Broken razorblades haemorrhaging
beneath my voice, I tried to sculpture
the pain beneath my intentions.

To sew them underneath with blunt
needles. venting the devastation that
clustered beneath, I wanted to bleed out.

If I needed wings to soar they were plucked
before I flew, and the razorblades were
haemorrhaging beneath, I'd cut them myself.

Incompatible, haemorrhaging  decimal points - from the hand of greed
Unbeknownst to those without a quant or quality
Death & equality
Money or ******
And if you're asleep, then let's coalesce
An acrid past in an acid bath
Xylem & phloem
Stockbrokers wilting into ordinance through capital
Yet another example of the cyclic futility of inebriation
Built up by *******, encouraged by intolerance
A needle full of cement and a casual whiff towards sentiment
You are a component, insufferable but worthless
The vacant unmeasured tenants of reality
Consumed by a silver lining laced with Ambien
******* won't make you indestructible
Prepare for a weak heart, fat **** and sports cars
Fake tan dribbling from your million dollar dandy
Into the lead-infested neuropolis named 'fertility'
And if we can't 'predict' economic downfall
Then we must 'ensure' it with social prosperity
All watched over by machines of loving grace
Left under clawed toes and prayers with bent backs
Clothen ears, earwax, anxiety and a box full of Vicodin
You...Don't know where you stand because you never knew
No new news, an insemination to propagation, fruitless
Seeded in tongues with an emulsified analogue of the truth
A compound, molecular in structure, stable, nootropic
Gods gift, ink on paper, weightless
Where is the honesty in currency? Money? Trade?
I've made what I've made, you make, you don't make
Energy fades, everything fades
Our lives are mistakes
Ghosts of a digitised embellishment
We're not smart
We are knowledgeable
We are insane
We are a texture in patterns in vibrations
Unprecedented, Eden, monolith
Yemen, Syria, Egypt
Glazed over with apathy, rejecting attentiveness
Global pandemic
Do you think you do enough?
Enough to warrant subjectivity and an opinion?
Social pariah, religious ignorance, indifference
1929, JSOC, Malcolm X, Davidians and al-ʾIkḫwān
It's a self imposed thought crime to embrace authority
Never to question, never to learn and think for yourself
Lay down and let monopolies & psychopathy progress
Complacent, unwilling, lazy and dumb
Why won't you let it change?
Why don't we help one another?
We're all becoming one side of a dice
Immature calves being bred for the slaughter
Becoming secular and ignoring we are but one hand
Abstractions giving light to fireworks at night
Gunfire and depleted uranium polarising dawn
There are two sides to life, consciousness in 0's and 1's
We are binary
π
Uzumaki
Fibonacci
Here is the last of me,
Subject to none.

The Assignment
The stitched gauze blistering upwards
Warts & ***** matter slithering up the arm
An enigmatic stench of mortality
Solomon in scrubs
A Djinn infected with humility
Wandering for what
Digging up a severe lack of confidence
Entombed with proprietary nuance
Dressed for an exodus
To undermine the decadence
Content, maggots wrapped in hair
Showering the idea of significance
Coiling comparatively, larvae in womb
Tetragrammaton, the seal of metatron
Electroencephalograms, gloved hands and air dripping
Formless in essence, an opaque blur

You are a child, you have no right
No right to reject prophecy, no right
No right to lead us with ink on hand
A town alive
Ushering in sinusoid delirium
The rapture will commence the rebirth
Those who seek utopia
Nor good or evil
Ordo ad chao
Consequential matrice of paradise
Lattices vibrate in sympathy
Sacrament, a doppelganger of truth
Embodied in a pool of white noise
Partials of static, collected
Rotting on my tongue like heaven's night
Standing figures of choked brimstone
******* skin into a wounded mouth
A wish house inhabited with flesh
Reflections to nowhere incubating adolescence
Jack-knifing a model of self
Into an abstract quartz of emotion
Faltering into fog, electric supplements of truth
Journals to which I find delusion

We belong here
Torturing an empty casket
Looking for acceptance, emptied happiness
Drowning in a temporary penance
Cubic zealots anchoring abhorrance
Undermine an attempt at the vessel
Wilting morbidly toward surfeiting iron
Lashed off walls like flaked skin
Encapsulating ***** in infection
meandering amongst godflesh
Bones torn from sockets
The lens to see the chandelier
Climbing into unlocked houses
Settling in amongst the precious

The smashed memories
Porcelain teeth
Pruned fingers & moulded hands
Halo of the sun
An alternative to consciousness
Stumble around the alphabet
Introduce geometry
And let madness interfere
Beothuks & Wynn
Clawing at my mind
Chapels magic, sacred
Symmetry, gentle effortless life
Rogue, effortless entanglement
Mansions painted in nostalgia
Dripping with molluscs
Heralding the other circles
Drawn in red, repulsion

Blue, reversal and probing in my mind
You're not here
Tender sugar, sacred salt
Gyromancy of soaking light
Slaves to perdition
Fingernails dipped in platelets
Haemorrhaging tension
An autumn in fog
Caution is caustic
Melting through your cheek
Revelation, concentrate spectrum
Palace hated acetate in youth

Etched in his mind,
The internal war,
Haemorrhaging blood,
Hidden once more,

Slowly he’s dying,
His body too weak,
Paralysed lips,
Unable to speak,

Traumatic life,
Slipping away,
His heavy soul,
Aching today.

He witnessed it all,
The burden unseen,
Screaming their names,
Tortured in dream,

His cries settle,
His memory fades,
Wiping the tears,
For former comrades.

(Repeat)

I am haemorrhaging. My life is haemorrhaging right out of me. I feel faint like a distant star on a foggy night. Oh where is the moon?

I burn too weakly now, masked by shadows that the wayward children lose their way home. They stay lost in the cold and crying, 'Oh where am I?'

Where have the other stars gone to, disappeared from their posts? They run away; they run out to play. But the children are still crying. Oh what do I do? What do I do?

I am haemorrhaging light, but it is still not enough to light the way home. In furrowed frustration, where are the other stars? In determined desperation, I light myself ablaze.

A heat grows within, and I haemorrhage more. Brighter and brighter I burn, piercing through the galaxy, through the dark void of space and through the foggiest of nights.

Look.

The children look up to see the northern star shining so brightly; too brightly that they are afraid to move. What is wrong? They asked me.
My voice quavers under the strain. Go home, I pray. Be safe. I can only burn this one last time for you.

This spectacle of mine drew the others home; they ask me with jeers, with curiosity, with worry. What are you doing? Why are you doing this?

I give the stars no answer but a question instead, where have you been?

And then the walls in me cave in and I explode.

A burst of light so bright it blinds. So bright it is burned into the eyes of the children that each time they close their eyes, they will see me. See me lighting their way home. But look up at the night sky now, and I am gone. I have burned out.

In all absolution and regret, I am returned into stardust.

Oh where am I now?

Behold! My sorrow storms straight through daylight.
And not on the last stroke of midnight, when demons sleep.
To entangle me with its invisible ropes, ropes tugging me tight.
Twisted, Swooned, crushed, haemorrhaging deep.

Labyrinth of shame, heralding my doom, looming ever close.
Earning waste with each second more, till sudden salvation.
That scarce shall cast upon my dim verse hugely verbose.
Inside this too stagnant a mind flows nothing but indignation.

Malaise made manifest with the profusrness of a poet's pain,
Entitled as imbalanced brain, a fresh sign of insanity.
Idle hours thrown away like confetti and time spent in vain
Narrow words written by young hands but a spirit of mundanity.

Morbid fascinations of mine with this lack of hope.
End so soon as I leave this world, unable to cope.

too many black suitcases
in this world.

mine gapes,
guts spilling, insolent in an otherwise
check out ready room (bed abandoned,
two coffee mugs dripping
dry).

"so you'll just zip this life
closed..." it leers,
haemorrhaging treasures
gently offered, and *****
laundry, "...will you?"

this page, this pencil, will not
fit; must I leave you, too, behind?

I find the allure of burgundy hues,
          not one for the corpse of grapes,

                                                              being  

squeezed of every essence of life...

But the allure haemorrhaging forth..

I could be buried within this collage of
                                                      elegance.
­
And when I dig myself from it,
                      
I would  paint,
  
                                seeing  a picture of vigour.



Not the outline that others see ,
                                                when
                its chalk lined on the canvass.

Its not deceased,

                           this moment has only just breathed.

Daylight is over rated,
showing the weakness
         that caresses  the darkness.

Where strength is whoever walks,
                      when the sunrise knifes
                      at every vein of existence.

Haemorrhaging the beauty of silence,
                  daylight is the noise of an
                  awaking purgatory on life.

Hitting you up side the head,
concussion from my lyrical spread.
You got cerebral haemorrhaging as
my words hit you with a even spread.

Your ears are bleeding,
            dry mouth as nothing said.
My words drip from your ears
                       enough you said.

But im not the one taking
                weak **** shoots.
You tried an failed,
now your get syllable assaulted.

But no prosecution,
cos the only
          witness is incoherent mumbling.

If you come at me again,
better get those words sharpened,
       cos they need to get  past

your breath.

As they blunt at the moment.

My words are a razor cutting your throat,
     you'll bleed out but, ill smother your

Haemorrhaging silence,
On bottom of my shoe.
As i throat choke you,
                  listen to that...

Its the silence of you,

And I looked at my watch,
      your the last second past,
uninteresting and not worth remembering.

When the bereavement  of a seasons passing
                                                                     lingers,
leaves fall like haemorrhaging droplets.

Tree's like skeletons of past life,
        waving in the wind.
Shadow now claw longer than before.

As life decays, beneath..
      frigid breath crawls along the landscape,
those left above entombed in decay.
mortality of surroundings..

I'm a sanitary towel
      soaking up unconceived
                                      wording.

You bleed them heavily,
                   the smell of copper
                                      syllables

Haemorrhaging upon me
        saturating deeply I'm
                                        used.

Throw away like it wasn't
         personal,  but I'm now a sentence
                                           completed.

Slightly collecting on the singular
lingering moments before I was
able to pause and watch them bleed.
screaming verses muffled with duct-tape
haemorrhaging. They were my toys of
every pain I had suffered. But I bled
random thoughts on their flesh and sighed.

I can hear the lullaby of life,
            serenading
our movements to where
we sway delicately to its
                                inevitable
conclusion, a moment that
is elegance haemorrhaging to
                                                 silence..

*"Life is a masquerade of motions, we dance till they fade,

Within beauty  
there is always the smile
                         of a clown

Its lips red bleeding on
             the petals of white.
Rose's haemorrhaging.

Within the fragrance of
                      clotted aromas,
we cling to the reflections of beauty.

Corrupted within the smiles
of a clown,
          bleeding on petals
of white roses corroding.

LIGHTHOUSES OF THE MIND

"Fiction is to the grown man what play is to the child."
R.L.S.

Come Louis and play
with my food

transforming my  porridge
with a sprinkle of imagination

so that dusted with sugar
it becomes a land

buried under snow
and now with milk

a land invaded by
a white sea

the mind flooded
with thought

wave upon wave
of seeing

the food itself
taking second place

to whatever Thought
can get its teeth into

when seasoned with
such dreams.

And on nights in Nice
or in La Solitude in Hyères

writing in the dark
with your left hand

to spite the sciatica
fight the haemorrhaging

the partial blindness of
Egyptian ophthalmia.

"New Songs of Innocence" or
"Whistles for Small Whistlers*

finally becomes
"A Child's Garden of Verses."

Robert Louis Stevenson
creating in the night

lighthouses
of the mind.

violent inactivity
propagates haemorrhaging
of intimate volition
where in this vast
savannah wilder-nests
quietly spawn and

nurse elusive bunyips

perhaps their scatted
clues shall direct us
back to serenity or
perhaps volatility
shall remain until
tomorrow meets today

I need a spark of truth
A doting girl to establish love again
In my world of cutting pain
A pain that embeds and does not subside
An agony twisting and turning.

I feel your pain too
A double dose, a double shot,
I feel your anger, your rage,
The words you put on the crumpled page.

The daze I find myself occupying
Helps me to eradicate unwanted thoughts
Which used to play out in a sequence of brutal events
Where ghosts fight with tyrants, and angels fight with hellfire,
My mind is a messy affair, dusty but clear enough to hurt me.

You are observing my destruction, the world’s destruction,
It is all coming down, crumbling on our unhealthy cognitions,
Dreams are too far gone, love is stuck in a capsule of misery,
And the hope list is haemorrhaging ink.

We are truly dying.

LIGHTHOUSES OF THE MIND

"Fiction is to the grown man what play is to the child."
R.L.S.

Come Louis and play
with my food

transforming my  porridge
with a sprinkle of imagination

so that dusted with sugar
it becomes a land

buried under snow
and now with milk

a land invaded by
a white sea

the mind flooded
with thought

wave upon wave
of seeing

the food itself
taking second place

to whatever Thought
can get its teeth into

when seasoned with
such dreams.

And on nights in Nice
or in La Solitude in Hyères

writing in the dark
with your left hand

to spite the sciatica
fight the haemorrhaging

the partial blindness of
Egyptian ophthalmia.

"New Songs of Innocence" or
"Whistles for Small Whistlers*

finally becomes
"A Child's Garden of Verses."

Robert Louis Stevenson
creating in the night

lighthouses
of the mind.

In these dying nights of summer.
Where the chill rises up on these kaleidoscope sunsets.
I can feel the sun bleeding into the horizon.
Tortured.
Haemorrhaging all over the sky.

I try to reflect on something.
Better than just being in the.
Moment.

But, alas.
I'm at a loss for words.

And,

I'm not very eloquent anymore.