Darkness and sadness,
wildest of madness,
that’s his prey.
Pitless self pity,
mourning mortality,
suffering silently;
the hunter awakes.
Ambiguously going on,
Aimlessly along.
Just hands.
No hearts.
No persons,
Just parts.
The black angel plays cards here.
Twiddles his thumbs and
dances a smile-sneer.
Waits. Imagines,
some things of old fashion.
Licks at his memories,
shakes, and then visibly
projects his thirst into my mind.
Projects me his sign.
Rejects me in time.
Misplacing memories.
Displacing things in threes.
Hitherto I’d hide
exposing my soul only in rhyme–
all whispers. Some truth,
hidden in lies
nestled closely in lines.
Temptations cut up and slice me.
Outlining too nicely,
the impressions and have-to-bes
rattling loose inside me.
In a moment; tranquility,
In this moment’s insanity,
Disguising the tears with the red,
fight the fears and the dread,
While so subversively, he sings.
And Oh! The peace that it brings.
If I could loosen my grasp!
Make peace with at last.
If but for only this one small thing,
the one fact that remains,
l see nothing new on this table.
And nothing old I still can’t handle
No, not yet.
There is no grave
no yesterday,
no place,
No insurance that saves
nor collects tips
for the brave.
No nothing to say
which no nothing can displace,
or so dark and so horrid
which death can erase
or discard of.
Anything, anyone can start over,
with determined eyes and
perspective mind;
the power of will.
Beating softly, haughtily,
greedily, but still.
Excited; giddy and silly.
Making real of the really.
Taking freely the free.
Forsaking all things quietly.
Swallowed up by the easy.
Pinned down by the pleasing.
Perhaps tomorrows,
will be first of few sans sorrow.
An empty canvas, so stark
Ready to fill with the dark.
Without horrors and habits.
Lacking the traits of the west,
sacking the old ways of the past.
You never can tell
exactly how long
it will last.
How quickly
it will all end.
Just wait a while, then
hesitate. Smile, just about when
his cards begin clicking and clattering
making flippant his flattery.
Smoke curling from under
his deep black-hooded hunger.
Chivalry.
Clove! Oh! Roses!
But, they sure do allure me.
“Here kitty kitty
You sit so pretty.”
His promise, sticky sweet,
personal, discrete.
But, to distant memory, he’s author.
Too distant a memory;
the father.
Caught in the wash and the spin.
Caught up by the thorns once again.
A strange feeling,
Perspective.
It aches.
An elective
of hate.
The left overs
of all give and no take.
It’s all brewing,
desperation stealing and screwing
the inspiration it gives.
The inspiration; it leaves!
His perspiration, I breath.
Close my eyes,
see the dark side.
Visit dim-lit castles
of lower level paradise.
Back over coals, he does rake me,
Through crimson seas, he does take me.
Where the tide eagerly awaits me.
Laps at me, tastes me.
Eats me up, hatefully.
Chapped and burned,
blistered and torn by
a fireball in early morning.
One shiver, one cry,
Forcefully,
opened eyes.
Scared but alive!
Burnt up, then revived.
With one thing on truth’s side:
In smoke he may hide,
but in ashes, I rise!
So,
Fuck you, all your fuckery.
I mock you with your mockery.
Can’t fool me with such foolery!
The promises you make in the day
are not bonded past grave.
They’re worthless and wasted
on those who cannot taste it.
A liar whose lies
stand on the promise and prize
that cannot be redeemed.
Cannot be released,
until quite naturally
we find rest in our peace.
Thirty-five times here,
I’ve still got no lines here,
And maybe it’s not time here,
Not for me.
Not for me.
I’ll be just fine here.
I’m still alive here.
PostpunkChronicles 