what we fear as death is just
decor.
victorian, french country, industrial,
rustic;
doesn't matter.
the bones are the same.
some people expire smiling in
neon pink plastic lawnchairs
or pierce the veil ******* themselves on dove-grey french provincial settees from the 18th century.

we have numbed ourselves in our
endless pursuit of complexity;
walked off the precipice of that
final ecstatic unraveling
while wide-eyed and trembling
at the sight of aesthetics,
as cheap as they are fleeting.

we must garder à l'esprit that it all burns to ash, singular in characteristic, that is scattered by winds indifferent to any distinguishable feature in the
many beliefs twisted into the teeth
of sleeping behemoths dreaming of feasts they had yet to awaken to.

it, what we fear, is shapeless.
the absence of all accumulated
delusion, confusion, or fluid lucidity.
ancient.
a non-locality that is the total
sum of the All collapsing in on
it's most basic components
also collapsing in on...elsewhere?

i'm done.
please, come and sit.

tell me how you like your tea?

The furnished souls
Adorned with mahogany
Luxurious pieces in every corner
Eau de parfum, the finest from France
Does not allure the senses
The settees, chaise lounges and recliners
Standing there, forlorn, awaiting guests
The ornate crystal chandeliers adorn the ceilings
Trying to illuminate the gloominess
The flooring of Makrana marble on the floors
As if there is a puzzle to be solved
It looks quizzically at the incoherent footsteps
Of the infrequent visitors, not even interested
Mansion filled with embellishments
Yet there are no worthy inhabitants
The Swarovski crystal curtains, veils the outside world
That waits, without any expectations or superfluities
To furnish the soul with love




© Amitav (Radiance)

So you did the ***** tonk
and I did the shoulder shuffle
driving down boulevards
laughing and singing
and trying to find our place
in each others heads

Little did we know
that our words would slice
your face always susceptible
to the tone of my voice

storming out of restaurants
and smashing paintings
of your lovers who were charming

your clothes on the floor
my boxers round your waist
we'd find a common ground
in our anger at the world
and of each other

It was and is
a despicable love
and I wouldn't trade it
for the insincerity of comfort
that so many others have

We shall watch them all rot
at their very cores
passions drilled out of them
as they seep into their settees
while we wear rotten skin
and shine from the core.

That is the equity of love.
and I will adore you
for a very long time
or until my mind dilapidates.

willow trees lightly touch against the outer panes

perhaps in angst of seeing scattered leaves

within the study.

the room is muddy, hosting burnt auburn couches

and rust settees,

chestnut book casings, and warm amber

figurines.

the forest inside is a colorful fall, but the book spines stay frozen

unlike the oaks ******* outside

shrubs within find home in terracotta

outside the vines dip their toes in soil

and the master pens and pines inside the spines of

ancient trees, while the willows outside

stand watching, tapping their fingers

asking to grow inside.