.
I've become more comfortable with letting my subconscious take over and write.
The eternal sets roots within stirring sands,
Fraying the stars from their dark nurse;
All lay conjured by these penning hands,
Setting forth their sacred motions in verse.
How fates glimmering rains rushed over us,
And we endured of marble and heavy stone.
Yet vain as the mason errs, may he make thus:
A mark of the day our kin visage is shown.

Oh, found in the throb of every antique wing,
The glow and hollow in the bone and air—
Inscribed is the known day coming to sing
Of when we'd falter upon the bleeding snare,
After seeing these crests chide with fiery word,
And the firmaments rolling thorns play in ruling;
For that which dwelled, dwells still, and heard,
Of the fire and flux and time most grueling.

The source idles as strange in its weeping,
Yet the mouth, in ending, holds it in inborn wit,
And winds man entire, subtle and creeping,
To where his life, illumined, and faded, shall sit.
By this, be us ash, or the lit dew of the spheres,
The bird shall ever story from its great limb:
The two utter into one over the many years,
And from this, the Logos composes its hymn.
Hello! Those other poems I'm working on are taking up a good bit of my time and energy— so, I hope you all enjoy this one while those are being toiled away on. Thanks to everyone who has followed me on my other social platforms. Also, I can't respond to whoever follows or messages me on Tumblr at the moment. Something about their site isn't working properly.
I see you, down in the valley amongst the manifold of whiskey tainted beasts,
Circled by mountains and containing all the worlds waters,
Great steel beams which extend, seemingly infinitely, into the dome of September.

Did you ever look up?
Look into that blue-tinted sky?
Did you see me- pulling a drunk out of the gutter?
Did you hear the melodies I sang to the ill?
Did you see me- defeated; bending and buckling under earthy and mundane action?
Countless nights we sat and recounted a singular memory into the early morning.

I see you sigh and contemplate retrogression,
A mixing of nostalgic indulgences and newfound conviction flooding into the chambers of your brain.
I crouch, holding up the sky, waiting for the drink.
As your eyes seal away
The bright sphere, suspended, waiting-
And your back faces
The repossessing earth-
Your mouth, cavernous, prone to lie,
Says: This is not mine anymore.

And the firmament is
Transmuted into blackness before
And you're whispered above
The many shrieking wires,
And you're engulfed below
The sunlit, compact waves,
Without ever knowing or caring to know-
You could never stake claim to it.

Dream, all you kind ones, for it is eternal.
Dream, all you dying ones,
For you will never know the difference.
Come down, all you who are forestalling,
For it is time to give…
****** me with your sentience;
Force your grief onto me-
Superimpose your emotions
Onto my porcelain skin.

I inhabit the shelf above your bed
With my identical kin.
Your aches rest above us
In some place I cannot comprehend.

The shades of this room bind us,
And the spaces weave a common thread.
But I am not like you-
I am cold by nature,
You are cold by choice.

You frequently fill me
With liquors of habit.
I cannot impede you;
Leave me out of this-
I'm back.
When the faces start to look the same,
And if the faces know your name,
Don't pay it any mind-
It's just time tempting you
To always look behind.

And should you find yourself on the stool,
Becoming one with the air-
Your neck says you've been made a fool
But the voices will all say, where?

And you'll say:
Was I not everyone
Before the dark had birthed the sun?

Yes, you were, little one.
But whose eyes do you see through now?

And from the marble towers come
The sound from the ***** drum
And the old man who we become
Saying: bring your guitar and strum.

Who hung you from a liars tree?
Who made your ocean into a sea?
Who gave you chains and called you free?
And the child inside says:
Why do you make songs for me?

And the old man says:
Why don't you make a song for me?
Come and make a song for me-
Come and make a song for me-
Come and make a song for me…
THIS is my last post of the year... Maybe...
Either way, I have a bunch of stuff in the works that probably won't be finished until next year.
I hope everyone has a nice holiday and new year.

I love you all
-Darrell or Dillon.
The waters twisted, fell and suddenly conjoined
While the sun made the carrion into an arid shell.
Blistered feet are wrapped tightly, caked in pestled earth.
The light falls elsewhere- a rippling supper bell.

Kicking up clouds of dust goes tattered silk robes,
And away goes the ancient, crusted skin-
Wading and flaunting about, unsullied and naked-
Small forms devoid of our animate sin.

Exiles, threshed by being, with a steadfast obstinacy
Found in anguish, ennui, and museful song.
How they crooned of sacred hills, rolling into nothing,
And how the orange sun conversed long.

And they sang joyously of the endless cadavers,
Beneath those rolling hills and foaming, affixing waters-
And how the decaying scents in all prospects
Would grow and fester in our sons and daughters.

The song laid dormant in a starry sky-
Conjured in rousing bodies and secret gestures-

How their song rambled far and sowed itself in piercing quiet,
And scathed many ages with well-hidden despair.
And how their verses guide me toward an abyssal sleep
Delivered through the indifferent gateway of my chair.

-A suspended bell chimes on in unknowing.
Since the beginning of this year, my mental health has been on a bit of a downward *****. I'm not trying to worry any of you, but writing, as well as many other things,  has become increasingly difficult due to a severe lack of motivation. I'm trying my best though- it's all I can do.
Memento Mori
This constant relic
Of my dynamic mortality
The most agonizing acknowledgment
The most beautiful of realizations
One day, you will be a ripe olive
And you will fall from the tree
Praise the Earth which bore you
And be grateful to the tree
Because you lived
And so many others did not
You're mortal
It's cigarette smoke that hangs on clothes and walls,
Every man and woman burned by their neighbors,
Those who hide their faith, just as they hide their face,
Sad writers buried in an all-night binge of alcohol and the words of the dead.

It's the unexpected ascension of spirit,
A farmer who can raise an animal and crop but never a family,
The bleeding heart of a generation,
A poet from Lisbon who speaks in disquiet,
A trench of young boys in a bacciferous field.

It's Tolstoy writing War and Peace,
A million men who miss their mothers,
A further million whose mothers will not see them,
The early morning train and every scrutator in wait, as if judging the soul in transit.

It is all the worlds noise, drowning out the flailing arms and cries of reason.
You like wine, don't you?
I don't know-
I haven't made up that part of you yet.
I have hundreds of fragments and random scribblings lying around so I think I'll start throwing those on here.
She moved like a desperate tide, trying to find a shore that would accept her.
I admired the way her fingers found the horizon through an open window and the light fell upon our cheeks- we drifted in the space between childhood and the tightness of our stomachs.
Lines from a short story I never finished.
And, there, in the great dunes of the sky; in the hollow and eternal clock of gold; in the anxiety melding itself into the impenetrable and aching cage of nights which defy the poets and encompasses all in solitude; in a somber face with plastic breath, the eyes of alcohol and choking replies...
Written on a sticky note that I'd put into a book.
I have a long "stream of consciousness" piece coming in the next few days as I just keep adding to it every time I sit down to write.
After drawing my interpretation of oxygen, a man stopped beside me and said: "I am insulted by the curving nature of infinity; my mother lives in my bones- I have become her womb.
I am the sepulcher of my ancestors."
He then plucked his eyes and walked backward into the ocean.
I wanted this here before I took my little hiatus.
I wrote this very late one night and haven't found the appropriate place for it.
We are more afraid of utilizing our freedom than we are of losing it.
I was going through some old papers and found this.
I write about the world in an attempt to remove myself from it. Not in a way that would bid my nonexistence- but to be an observer to that existence or nonexistence. I write to observe my own absurdity.
I promise to have an ACTUAL poem out soon but I wanted to ask: would any of you be interested in me writing more short stories? I haven't published one since "Would It Be Honest?" and, while more difficult, are very pleasing to create. I know that it's ultimately up to me on what I publish and write, but I didn't want to just dump loads of text on you all out of the blue.
1.  Minds are heightened or subdued through the same phenomenon: the destruction of truths and falsities.
2. Disappointment is reality deviating from your illusions.
3. It is always hardest to convince or console oneself. One who does neither will be forever lost.
4. Those who surrender themselves to a lifestyle of failure loathe those who do the same.
5. Denial of the improbable is the denial of the future and the acceptance of an absurd existence where all is random. Existence is a confusion structured of probability and constants.
6. Life relies on our ability to form compromises with our illusions.
Not sure what to call these... Maxims? Aphorisms? Observations?
I've been in a bit of a creative slump recently so it's kind of hard to write... or do anything for that matter.
It reminds me that a new day has come,
It reminds me of the atrophied one,
It reminds me of the unfamiliar times,
It reminds me of a deep coma.

When the light leaves my mouth,
And you know my name is Eternity,
I shall be waiting for the day.
And I will be new and clean,
Like an innocent child, sliding on the afterbirth of creation.

Yes, burn my irises!
Yes, carbonize this frail and weak body!
Yes, make me **** and flesh!
Yes, fill me with a new and profound purpose!
Yes, I am your *****!
Yes! Yes! Yes!
In your room
Where we all used to converge
Where we played games
Where I'd sleepover
Where we'd go to church
All the fond memories
It was a ghetto, but we didn't mind
So long as we were all together
Happiness was abound
Then I went away and we drifted
Such is the fate of friends
Today I heard about your brother
And while the pain is great
It must be overwhelming for you
I just hope that something remains
Something you may touch
That still has the smell
So you can breath in what's left
What's left of him
And remember that he isn't gone
No one is ever truly gone
He has returned to what we are before our births
And that is the ultimate bliss
I lost a close friend recently.
I made this for his brother and family as I know they are feeling something I couldn't fathom.
I am grieving in my own capacity as well.
Hastening through a sunlit rift,
Onwards goes the moment-made drift!-
Run humming through this temporal cloak,
Hung amid sleepy trees, O wind of being!-
Take up these men like wisps of smoke,
Lift them past vernal reflections, fleeing.

When loft in morning or loft at sea,
Split them in lie and bough at every degree.
Bid them lay as mirrored days in wilt-
Perceiving their vastness as it grows:
Cast in all visages, mused in the astral quilt,
—Unfolded in antiquity and ill repose.

A weary infinite set in wander,
Yielding devotion to those who ponder.
Blessed nausea, turn to those who brood,
For they count the soul's delusive reach.
Oh, how that eager soul and still hand feud,
Even when beholding the swelling breach!-

In cherub lament, what must you do?-
Tread, and mind death—for it minds you.
If all is comedy, may dawn be amusing.
If all is tragedy, may dusk be a reprieve.
Though you sift each at your choosing,
Evoke this reflection: —laugh or grieve!
I told myself that I'd be back when I'd written at least three poems. Over the course of the last month, I wrote only two- this and another one which shall be uploaded in the coming days. A word about the book: I decided to part with my original publisher for a multitude of reasons. The plan for the book is still on. I simply need to find a new publisher or learn to self publish.
Downcast into the gutter of honesty
She proclaimed her affection
But I was unmoved
The debt collector came by
He took my urn
Still, I was unmoved
They inquire if I am cold
"Aren't you?" I would say
No frigid wind would move me
Age has no place in the gutter
Nor a place for backbiting men
I am moved, but only spiritually
Opportunity presents itself
New information to take in
All in the form of stimulating pain
The Stoic and the Cynic in the gutter of honesty
Trying to decide who is correct
Saturn rises through a glass house—
Faces assemble and dance with hands of iron.
Their lips do the radical task of thinking;
A whole mouth speaks and hears itself alone.

Some of them smoke their holy *****.
Some of them spin; others sway in a trance of amorality
And bewilderment induced by substance.
All the disquieting pleasure of company;
I flattened out on the floor like an offering.

Saturn doesn't crave me,
I have no party spirit to be possessed and learned.
Saturn doesn't desire me—
Why does he rain wine into my hands?
Why does Saturn **** in my hands?

My palms are instigators; my fingers are enablers.
My liver is poisoned—
I'm drunk, and I don't recognize these faces.
You can dance with the devil
You can participate in his jests
Absorb all the awareness he offers
See all the repugnance he displays
Have your sight on the abyss
Don't claim to be confounded
When the fissures begin to bleed open
And your ignorance pools at your feet
It's just the world seducing you to plug in
So you may participate in our jests
And lick the open fissures
And play in pools of ignorance
Come dance with me beloved
Dance into the abyss
Just remember to smile
The rain sounds like burning paper,
Dissolving years of organismic, wistful letterings,
A timid rat before dilapidated cognizance,
Urinating the smatterings of philosophy as fuel.
I am the killer; You are the German farm,
I see a thousand ships in a formless mist,
Carrying the spoils of vulnerable daydreams.
A mistake is a tender breast for the jaded,
The mind is a slave to observation,
The rain is a slave to nature,
Paper is like oil, and I am like paper.
The zephyr brings me high
Shears away the skin of man
Left my consciousness in the vineyard
A vineyard of skeptics and thinkers
My cloud full of seconds
A heaven in the faces
I'm defunct, if only for a moment
I want to ripen and be gray
So I can escape my insane masters
All the urges and choice
The concept and the abstract
I want to escape the vineyard
And all its abnormal substance
I was reading The Republic by Plato and I was inspired to write this
Behind the veil is a friend
And I am the black kettle
And I am a broken emperor
You have an abode very close to my heart
So you may stop it from beating
I see the peace you offer, a meadow of pretense in your eyes
I see you pillow talk the grief stricken
Just to slaughter the lamb upon the alter of revilement
And I see the dagger you keep behind
This will only end unpleasantly
So I offer a question
How are you today, Brutus?
Slinging the heavy wooden cross over his shoulder, he stood weary and tired; it was fastened to his ankle by a lengthy metal chain. The lights of the pier stood like ancient statues, passing judgment on anemic sinners.  As he trudged forth, he saw a small boy and girl sitting side by side, fishing off the edge of the pier. He knew them as mother and father. A thick moonlight illuminated the backs of their heads; A mournful sensation came over him. Maybe it's the dope that causes him to think this way.

Coming to the end of the pier, he saw all the ocean liners in the expanse of the night.
Carrying hundreds, possibly thousands of people. Lights reflected off the water like some nearly tangible reality. Reminded him of a Bob Ross painting that looked unfinished. He lifted the cross over the railing and let it plummet the thirty or so feet. He sailed over seconds later.

When he woke, he was still in his little hovel. A salty odor came rolling off the Dead Sea. He wakes as an unknown entity. A man in exile.
Not sure about writing poems in this format.
It's a start.
I will build wings from wax,
And I will rise to meet you,
And my son will burn in your grace,
And I will feel so utterly mortal.

I won't attempt to understand,
For I know, you know better than me.
He falls below me, a burning speck in the skin of conception,
I have the noise now, and the doors are open.
Stack up the chairs, take the train, lay in the grass, set yourself on fire.

I conceived you like innumerable others,
You stroll into my room and grab hold of my face,
You peel the skin away, shouting:
"The dreamer is dead!
All his wax peoples and wax chambers, a wax life!
You'll torture us no more!"

Lost children wait for revolutionary word,
The revolution grinds them into a fine powder.
The rich promptly snort and heave on it.

Pain in solitude is no pain at all.
Isolated suffering transcends age and memory,
Imprinting itself on the tapestry of time,
Bivouacked within a cavern of nothing.

My son is burning; solitude becomes wings,
Pain becomes the idea, and revolution is a cycle.
The child is still; peace is over.
My son is burning, and the world is my son.
This was difficult to finish as my first and second drafts were accidentally deleted.
This is more so a stream of consciousness than anything else.
I know you sauntered into that room,
Trailing just behind
In the sweat of your lover.
I saw the light shatter on your body,
And convalesce in the dark curves
Of your being.

I know that you were naked,
I know how long the nights are-
I know where hands fall
With no one to guide them.
I know your hands are white,
That your hold speaks with deceit.
Since we love ourselves through each other,
All embraces and gestures are empty-

I know you strum the lashes of the evening,
Hoping for some gentle lines,
So you can feel the youth beneath you,
And not be confused by your ugliness.
I'm sorry for the lack of posting.
I've been busy and I haven't written anything lately that I feel is good.
I've been lacking in the inspiration and creativity department.
She left for the birthing sky
Went into the rain and thunder
Rolling over the hills, the landscape entire
And out into the ocean with her golden little existence in tow
Singing her song into the breath of the world
Sometimes the sky returns to birth her
And she becomes the moisture on my window
Sometimes she comes down like white noise
And I'm too paralyzed to act
Sisyphus succumbs to time and lingering melancholy.
The wax melts, and we fall from the sky to stoke the daylight.
Stars go out- snuffed by the lungs of God.
Film disintegrates into dust and blows to dwell atop the silver Earth.
Mountains grind away, and the water evaporates.
Things grow from birth unto the end; frameworks of hollow people and starved facades.

Knowing these things- I feel strangely sublime.
Knowing all these things grants me a horrifying yet comforting quiet.

Laying on my back;
You coiled around my arm like a ****** snake.
Your warmth grants transcendence from all existential fear;
The dark of my bedroom closes in.
Let it take us, let it take everything and fill the spaces I can't name.
Yes, I want this, this is fine...

Light breaks through my window;
I turn over and kiss you.
We promptly become dust.
Look there, Lost and Bountiful Sea!-
For these bodies ache with calls,
And these currents decide who to be.

Sifting and secret amid the waving sands,
It constructs my winds with a cruel eye-
Oh, my voice- so thin in its hands!

I, a glance lost in the wideness of death
And blessed by this ray filled cloud,
Was born upon a long, passing breath-

And, dancing wildly amid these trees,
Spoke an old truth upon a fleeting past:
We live so statues may be at ease.
I'm not fully back to the site but I felt like posting this. I wanted to do more with it and I might at a later date but this is it for now.
Also, I have a Tumblr up and going (it's under the same name that I have on here). Feel free to check that out if you want.
You've laid in numerous beds,
Stalks sprouted from every one of them,
Endless pedestals of life from where yours bled into them.

There is your final bed,
A place where the flora of your memory shall eternally permeate,
Flowing- unchallenged, into my mind.

And when the resounding influence of you enters,
And I am overwhelmed with you, I shall say:
"Give me your bed, and let me be your vessel!"
Out of sunlit wisps and aspects light,
Out of sated eagles and mountain breeze,
Did they, in effulgence, unfold into sight
With delphic skins and raving unease—
O deity who splices that divine form,
And casts sepulchers from man's blood-
Even amid able words or whet irons, warm,
Does will hallow what arises from mud?-
—Fire! See those lingering binds instilled
In the sinewed and sinewless ones-
Enrich them! Perceive each as you build!-
Accord upon your many wandering sons:
A sum of creases, a new shade to be bore,
And youthful beat in the stain of your being.
There is your lamb! There is flesh in fore!-
Toiled and golden- fructified by your seeing!
—Fire! How stifling is your deferring!-
Savored in the sufferer's depth and doing,
And in the convalescent's long stirring!
O stars, this life- for flux or supine viewing?
On me the tempest falls. It does not make me tremble. O holy Mother Earth, O air and sun, behold me. I am wronged.
- Aeschylus, Prometheus Bound

This is it for now- I'm going back on hiatus for a while. I hope you all enjoy this piece. It might look better if you turn your phone if you're on mobile. Also wanted to say thank you for the sheer amount of support on "O Friends of Twilight" and my poetry in general. I won't be gone for too long.

I love you all,
I am fluid in the lungs of my creator,
And his cold hands hold my body,
He is full of things of the dormant kind,
He loves my mouth enough to put his fingers in.

Slowly, child- comfort your wide, endless legs,
Slowly, lover- I sleep in the river of your guilt.

When I fool myself well, I sing him my hymns,
And he loves my song and he loves me naked,
I see the window over his shoulder,
And his curling toes like burning insects.

I grip the edges of the bed,
And I love him slowly,
And I love him slowly,
And I love him slowly…
This is a song.
I've been reading the book ****** and wanted to write something roughly inspired by it.
I typed this quickly as everything was coming to me, so I haven't gotten the chance to re-write or correct any grammatical mistakes.
We all come the same
We all leave the same
The ultimate equalizer
Natural or unnatural
Shot, burned or stabbed
Jumped, hung or blasted away
It's the easiest thing to do
So tell me why
Has the ultimate equalizer
Taken you?
The statue bids a hand
The twisting arm of charisma
There on the bathroom floor
It offers the humbling awakening
A chance to be uplifted
A chance to be weighed down
To buy a desiccated soul
Covered in sweat and bile
I commune with the rats
With the statue as my idol
And the money as my god
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