Cornelius,
Cornelius,
I’m tired,
Want to sleep.

Cornelius,
Cornelius,
Stop laughing,
As I weep.

Stop hiding,
In the corner.
Stop lurking,
Like a creep.

The only way,
To rid of you,
The only way,
To sleep.
I’ll draw you,
‘Till the crack of dawn,
To satisfy your needs.

dark red rose
crumbles under the weight of darkness
falls apart into thousands of pieces
each one morphing into small black spiders as they hit the cement floor
scattering
running to hide from the impending moon’s glow
into the safety of the dark

The one black hair
That WE create
The truth which
We manipulate
We try to
control our fate
Kings and queens
Lie in state!
We believe that
We are great
Brother, we
HALLUCINATE!

We think we can
Build up... repair
The termites nest
The spider's lair
The web of which
We are aware
Beneath our skulls
Pate brown or fair
No matter how
We wish or care

We can't make white
one black hair.


SoulSurvivor
November 2021

i cast no shadow
beneath the white sun
amidst the sea of swaying green
and my skin is see through
and passes through
the blades of grass
like a projection
a hallucination
in no one's head
am i
even
real?
there is no colour on these sickly bones
but i feel the warmth of red
seeping through my transparent mind
am i
even
real?
i feel like a ghost
with no grave
a ghost that has not died
just yet
a ghost
trying to look for
something
for anything
for everything
while having
no eyes.

I wrote a love letter. This is not it.

But it existed,
you’ll have to take my word for that.
Existed being past tense,
because on the eve of adulthood
I took a glass jar
and my parents’ matches,
and I burned the **** thing to dust.

Which raises a question,
I suppose, of whether
things destroyed become ghosts.
Unnatural death sparking
life again in those same ashes,
a postal service with no return address.

How long before
the subject, unnamed,
would miss what never came?
Or does that even matter?
Yes, I’m asking you
to clarify so far what you think all this means.

Three years later,
I watched as everything imaginable
took shape in the picture of a flame.
Slight movement, repetition, almost,
against a television screen,
but the world became so, so wild,
and then everything was an oil painting
and I was Dorian Gray.

Slow, murmuring, hapless rubble
taking baby steps across my mind,
an experience of imagination
that says, I brought you a love letter,
once, and you crafted that into dust,
so here, take form from ash;
get up and be what you cling to.

I wrote a love letter. This is not it.
But I sent it to fate, to burn.

The fire, artificial, loved me back.

Every time I go under the covers,
My eyes long to find you.
Is it just a euphoric essence, or am I really falling?
Oh! I’m so afraid of telling.
Some days I wake up with your bold eyes staring at me, when I hallucinate.
Some nights you’re just a sweet swimmer swimming in my ocean, when I hallucinate.
When nights are so long,
And I can barely sleep,
I rest upon your figure, when I hallucinate.
You have no name, no face, no game, no race
Only a someone whom I rely on
My chance to escape, a feeling of being loved.
Oh darling, Let’s meet there again,
When I hallucinate.

Now and then I catch a glimpse

Of a shadow or piece of a thing

Alive but terrifying to reminisce.

Now and then I sense

The presence of some being

Closing in on my ears and neck.

Now and then I feel a tap

On my shoulder or my head from the back.

Surrounded by too many

Always checking

Always wondering

Who's there?

Where did you go?

But to an audience that doesn’t know

I'm alert, though in isolation

and completely alone.