"streamlines" poems
it took that walk home (the same three hours as usual) one last time, or at least the promise of, to realize, maybe admit that there's no good reason any longer to pretend to know what idle thoughts (those ones that had been left to mull for the last three months, at a minimum) had or have to do with reality, if they've even stayed remotely consistent or if it's the predictable chaos of daisy petals, tiny and pure clean as they are, dropping sequences of murmurs through wound car windows or heartfelt sunrises or collapsing into the mess of sorrow in the library for the fourth time that week, the flash of peripheral reflections across the ceiling and slowly forgetting someone else- she'd said "don't blow me off, this time...", but all these stories blur to blue clouds in these porcelain hands, wondering why the same circumstances pass with all those skewlined angles on the surface of this world, distinction-drained lovers, and it all culminates with that **** centre point: the human, half in covers, could god have built him so wrong? (or does all will lead to the same end, am I fated in freedom to such fallacy?) I could forget everything, you know. guess I'm just waiting for a reason to.
Dec 18, 2012
Dec 18, 2012 at 8:38 AM UTC
What is this enigma up ahead?
A chasm of clear blue in a mountain of black?
White streamlines fragment the space,
A complex gold seeps around its edges,
Creeping out in tendrils.
A rock-pool amidst a lava-flow.
A beginning, life
Rising from bed and gradually nudging
Its blanket past wriggling toes.
The rain begins to lighten.
Apr 21, 2017
Apr 21, 2017 at 5:51 PM UTC
The words collect
Slithering over my face
Making a mask to fall behind, to hide
Creating a wall of lies and secrets as my disguise.
Red. Black. Silver. Streamlines down my body
Embracing me into an unknown.
I'm throbbing faster. And quicker.
Words slip out of my mouth like ghosts.
Hands move and twist
Contort the darkness to come.
Holler. Yell, stamp. Scream.
Vision mists and motions rise.
Ghosts of the past!
Ghosts of the future!
Cover me with the truth.
I am not your friend.
Eat my words and rise.
I am your king.
I am the native ghost!
Apr 11, 2018
Apr 11, 2018 at 6:03 PM UTC
A silent maw,
_carved into the velvet of spacetime,_
drinks the universe
__without sound, without shape—__
just the slow, spiraled collapse
of everything once known.
Its edge—a burning halo
of __fused copper, liquid bronze,__
and _ionized fire,_
spins at the speed of forgetting,
_blurring into a ring of sheer velocity—_
a lens where reality folds in on itself.
Around it:
__deep red streamlines,__
_maroon currents of orphaned light,_
taper and twist like oil on black water—
__gravity made visible.__
In the distance, galaxies drift—
_fractured spirals in periwinkle dust,_
nebulae __bruised in plum and violet,__
_their tendrils stretched thin_
by the pull of this ancient siphon.
It does not speak.
But it rearranges everything—
_light becomes arc,
time becomes thread,
motion becomes stillness._
The accretion disk—a
__maelstrom of starbone and ash,__
where photons skim the surface
but never escape,
trapped in orbit,
a crown of failure and flame.
Beyond the pull,
_light teeters, bends, breaks—_
an aurora of shattered timelines
wrapped in __lapis smoke,__
flickering in rhythm
to a silence we will never unhear.
Each orbit marks a memory—
_not ours,_
but the universe’s—
stitched into the architecture of collapse.
There is no edge,
no true surface,
only the illusion of descent
into perfect black—
_not emptiness,_
but __the compression of everything.__
We are bystanders.
Frozen,
watching entropy dress itself
in colors we’ve never seen before.
May 7, 2025
May 7, 2025 at 11:53 AM UTC
My head has become a very hard place to survive in
It is not a wasteland, no,
It does often grow these flowers
But acidic waste does sometimes
Drip in the rivers and streamlines
Of thoughts, floating carelessness
Down canals and connecting neurons
Under bridges that young couples walk over
And the older ones stop to peer to
It oozes bright yellow
Staining the rocks and sand
And bird’s winged-tips
Dying the world a mess of
Fluorescent greens and blues
Illuminating the cloudiest of days
The characters of my brain
Enjoy the toxicity
Jump in the pools formed from acid rain
Raise their faces to the red burned sky
And let each drop absorb into their skin
I do not know why my head has become
An expert on chemical excesses
It is survivable if you let it all
Soak in
Feb 21, 2017
Feb 21, 2017 at 4:00 PM UTC