son spreads knee blood into ******* &/or
sidewalk chalk.
mixes reds to pinks with head cracking asphalt.
of god & country.
of soggy bread in a lunch-bag; snackpack readied.
he skates.

the concussed ****** of booming youth.

omega he:
to the wolf pack outers.
breathing love of summer, he
is the son drunk on hi-c
& burping.
watching teenaged supersoakers yodel
on a bridge.
florida.

son sneaks out late to rationalize
the city’s features
under strange light & love of nightly people.
boy sculpts body out of beast,
turned dark corners.
arrives swollen.

his father erects a roofed flattop in the backyard slab
with flood light electronics taught to worship
the shred.
mother rattles the blender
on the kitchen outskirts, ***** breathed
& nearing with hugs.

blister-itched.
glossed folds of scar tissue.
those days on summer-beyond when the neighborhood pulsates.
with satellite dishes tuneforking high-frequency vibrations
from outerspace & pigeons explode.

son’s ears bleed, &
the television goes unwatched.
he snaps plank & ankle protein, refurbishing
his legs into iron-rods
or wands of summer anthem.
cold war.

he empties sugar-sweat & toxins
into the storm-drain.
essence of wet heat, skin pinched, & friend
of ghosts.
a three legged dog lay in the shade
leisurely watching the boy skate
on endless.

You are like a moving poetry and I am the poet.

You are the dark cloud and I am the little sunshine.

You're the cliffhanger that hit my head.

You're compelling me to write.

Since I could remember
My heart has balanced
Along such a thin line
Of right and wrong
Love and hate.
The line already stretched
To the extremes.
Taught with fear and uncertainty.

Tension reached its maximum
When that day came 'round.
Ever since that day
When I learned the truth.
The day my eyes were forcefully
Peeled open by dull razors.
That day the line faded
And the tight rope snapped.

With no line to follow
My heart fell.
Now concussed,
Delirious and confused.
My heart wanders between worlds.
Never certain of who it is
Where it was or
How it should be.

-Kevin Robert Rose

What of exactly is a friendship lost?
Over minute trifles so easily tossed?
Or one that disbands in the cataract of Time?
Something worth pain and blood? Which is absolute and wonderful?
And so, too, can it be asked,
To which man is authority given,
Of such astute austerity endowed,
The man to pass such judgment in good faith and conscience,
Is none other than the crowd.
But, irrelevancies, I totter!
The worst is to be discussed,
For far beyond the scope of reason,
Have these travesties been concussed.
For here, I give to you the corpse of this bond,
This once turgid child of innocence
So, perhaps, its unadulterated substance may quickly manifest
Yet, I pray, I hope, I wonder, its marred and tattered mien profess
The noxious tonic it did consume,
Of ancient spleen and venomous ardor,
To rend its former pulchritude, to hands of untouched fury placed,
It suffered the most insufferable fate to befall upon any beast:
To reanimate, to thrive, to live once more,
In the hands of a tyrant and aimlessly exist
Necrotic at its very core.
This beast, this creature of hated stock,
Was my burden, my cross, to bear,
One, I weep to recollect, of part and parcel of my own flock.
But, I did this, I bore this, along with many others,
In spite of righted timbers,
In spite of rationale,
In spite of my fiber and moral code, that kept us forcibly constrained
For the sake of you, authority
For the sake of tranquil minds
I stood obstinate at the lineaments, between those contrasting foes,
In the self-imposed, childish Purgatory,
Completely indisposed.
Between the shining, gleaming face of holiness, and precipice of spite
For manner of serenity and cowardice perpetual,
Confronted this creature, I did not,
For the sake of you, dear authority, for the sake of stable place.
Children we were, yes, but no less severe the gravity,
For the winnowing of unity, at the yoke of caprice, is to blame.
A real friendship will endure, endure through the boreal,
Endure through the malice, the vitriol,
Will breathe new and longing appetite for breadth, for universality,
Of which all parts must maintain accountability.
It must stand resolute no matter how formidable the ballast,
It must be calm, objective, and outlast the harrowing feelings change may accompany,
Will sacrifice and encourage wellbeing,
It must imbue recollection, a past so beautiful,
Be a comfort in the presence of shame and humility,
Its essence, a friend itself.
But I can no longer pay, at the cost of sanity,
I can no longer give what little remnant humanity to forge another bond,
One made of dead and long-forgotten parts,
I can not, I will not,
I am sick, I am weary for all of the injustices I have done
To watch as the seed of hatred continues to bloom,
The veil of falsehood walk without shame,
To see her stride of perverting intent, tainting the world with touch,
Is a miserable folly to me,
A crime which I let permit,
A coward I was to not stop this, to not lay this matter to rest,
No,
My beleaguered hands put this evil in the ground, and left it to the tides of fate,
It grew, beyond my capture, beyond my strength to control,
Into this horrid ****, this miserable plant,
Which, still!, it grows sans disannul
To take responsibility to this, on me, I cannot err
But, naturally, none to the plant, it seems,
And this is only fair.

Light in which memories exist,
Comes to me by way of fist.
And only when I bleed,
Red gown, white slip--match on me.
Painful color of rosettes,,
When horizon on sun dissects,
Grip flushing my cheek coquette..
And when I am concussed,
The empty channel of snowy dust,
The swing, our breath and our lust.
If choked, coal of memory stoked,
Leather seats--and leather coat.
But I cannot proceed in fighting,
Though I adore the lighting,
For it all ends the same,
Setting sun in horizon's grip,
Color of the full lips,
So beautiful, so fleeting,
Then blackness hits.

But colorful vision I won't see,
with no touch no flush--no face fading memory.

i really do wish you no harm.

i hope you don't get pocket lint on your dum-dum,
because that would be tragic.

i hope the next girl you date doesn't bite.
even though, you deserve a gnarly girl
who can get low down and gritty.

i pray you don't fall going up the stairs
and slide all the freaking way down.
i wouldn't want a concussed friend
now would i?

i cross my fingers and shut my eyes,
wishing you a pretty girl with perfect teeth
and pale skin
and an american accent cuter than mine.
in bar. or no- in a basement.

i would never wish you the worst hangover that
you've ever had
with a headache so bad
you feel like you tried to go out with a bang (literally)
like kurt d. cobain, and survived.
if you aren't an uneducated swine and know who that is.

i hope you never feel heartache like this.
feeling your chest tighten with anvil heavy memories
and sun-kissed, barebacked truth because
you had to let go what you love
and love what you let go.
crying when you see "message me i get bored x"
in their bio on a tuesday night, for the first time in six months.

Jet sets all corners
Neither here nor there
Touchdown low profile
Flashy car speeding past
I use to live there as a delinquent
The sounds of the sirens got them hooked hopeless wanton
The incantations echoes in minds
That  feeds the Insomniac
Our new hellos And goodbyes
Are only apparitions
Partly clichéd partly prodigal
Until we see them concussed
shredded in colours of shade and shame jolted by our own pain...
Slain into a state of compassion
Our hearts prepare a banquet
On a budget of prodigious love

Burly bleak plumes roll out aloft corn
Where the dragon fell post spin and ditch
A wretched hulk of ruin splintered and worn
Amongst endless blanch green fields which

Arc with a gust and apart where he treads,
Dragging his silk cape afar from flame
Clueless and concussed to a near house he heads
With a tattered scarf that constricts yet ***** about his mane

Black fists of cloud had boomed around him as they soared
His beast spat metal fire whilst the pale sky turned dull
The zipping ballet of warfare smiled throughout as motors roared
Gnashing its teeth and making forgotten martyrs of them all

Shuddering not from demise rather conflict as a whole
He is as content with death as he is to survive
Just not burn the world and condemn his soul
A horror; men of rule seem keen to keep alive

An agrarian self-dines rancorous and crocked
Half sat, improperly perched from where he was shot
Monsters had come for him once before this day
They took his spouse and his daughter and then took them away

He can hear but does not hark to the battle aloft
It is now like the rain and the trees in a gust
But to the boom and the shake he stands with a cough
And as he cites the invader he sees he must do what he must

The grower limps out with a Chassepot in his arms
As the airman’s hands reach up and he falls to his knees
With beads on his brow the man pleads with met palms
The crofter sees naught but a Prussian blue monster disease

The pilot knows his death, ‘Ich bin nicht sicher, wo ich will gehen?”
The old Frenchman just sniggers as he thinks never again
With the rifle’s slug now spent and the horror sent back to his hell
The farmer mumbles to himself, ‘je dois me chercher une pelle,”

in a dimly lit bucolic moon--
erstwhile a blooming, beauty,
riparian valley...
a widow worn down,
with beleaguer of ethereal sin,
spoke swiftly to the sky.

her verandah the ocean--
her audience the sparrows,
soft dulcet moans slipped
from seer's mouth.

the wafture of the waves reflected
in obsidian overcast iris,
vision surreptitious overcame her mind--
susurrous, her lithe body convulsed
in fits of meaningful jerks.
Although evanescent, she changed.

(Eyes clear, voice booming, not desultory in the slight)

she brooded for a moments flash,
quivering, uttered with but cerulean to listen,
what had played before her eyes.

what she knew with certainty.
the tragedy of the girl who's ashes--
floated in the summer breeze.
benevolent and altruistic,
taken advantage of at not thirteen.
in her woe, she jumped of the cliff
between clarity and fog,
into Hades firey wrath,
her body never found.

seer shook with violent tremours,
the ephemeral dove now chirped,
as she made way to the holy man,
the one to whom she was to confess,
a fugacious bone creaking draft
left her paranoid.
but what was a woman of her character to do?

once upon father's altar,
woman called to the dear messenger.
she hissed and requested
a private meet.
Startled, the priest led her to
iron doors of his quarters
when inside she barred the doors
with a sword from the hilt behind the passage.

now toward this evocative woman,
this man was not one of holy thoughts
her plump ***** tempted one
who had only before been promised to god.
but as she told him of what she had seen
he remembered the countenance
of last forbidden love.

red draining from innocent lips
leaving ugly guilt to forever remain
regardless of bleach and arsenic.
red hands to forever stay
perpetual stains on cleric robes
never the stark white of heaven again.

enraged priest pounced,
to which our dear heroine had no defense
spine slammed against stone wall,
head concussed and blurred.
our seer now decided (too late)
to always listen to ones bones.

she soon found a thick rope around her neck,
as she felt herself being violated below.
history repeats itself
all she breathed was damp, the mold.

when darkness took over her,
and her lungs tantrumed and kicked,
the priest took out the gleaming sword,
cackling, leaving a sweet wet trail
ruby necklace on white marble.

and he dragged her to the old well
boarded up and fading with age
a pungent putrid smell wafted up
a remainder of what the priest thought
were days long gone.

the seer, with her dark charcoal hair,
and omniscient clear gaze,
fell awkwardly on top of not one,
but seventeen.

the priest had fun once too.

Something great is happening for me,
regardless of the situations I see;
my Lord is working behind the scene
and I have been spiritually weaned.

Walking by faith and not by sight,
insures that I sleep well at night.
Happily I enter daily into His rest,
knowing that I’m divinely blessed.

I’m often filled with peace and joy,
when sacred Scriptures are employed;
with a heart of a believer’s trust,
I overcome the pain of being concussed

in all aspects of my humble existence.
Despite hardship, I’m going the distance.
Elevating faith with a spiritual upgrade,
I pray with confidence- having been swayed

by the absolute Truth of God’s holy Word.
With a poetic voice, my soul is spurred
to write Christian verses unto my Lord,
as His strength, from my spirit is poured.
.
.
.
Author Notes:

Loosely based on:
Mark 9:23; Acts 16:31; Jam 2:23;
Rom 15:13; Heb 4:3; John 11:40

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ

By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2014, All rights reserved.

Nourish the minds all around.
Yours may lack a strong foundation
easily withered
Easily shaken- concussed.
But nourish the minds all around.
They will give your mind reason to thrive.
They will return the favor.
But if it's too late , the wisdom given to the minds will not perish but enter the everlasting cycle of apportioning to other minds.
Wisdom is knowledge.
lack of wisdom is lack of knowledge.

I
"We spoke of men
as often as of poems.
We tried to legislate away
the need for love –
that backseat ****
& death caressing you."
–Erica Jong

ah, this side of paradise!
there's no comfort in the wise,
no comfort at all. I roll it up how I was
taught to, half cancer half plant,
wait around for the next one.

ever feel like a ******? I'd asked her
once, waiting on a corner, fishing for a lighter.
no, but I feel like Sylvia Plath.
I had responded: can I be Anne Sexton?

it seemed right, that is, my severe rejection of emotions via denial, via wanting to tear out my hippocampus,

stomp on it, trying to forget every walk to every room and back, to every house and back.

she herself was severe, though, this friend, more sad in an intrinsical way, more dull and rotten than I, via bad chemistry, while I was just a
case of depressive charlatanism gone bad.
Right?

I searched for acceptance in every bed cover's crease and dollar bills I handed them to buy me smokes.
I searched for it, hands on me, and then before then I had searched for it while he asked what's wrong?
You need to tell me what's wrong!

I love you! You need to tell me! Are you ok?





You are funny if you think I responded.



I likened my staring state, I fixed it in my head as a piercing quixotically sad one, once.




My silence was a story in itself.

II*

"You loved a man who spoke
like greeting cards.
'He ***** me well
but I can’t talk to him.'"
– Erica Jong

It was ultimately guilty,
this time removed from pleasure.
The whole situation, blows to the face
and little slaps of course,
I felt the need to send myself into
a sort of temporary sleep so I forgot
but then would wake up again
because that would mean they won
and this is why I concussed myself once.

He tells me he cares and it's not
that I don't believe him but
it's that I don't believe myself.

I apologize for my being a burden and
he asks me why.
I suppose I am used to it

and if I could stare at him
it would be the same old stare.





"We shared that awful need
to talk in bed.
Love wasn’t love
if we could only speak
in tongues."*
– Erica Jong

.your jealous words

will make a fool of you.

unstable.

creating that bubble of security.

talked into it.

talked out of it

concussed and confused.

the truth lies south.

the world changes and anger ensues those whom have lost themselves.

in losing what i thought was a drop of serenity, humanity, singularity,

i found what i had been missing.

i found the most profound feeling in my mind again,

reazlizing what i was supposed to be filling my life with.

it was the most beautiful of temporary spells.

descrete in meaning,

overwhelming in form.

i reached that treasure in my heart that i had lost to the pirates of time so many moments ago.

reached out my palms and let the time flow through my fingertips.

the unatainable love for life had been captured and caged.

my reality is full and quenched.

so rare,

i describe to you.

silken petals drawing in all the waves of the world,

the things ive lost create the realization of what i really have inside my cup.

im jolting through the golden fields,

swimming gracefully through the torrents of the sea.

calm.

breathing seems to calm the harshest seconds passing through.

emotions sturred, whipped, beat like the yolk of desert.

in the end it rises.

the last ingredient in realization for the now.

this is the most beautiful day the world has ever presented my entity with,

and tomorrow, well the morrow shall wait up for me and give the next gift for mine eyes.

exitement inhales.

my words spill as the paint on your canvas.

i am my reality.

possibility.

You tried to stab me in
the back, but your blade
was dull, but even though
it didn't cut.

You never the less kept on
stabbing I was bruised, concussed
from the impact of your lies,
whispers behind my back
but friends knew you were
a wolf hiding as a lamb.

Your knife was blunt but it
still left a scar..

Now you may be thinking
Nero? why are you attacking TV?
why can't you let it go, let ratchetry be ratchetry?
well I'll tell you in this well planned verse
I hate reality tv, go ahead, get the hate mail out and curse.
I hate reality TV because it isn't reality
just a bunch of talentless people fighting, setting impossible standards didn't speak to me
now if the show is a competition then I'll let it slide
at least you have to have a skill and not just be easy on the eyes
But love and hip hop, Mob and Basketball Wives
should really be dead by now, I'm really surprised
that they've lasted this long what's wrong can you see they're about as smart as a rotted log or a concussed king Kong?

It's treacherous to believe that a person is more than a person
I never really understood this line
till now

It really is treacherous
misleading
feeds your thoughts

that person loses her identity
she just becomes an idea.
and you my dear believe in that idea of her
so strongly you forget who she is.

don't
Because one day reality would come along
and turn the switch on to bring gravity back
leaving you waking up on the concrete floor
concussed and crying
bleeding and dying
**cheated of feeling

Playing with the chains wrapped around my heart
coloring over the pains, they were there from the start
hiding under elastic and metal
the emotions are plastic, wait for them to settle
though waiting can be deadly, I sit with my grin
this is all we really needed, is for time to set in.
Maybe we'll never be "we" again
but maybe we'll see, what we've brought to an end
was just never meant to begin
it hurts and I'll cry and feel dead
but it works so I'll sigh and remember the things you said,
to fix myself, time will bring answers
currently I reside in personal hell, though you'll probably not concur
for what it's worth, was it anything at all
what I still haven't learned, is how to take a fall.
I'll watch the embers blaze, watch the ashes float away
see the smoke cloud over, form a haze, turn night into day
while the night time sky turns into hot day time fry,
I count the stars the clouds the hours into days,
I watch the cars the roads all through a depressive-state-haze
so by the ponds, by the creeks, with my dog at my feet
listen to the frogs, the rocks we slept wide awake on
concussed with love, you've got a home in my heart
left it, flew off like a dove, leave me alone to play my part
let me try o repair your damage, I'm hanging in the air
we all know life's so unfair, and I'm dealing in my own way
everyone's problems are different, so great to you
could be hell to someone else, it's apparent you all need to
rethink your views of depression and addiction
what feels like regression and useless diction
can sometimes be the biggest personal hell of all
so enjoy yourself, I hope you have a ball
cause you never know, maybe
you've got the biggest problems of them all.

I collected the currency of my failings inserting voices  
into the deluge of my figurine dancing on the precipice
of my tainted visage.

But I was short of necessitates, fraudulent reimbursement
was reincorporated, and I was woven unwept as the distresses
of what I had done wove upon my silhouette.

Blank verses were woven on my pools of sky blue, now vacant
only snow flakes of nothingness fell on my perception.
I was not as before I was whole but concussed in creation.

Interwoven, incomplete essences of me. I wasn't that which
was reflected outwards, all that was now interlaced in an
abomination of false reflections and I paid the ultimate price.

Suave, Brave Knight! Lad's Sun lifted from the Kings
Fast-prone be-take adjust to your Bold's End
Or Barker, at least which your Macho sings
Tug-post the Ladies grieve their Virtues spend
Shall I sift your Flour? Else compile your own
Fold and Stir beneath such Dough's Lot about
Or whistle the Dogs; Howl their Silence blown
Feed-off the Bones which cannot live without
Yet somehow, still, restrict Themes to discuss
Purse through Wares involved then reveal his ***
Might as well, be Everyone's Chains concussed
Absorb his Wrongs; Then divert his own Hex.
Makes un-sense, doesn't it? Such as your mind
The Swan's Install; Of Verbs perverted find.

i give up
seems like
i've been using
that line more
and more recently
the fight is no fun
anymore
old bones don't move
like a butterfly no more
and it seems the bees keep
swarming
while i've run out of stings
too many blows
to the head and heart
severly concussed
and fading fast
there are
other young bulls
sneaking in the ring
where i wish to escape
let them breathe in
that spotlight
see how many fights
they can win before
they're out cold
wish them the best
i need out
i need out
but it aint easy
you live the ring for so long
you don't know the outside
anymore
where the women aren't
throwing jabs at my head
heart like a punching bag
as i grow older
grace is wasted on the graceful
now i'm nothing
but a beat up old man
with no wife and no lovers
out of the ring and into the freezing cold
a world i can't seem to remember

to the moon  i went skimming all the
puddles piling!on the trunks o
f
          the
floral ocean bending passionately waxy
devotions     to      a        silken     sphere
dazzling pearl  sharp littles

        O, how cleanly stubborn the ridge concussed
              velvety brushes salt the earth iridescent,
dreamy sky cream pillow the brows of all the upturned
       lashless lids craving your milk blood

                                 silver                it                    like                   a:

            







                            s                                  
                          i
                                 n;

Why you...angel--why you...to peep through
the finality of white walls?
To overspread the concussed skull that bangs
against them to keep time...why you?
Why were you born against a spillage of air
in a freefall of wings?
Nothing...absolutely nothing... between your
wings, save for what you will embrace in that
freefall...why you?
Schooners rounding earth's violet aura--
dissolving into the transcontinental bestiary
of souls...why you?
You are what shone through the breakage
of humanity--you are the emanation of our
breakage...why you?
You...legions of you...fence the Romantic's
chimerical stead...only to retain the character of
what implants itself face first...as so you.

The Edge


The breeze on my neck, distracts me so,
The intensity diminishes for my reasons so,
I return to my anger, my reasons for here,
Standing on the edge, lacking the fear,

Concussed by the pressure of the daily life,
The blunt reality of my every day strife,
Grey walls stare at me in my four by four box,
You might as well bound me, entrap me with locks,

Bare my weakened shoulders with meaningless tasks,
Despondent no more as my well-being crashed,
Which led me to here, standing upon this cliff,
Staring fear with both eyes, as my toes start to lift,

Distracted once more by natures glorious call,
Which encompasses my body, makes me walk tall,
Away from the edge, I let the earth lead the way,
Leaving the locks that once bound me, broken this day.

Journal

I sleep in in pools of sweat, awakened regularly by nightmares. Body clenched tighter than a rusted vise. Still, the nightmares are more pleasant than my waking hours.

Journal

It is late in the afternoon and I finally have a second to jot down yesterday’s nightmare, sleeping and waking. The dream began with a strong feel of reality to it. I was lying in the trench half asleep; my body folded awkwardly in the dry dirt corner that I had cleared for myself. My journal pages were scattered all about. Many discolored, some with dirt, some with blood, and others simply with the wear of time. The ink on each sheet was blurred to the point that I could not make out any of the words.
The only disconcerting thing was the quiet. I could not recall this much quiet ever, at least not for many months. There were no explosions or tinging of bullets bouncing off our make shift metal trench tops. I heard no one making lewd jokes or screaming out their night terrors. My voice had been stolen as well but I had no clue as to how or why.
I looked around and found no one, not even Billy or Captain Owens. At first there was a sense of panic, but I finally relaxed. I was alone. There were no machine guns or artillery firing, no one screaming orders. I could sit here and read my books in the sweetest solitude anyone has ever known. I gathered the unbound journal pages around me, and put them in their proper place and order. Then, I pulled out and old copy of Grimm’s fairytales.
Without warning I felt hot hands pulling on my, shirt. Hard fingers crawled struggling across my back and chest trying to pull me down. The harder I struggled the more their grip tightened, pulling me down faster and faster. My body was slowly being swallowed by the earth. The dirt consumed me inch by inch, stealing every breath I had and replacing it with clots of mud. I could feel worms trying to burrow their way into my skin. I coughed and sputtered in horror.
Despite my terror, I thrashed against the earthy hands. My eyes were clouded dark brown. I could feel fingers clawing at my face. Then there was a sharp slap stinging my cheek. I clenched my fist to punch the earth. Even so, I was still unable to see anything or breathe. I raged against whatever it was.
Then I heard Billy shouting, “Get up you idiot, it’s a gas attack.”
I scratched at my face struggling to find the air, until I finally realized what was going on. My face was covered by a gas mask, and Billy was yelling at me.  I fixed the mask properly to face and took stock of the scene. Everyone in the trench was either struggling to get their gas masks on or helping other soldiers, who were stumbling around blinded by the green gas cloud, attaching theirs. One man was even putting a large strangely shaped mask on a horse. Panicking, several of my compatriots rushed over the top and were mowed down by enemy planes. Amidst the chaos I stood stupidly, still not helping at all just coughing and wheezing. I turned to look back at my spot and in the foggy haze I saw dark brown dirt arms receding back into the ground.
A part of me wished those hands had strangled me; a part of me still does.

Journal

Dreaming darkly, I dared to climb some jagged precipice. My hands were dusty with gravel and moist with sweat making, each grip harder than the last. Barely a foot below my feet the sharp stones began to crack and shift. A section of the mountain started to move rolling into the shape of a clenched fist. The sound of stone scraping stone stung my ears. The fist pounded upon the side of the cliff shaking loose rocky bits, then larger bit of rock as well. Grey and black speckled stones pelted my head dangerously fast. Foolishly forgetting my current task, I raised my hands to protect myself. With no secure footing on the rock my weight pulled me backwards and I fell straight into the sharp stone hand. The monstrous hand shook me side to side.
Then I heard a moaning. At first I thought it was me, certain that in some concussed manner I was making noises without meaning to; however, I was not. Even though, I was hanging upside down by one leg, I could still see the face of the cliff very clearly and very literally.
One rock eye opened, up then the other, blinking rapidly as if they had not been opened for a thousand years. The irises were grey and jagged like cracked stones, but the pupils seem to be like a mirror. Inside I could see two reflections, one overlaying the other. The first was a young man, clean cut and shaven with warm hazel eyes and a smile. The other was an older man. His face was much leaner. The hazel eyes were bloodshot with bags so deep under them that you would swear he had been punched in the nose. His hair was now worn recklessly, and thin **** covered his face.
Staring fiercely at me but with a tinge of pain the mountain cried “my arrrrr ou hirtming meee?”
Without thinking I laughed. The indignation was obvious. The mountain’s eyes glared at me. Then another stony hand exploded from the rocky formation. Clenched in a fist the new limb violently pounded its own face, clearing a clutter of loose rock and dirt away until an orifice could be seen. Then it repeated “why are you hurting me?”
Before I could stop myself, I laughed again. Infuriated, the mountainous creature shoved my left foot in its newly formed mouth and bit down hard. I screamed in agony. Then I woke up. My entire body was pulsing with pain and my lower left pant leg was wet again. I tried to pull the fabric from my skin but stopped when an intense pain shot up my leg. I was bleeding again. Where the hell was the medic?
I was no expert but, I was pretty sure my leg was not supposed to smell like rotten eggs. I tried to stand but stumbled. Angrily I pushed off against the side of the hole and managing to rise again, only to wobble and fall face first in to cold wet dirt. Chewing on a bit of blood and mud I shuffled around in the dirt for a while trying to get up. I spit out the dirt but was too afraid to call out for help. Suddenly, I remembered why. I was the only one left.
      Last night we all went over the top. Captain Owens held the barbed wire back as we rushed over the rough incline. Bits of brown earth exploded around us as we pushed forward. Most of my mates moved faster than me. Billy was blasted and fell four or more yards from my feet. I pivoted around his bullet riddled corpse. Screams of rage and terror sounded in the darkness. I think, I managed a couple more yards before a bullet cut clean through my calf.  Even with a bullet in my leg, I managed to make it a little further until I slipped on some blood slicken grass. I tried to brace myself but fell face forward into a lump of warm sticky something.
When I realized I could not stand up, I began to drag myself backwards. The enemy’s bullets sounded a strange earthly percussion around me. Inch by slow agonizing inch across the cold, ******, muddy earth I managed to drag myself back down into our dank hole. I found my corner and decided to wait for help. I am uncertain if someone will come to help me.

Journal

This morning as the sun was slowly rising, I managed to pull myself up just enough to see the barren landscape. The grass is gone, the trees are gone. The earth is a massive wound, scattered with bullets and ****** bodies. Thankfully, the gas attacks had robbed me of my sense of smell, or the stench would have killed me. I think, I was slipping in and out of consciousness.
     As I was trying to pull myself out of the hole, I saw a red wolf running through the dead earth. A sharp spasm of pain set my whole body a spark, and I cried out. The wolf turned his head scowling and growling at me. Even though it was many yards away I could see it eyes. The irises glowed forest green, piercing me with an almost accusatory stare, as if to say this is all your fault.
We sat in a holding pattern for several minutes before it realized that I was no threat. Then it slowly sauntered over to the nearest corpse. After a few carefully placed sniffs the wolf began chewing on the face of the corpse. Even though, I should not have been able to, I could hear the crunching of the bones and the squishing sound of flesh being gnawed off the dead man’s face.
I closed my eyes for a second, and everything changed. There was no wolf, the chewed up body was nowhere to be found. In the distance I heard the sound of several wolves howling and running towards the ****** battlefield. I lost my grip and slid backwards onto a thin line of barbed wire that ripped my shirt and tore strips of flesh from my back. I would have screamed but all I could muster was a soft whimper and a moan before I passed out again.

Journal

I don’t know why I bother. It hurts so much. My lips are chapped, my skin is fevered fire, and the blood I have lost. I should be dead. I would have shot myself, but apparently in that mad dash I lost my bayonet and pistol.
Last night, or was it this morning, whatever that last time I passed out was, I dreamed I was sitting in an open field. The earth was quiet growing and glowing with lush green foliage. The clouds were cotton ball cumulus forming a white, light blue, and grey chimera. There was a shimmering pond of pure blue water. Not clear but blue water. Inside the water I could see a distorted rippling version of the sky.
Within the watery reflection a black dragon danced in and out of the cloud. Its scales rippled silver, grey, black, and green as the beast twisted and turned with more grace than a world class contortionist. Its sinuous body straightened as it burst through another batch of clouds, dispersing their massive puffiness into tiny little puffs of white, grey, and light blue smoke.
I turned my head from the pond to see if I could spot the monster in the sky, but it was not there. My gaze found its way back to the pool were the beautiful beast was getting closer and closer, but when I looked back up it was nowhere to be found.
Again my vision returned the blue body of water. Ripples began to rapidly form on the surface and collide with a loud and thunderous crash. The dragon was closer in the reflection but still nowhere to be seen in the air.
      I could feel its breath at my back and see its teeth in the reflection. Its long snout curled in a viscous grin.  The mouth dripped steaming acid drool burning my skin. Two rows of teeth filled the top and the bottom of its mouth.  The outer rows were jagged and yellow, while the interior rows were dark brown and flat.
By the time I realized that I should, run it was too late. I felt the fierce face of the famished dragon envelope my torso and chomp down. My body convulsed with burning agony. I screamed, as I felt the furious beast chewing and swallowing me. I awoke to the sharp stench of sweat, ****, *****, and ****. My pants were stuck to my body, and I could not stop shivering. I manage to find another pair of pants. Painfully I struggled to remove the contaminated britches. Switching out the ****** and ****** pair for a slightly cleaner pair, I sat mute.

Journal

The sky is dull grey with no clouds. It’s just another dreary day, so if this is anyone other than myself. Then let me say hello or goodbye. It’s all the same in the end. We come and go in such a rapid succession that it seems almost pointless. I do not know the exact whys and how’s. I am starting to think there is no rhyme and reason. These dreams waking and sleeping are no worse than the horrors of reality.
It could be real or not, I am uncertain. As I write this, I feel I may die soon. Which means that it is up to you to figure out what all this means. Because, I am tired of struggling, searching, and hurting. I am tired of the bullet, bombs, and bayonets. I am tired of seeing my friends bravely face down a gruesome death. I am tired of the darkening of my soul. My spirit is too heavy with the horror of it all, but most of all I am just plain tired.

Surreal messed up poem. Only my friends will get the references.

Weaponized turtles
Moaning Myrtle!
Platform 9 and three quarters
Oops, wall is out of order.
Now you’re concussed
This makes you crazy enough
To take a flying car (because you’re fool)
To a snake infested hog with dermatology problems school
Adhesive sloths!
Polka dotted moths!
Oh wait, that sounds like butterflies
With this poem, literature dies.

I apologize, I just felt like writing something absurd and I am really REALLY tired and my brain pattern is weird, and I read too much harry potter…
OSTRICH ATTACK!!!
Hey, I told you I was weird.

"I am matter trapped in reason"
           -scrawl on a restroom stall wall


1am


A couple blocks from the centre of town. The haze of rumbling sub-bass, the buzz of a hundred voices, the multifaceted shapes of flesh in heels and black dresses and puffer-jackets congregating outside nightclubs. Converging on the heart of the city, each voice becomes distinct, discernible from the background noise, a palpable aspect midst the otherwise nebulous air;

'We could just commit? I'd be so down for a chicken scorcher..'
'Ah man it's Gary! Gaary bro! bro! Gary!'
'I-it's okay, do you have your I.D on you? no, aah, no don't lean on the bank doors when vomiting, you might set off an alarm. h-hey, yeah you, sorry, do you have any water she could borrow?'
'Well you know, even though maccas is out of the way...'
'Aww mate gary! GARY! Aww yeah! Show us your ******! Gary!'


2am


A small gathering convenes on the lawn of a nondescript flat. the building next door is covered in scaffolding, a mess of pale grey illuminated orange parallel geometries hanging, droplets of mist swirling in light breeze.  indistinct chatter. Shuffling figures standing around packing herbs into a small metal cartridge. A flickering light. Coughing. Repeat.

On the other side, over a small fence and through a window, a figure stands in his kitchen naked, looking out, watching. An indeterminate expression.  

A voice of the circle calls out.

'Hey! Hey ****! what the ******* looking at?!'

the figure turns away.
'Ha, oh man, I bet he's gonna go get a shotgun. I beat he's gonna ******* **** us!'
('oh man this ****'s naasty')
'**** son, ******* look at him go, I think you're ******* right.'*
('dude, we should ******* maccas, are you keen? I'm keen.')
'Oh man! oh man, I'm so pumped. are you pumped? I'm so pumped. Aah, we're gonna die, I so ******* hope he does.'


3am


The streetlights have gone out a couple blocks down. Rather than the usual orange haze, the dumped cars and pavement are illuminated by the traffic lights alone, a universal filter flickering between crimson and lime.

A man approaches from across the street. Moment of apprehension. Mid twenties. Staggering. Broken nose, blood down front. Flash of switchblade in hand. Increasing apprehension.

'Oi, were you at that party? You with that ****** that ******* punched me?'
'N-nah, sorry, I wasn't there..'
'How do you know if you weren’t there?'
'Well.. which party? not that one over there?'
'No no, the one down that way'
'Where?'
'The one on high street.'
'High street? isn't that like.. somewhere in Mornington?'
'No, it’s.. the one we’re currently on.'
'...wait, really?'
'..yeah? I.. i think so?'
Both start looking around uncertainly, the man looses balance and tumbles rather dramatically into a fern.
'Um. Are you alright...?'
'Haha, yeah, just, rather drunk. and maybe concussed?'
..."/Cough/ ..Anyway, you seem all good ****, don't worry about it, sorry to have bothered you."
/awkwardly puts knife in pocket to shake hands/


4 am


Return to town. Humanities dilution and waning departure. Droves of seagulls dive in, assuming command of the area and the plastic bags. Only a couple handful of figures remain. Police cars and taxis patrol, dance in concentric circles. the last drunken remnants of raving students lie down in the street, clap their heels together

'Tell George to hurry the **** up or he’ll be left behind!'
'What?'
'I said hurry up! We're going for a Maccas mish!'
‘Who?’
'I said we’re going for a Maccas mish!'
‘Aww mate! I’m keen! Hold up.'

Swirling isolated points of light escape from street lamps caught in rows of trees, and a confetti of shadows swim along the sidewalk in motion with the gentle breeze. A twenty something in a hoody cargo shorts and sandals explains to a policeman in breaking drunken fevered tongues how,

     love, love, love, is the godhead and the godhead is love;
       within us reaching out, but also on the outside reaching in,
          it makes you whole by ripping you apart.

while vomiting on the officers car


5am


  A blanketing dampness sets in. not quite rain, but an omnipresent mist. A gentle fog slowly folds out, wavering among pale streetlights. While substanceless, it still holds form as an ambient covering poultice; drawing in the illumination surrounding into opaque convalescence, but then
     dispersing too,
                                    in turn.

where does it lie
that fabled key
to grease all
savaged links
so music flows

when will it come
epiphany
to challenge
structures old
still strewn about

who can I be
and still find me
as words fail
to still gales
of verbal blows          

why do feuds sear
aesthesia
shrouding sane
perception
in concussed doubt

there are yellow spots in my vision
i should porbably lie down
^probably
“porbably”
hee hee
then do
:P
fine, i shall
hmph >:
…
…
…
…
where were you yesterday anyway?
you’re back?
yeah
but, anyway,
??
oh you know, out and
stuff
stuff?
yeah
what stuff?
just
…
?
revisiting that place
by the park
where those trees overhang the river
that we used to climb as kids
oh.
when our mums met to chat after work
yeah.
i’m not sure why
it felt like we were venturing towards something
we won if we ever got to the top
i know.
i was there.
sorry
and then that day..
my brother won.
yeah.
and the branch..
yeah.
….
can we talk about something else?
yeah, sorry
it’s just…
i’ve been feeling that way a lot lately
what?
that i’ve been striving towards something,
but that in spite the yearning,
all it leads too is
snap, crack, gone?
yeah
...you’re really comparing your ennui to the death of my sibling?
you ******* degenerate.
stop ******* complaining
get a ******* job.
sorry, sorry
…
i didn’t mean-
no, it’s fine.
i know the feeling tbh
but i still resent the comparison
yeah no,
yeah,
fair.
why were you there anyway?
i mean, it’s a nice park
they put a plaque under the tree, you know
yeah, i know
it’s what happens when your mum knows the councilman
what did it say again?
that’s the thing
i mean, there Used to be words there
Used to be?
did it fade?
no,
i mean, there’s still symbols
bound into rows
and such
and such?
but
they became unglued
unglued?
the thing that makes symbols words,
ran out
ran out?
yeah,
t͚̺͗̿̽̀̀͢h̨̖͇̫̳̹̿̏̄̂̄ḗ̜̜͈͇͕̘̓͒ ̴͕̂̆͒̓̀͘ŗ̳͔̩̭̈ͭ̾͝ẻ̛̌ͨ̽ͫ҉̳̞͓̪̕f̼̹̞̠̟̫̉̆̋̆̋ẹ̸͇̬̩̗̻̆̔͝r̺͖̿ͣ̒͊̅ͤȩ̷̲̣̝­ͨņ̗̼̞̰̥̿̓͆ͥͫ͟c̨̛̪͇̗͇͚̤͑͒̑̃ͥͮ̃̀̀ë́̍͑̈͗҉͓͖̰̖̯̗͉͔̭͝,͔̬ͦ̊͊̾͘ ̵̸͙̼̣̮̩ͨͫͧ̀ͥ͋c̦͓̯ͤͩ̀̓o̵͚̫̠ͥ̍͐̾͂͘͡r̡̮̱̠̟̼̖̗ͤ͑̓̎ͯ̽̎ͮͦ͠r̷͖̰̞̭̰̩̩͖̯͗͒­̊͜ẹ̺͒͐ͯ̈̇͂͗̇͘ș̸̼̹͔ͫ̇ͦͩ̾̎͝p̴͉̰͈ͣ̓̂͂ͭͪ̏ơ̶̭̝͔͚̭̻̟͕̼̅ͪͭͥ͛͋ͪͦ͗n̰̘̲̯̠̺̜­͐̇́͜d̝̼̋͒ͨě̯̅͟͠n̢͙͗ͯ̊͋̾̊ͯͬ̐c͊̽̇ͅe̪̜̫̎̃ͤͨ͘͢,̶͉̼̹̥̙͎̻̜̈́̐̄͒ͮ̓̇͂̽
̡̗­͔͎̟̦̝͖̝̲̍ͣ͗ͤ ̡̬̯̰̦̘̈ͯ̉͗ ̴͎̠̈́̋ͭ ̛͚͚͖͓̿ͤ͞ ̦̺̜̻̖ͪͭͣ͆ͧ͊̄̓ ̼͍͇͔̺̟̓ͯͯ̃ͅ ͎̘̟͚̮̗̙̌ͩ̂͛͋̀̚͢ͅ ̾͑ͩ́̚͏̳̹̼̩̱̳dͦ̎̈̃̑͠͏͍͎̻̳̩͕ͅi̛͈͔̲̥̝̮̼̳ͤ̒͌ͥ̆f͌̄̆ͩ͗ͣ҉͚̹̟̫̬̗f̧̻̞̠͔͔̘̻­̳̂̍̓̓͐͘é̹͖̃̿̆ͭ̐̀r̴̦̳̳̪͐͋͘͟ȩ̈̉ͪ̕҉̳͕̩n͕̤̳͔̖͉͎̣̯ͣͥ̓̅̔͗ͦ̈́̚c̷̭͔͓̮̖̯̒̽­͊e̗̟̞̟̼̓̋̋ͬ́̚͠,͕̙̰̐̈́́ ̯̣̖̗̠͓̼ͮ̆̅͜ ̈̾̍͏͉ā̿̾̑̍͐ͣ̿̓͏̶̥̰͖̤̟͘l̢̥͔̦̜͕̄ͣ̃ͯl̟̩̤̤̺ͧ̐̽̈́̑ͤ͟ ͉̦̮̟͕̯̦͌͗͛̀ṭ̵͈͕͍̙̲̅̓ͮ̃ͮ̃ḣ̴̺̹̙̌̕ͅa͐ͬ̄ͦ̈͌̀ͤ͏҉̣̱̳t̴͉̠̐̾̎͛͜ ̨̫̳͈͔̯̩͖̺ͩ̇̆̍́̃̕͜
huh?
sorry,
it’s just harder to find these days
find what?
the glue.
glue again?
yeah,
that’s the term she used, anyway.
she?
someone else fell from there
that tree?
yeah.
just last year
what happened?
she was concussed, hospitalised, but lived
that’s nice, i guess.
anyway, she claimed she could read it
the plaque?
yeah.
and other things.
other things?
walls
power poles
the ruptures in the pavement,
the gaps between houses
the lost words of derelict places.
what did they say?
she said she couldn’t say
the meanings don’t translate?
something like that,
but also,
      kinda,
it’s words weren’t words per say
  but the murmurs of the glue itself

hmm.
what poppycock.
i mean, pretty much.
but,
you don’t remember, do you?
what your mother had had inscribed that day?
ah..
  no.
sorry.
you couldn’t ask,
   could you?
...
sorry, i don’t mean to pressure
its just been bugging me.
…
sorry.
i’d rather not.
i’m not..
not really sure how to broach the subject.
fair enough
it’s fine, i’m in two minds really.
oh?
yeah.
i mean, i want to reach an understanding,
but i feel if i do, it’d be
snap, crack?
yeah.
..yeah no, sorry.
mum, and, i…
i dunno.
dfsjgksdfgjldfkjgdfls
do you sometimes feel you can’t get through to others,
or rather, that there’s no way to say what you feel you need to say?
don’t worry, i reckon the feeling's universal
thats not actually that reassuring.
ha, sorry.
but at the least
i suspect it gets easier,
as it becomes less immediate
and more over and done with
...yeah.
i guess

Does a deaf mute with rheumatoid fingers
have a speed impediment per se?
How do you (and indeed should you)
kiss a *******'s unwashed crutch?
When a blind man gets concussed,
do you think he sees the stars?
Does an invalid with a hole in his trouser pocket
feel rather good sometimes?
Whom is there left for a Scottish Jew
to call a greasy miser?
Do cetaceous mammals have a whale of a time
or do stud horses have a hard life?
Why ask me?
I'm a ******* polymath already?

Making the most of life’s mystery
It marks a tragic collapse
Into laziness and lethargy
Like a folded sweatshirt
Love is answered
In the fire and the snow
So we gather firewood
And pretend to confess our sins
Are you serious or do you jest
Artisans arrested my heart
One handful of garlic
Can contain up to twenty cloves
I was concussed
Is that what you suggested
Tenement masters
Impressed upon our bones
So he followed her down the stairs
You were a submarine and i was a diver
Did I follow too closely
We might never know
You were thirty years old
In dinner dress she spoke
You know that sometimes
Even great performances can
Make you feel more alone

In its immensurate clarity,* In its elongation of whatever time is left to my uprightness; that thrice divided second before you make the first incision Balloons and collapses upon my space, in my air.

Concussed, winded: I  should dig in to counter the character dissection,
to appeal with all ire against this clinical dismissal and if necessary I will make myself aged and rage grey, a ghost of one last furious effort.

Two weakening supply lines open up from my heart and twist like lovers
throttling one another for the right to carry the thickest blood and tonic
to my left-right-left brain. I see both outcomes as unreal orbs in each palm:

Fought, but foundered, I could go in lunar were-peace towards the rough hewn exit I saw you cut through the nearest physical plane for me.
It has splintered, like young wood does, in a bunch of feather and spike.

But if I just sit down here instead, let you flay me from a distance
and have trial and have done? Then pack my deserved wounds with dirt and paint me justly black. My reeking cowardice, to match your triumph.

It is an unnatural horror to fight you, to choose between prompt defeats or the slow-burn aggregate loss of small and token victories. With less life to live and more to chip away at, I begin to just eke.

There is no shortcut, no revelation in user experience that floors the bad design leaving me wanting. There is no way to win at you.
You are Dependable terror. I just *eke.