He lost his life and
I lost my mind when I found
Him decomposing
I’m slowly rotting.
My body is decaying.
I’m supposed to be. . .
I want to be.
Dead
I can't take the pain anymore.
I hear subtle voices
They talk to me
I find some kind of comfort in them?
People call me
crazy
Broken
Wrong
Pathetic
And the worst one
Monster. . .
Every time I hear it
The voices get louder
I black out
When I wake up
there's blood on my hands.
Again. . .
I stare at the blood.
Then the gun
Back to the blood.
Back to the gun.
Blood.
Gun.
I grab the gun
I hold it under my chin
My hand tremble
Tears fall
The voices yell
“Bang”
Everything is gone
The voices go quit
The pain is gone
My body is now is finally
“Decomposing”
Or as the people will whisper
“The monster is now rotting away”
Contest : Write a Beautiful Carpe Diem
Sponsor : Constance la France
2nd Placement : Standard Contest
____________________________
“ The Now Moment is all we really have, holding our atomic Universe in its infinitisimal palm, thorn pierced and tender. ” Poet
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Peeped through drapes after domino dreams
debris falling from dim dubious sky
beautiful strelitzias covered in muck
glass, tin, twigs, paper decomposing
clouds calibrating stormy moment
Sleepy mind calculating a conclusion
"...end of Earth ! What am I to do !"
journals she wrapped in crystalline tears
brewing cappuccino with cheesy croissant
no breakfast in hydrangea heaven, for sure !
Conscience heralds : "Reach for no tasty morsel
seek instead stories standing in good stead
heading to abiding couch in blissful Dome
no secrets behold ~ Seize this Moment !"
Hastened to mirror asking demurely : "Tell me :
Is my crown glinting luminous or in lull ?"
mirror replied that skull holds grey matter !
then zooming arrived a Bright Yellow Truck
to clear storm's mess, a Carpe Diem zest…
Seize momentary cappuccino. Debris gone !
The cold pavement is hostage to anguish and blues
filled with dealers, pimps, and guys like Louie the Bum
who hustles dimes and quarters from drivers
hoping the traffic light stays green
so they can pass beyond the railroad trestle
that crosses above the road
It separates the depth of their fears
from desperate people
who languish in an atmosphere of miserable, gloomy grief
with empty eyes focused on nothing
but days and nights in a sideshow dressed as confusion
Where they wander the cracked sidewalks
lined with bars and empty buildings, soaked in broken glass
where scattered garbage is blown around like tumbleweeds
crossing the pavement of the damned, who linger on the edge of life
hanging onto each breath of lament
searching for something without a description
weighed down by their decomposing soul
that begins to peel away their last vestige of humanity
leaving nothing but ground-up up fragile memories
of what could have been
Tristesse
The hotel room in St. Asaph (Wales) was damp
and smelt of spent body passion, I didn’t have a coin
for the gas metre; in the decomposing bed, a woman
Snored, and from the depth of my soul
the beginning of an anguished scream.
The morning was ashen as my face, and fine drizzle fell.
The hotel bar was closed, and I walked with aching bones
for miles while the heavens descended.
Apocalypse Now!
No such luck, when the clouds parted, the hills
where green with grazing sheep is.
Dear God, where were you yesterday when I married
A scullery maid, have you no mercy?
Tristesse
The hotel room in St. Asaph (Wales) was damp
and smelt of spent body passion, I didn’t have a coin
for the gas metre; in the decomposing bed, a woman
Snored, and from the depth of my soul
the beginning of an anguished scream.
The morning was ashen as my face, and fine drizzle fell.
The hotel bar was closed, and I walked with aching bones
for miles while the heavens descended.
Apocalypse Now!
No such luck, when the clouds parted, the hills
where green with grazing sheep is.
Dear God, where were you yesterday when I married
A scullery maid, have you no mercy?
Her eyes are laden with drunken sleep,
Silhouetted by lank, tired hair flimsier
Than the spine of an elderly, broken night.
Tattered, it buries the horrors of night;
Braided, it creases the rows of black corn,
Sweeping swiftly south and downwards;
Ponytail ties the umbilical linking life
And skyline light.
Lissome, she traipses with no lamp,
Even when darkness confidently pitches its nightingale’s romance
To district judges seated on the kerb of the apothecary’s creed . . .
With her the night loses its potency,
Its sacredness,
Expelling flies that die out on their own willpower,
Like winged dinosaurs,
Through the age of decomposing summer.
It's all been analysed before?
The oneiric spell cast upon slow, difficult nights
When the breath smells like the anus of hell.
By the way, I drivel.
Not saliva.
Oh, no!
I drivel on about hissing nights that ought to be lonesome,
Stretched out, dark, and without rays borrowed
Earlier from a twerking twilight.
Restless nights, worn like silky cloaks, diaphanous,
Seeing through the naked veins of her sweet eyes.
Within this sanctum
of breath and bone—
ten trillion anchorites
mimic their devotions.
Bacteria threading
blood’s vermilion rivers
braiding holy water
into the cathedral
of now.
Their alchemy transmutes
starlight
into the wine of existence—
decanted
from Orion’s mythical vine.
Viruses—
those threshold wraiths
between being
and unbeing—
inscribe new verses
in the living gospel
of our chromosomes.
Fungi a cappella
in mycelial tongues
through marrow’s moaning chambers
decomposing resurrection
from each small death
we die.
We are not hosts—
but cantatas
still composing themselves
in light.
Each cell—
a verse rehearsing resurrection.
Hark:
your pulse conducts
this unseen choir
where mortal breath
becomes immortal song.
And in this sacrosanct
communion of kingdoms,
we learn
we were never “I”—
but a constellation of prayers:
timeless,
boundless—
Bacteria
Viruses
Fungi
Me—
becoming
one.
Wilted flowers
Wilted flowers lie in empty fields
Days pass as flies scour,
Leaving the decomposing ideas to be eaten.
The sun flickers as each minute weans by
An empty shell of you left in bloody waters.
A quiet silence crowding the space your words claimed.
The once blooming pedals, scorned by your nectar.
Craving the burn you bring into my veins; no longer able to be muzzled
A type of silent desire for chaos and destruction.
A desire for deforestation.
What started as weeds being plucked,
Turned to mowing down rose bushes.
Muddy boots left on waxed floors,
Destruction on the original wood grain that was once admired by generations.
Floors handcrafted from trees outside of what I wanted to call home.
Someplace silence was peace and peace was expected rather than craved.
Pruned roses left puddles of milkweed
Each droplet going sour the second it fell,
The bitter taste of cyanide leaked out of your pores into its water supply.
Empty plots. Pesticides. Ripped roots.
On this gangrenous planet, where the sky bears the scars of time gone by,
we should refrain from weaving plans from threads of illusions and hopes,
yet we continue to craft them with an optimism that pulses deep within our veins,
like a reflex of the dying seeking light in the final darkness of the day.
We cling to dreams like pale stars barely shining,
in a universe that hides its future under a veil of uncertainty and silence,
but even in the face of a world decomposing under the weight of its own mistakes,
we dare to hope, to plan, to weave stories from the ashes of the present.
Perhaps this optimism is merely a flickering flame in the cold wind of reality,
but within it, we find the strength to dream, to rise from the ruins of a shattered past,
and in every plan we make, in every hope we keep alive,
we discover fragments of light, echoes of a possibility for rebirth.
And so, on this ailing planet, where time counts its heartbeats,
we build our future from fragments of optimism, like alchemists of the dream,
seeking magic amidst despair and sunrises in the midst of perpetual night,
for even on the edge of the abyss, we remain seekers of miracles and lights.
I'm stalking the ground.
Treading the lines between,
half human and distorted frequency.
Slowly, I recede. I'm choked off from everything.
A distant recollection, an obligated memory.
I barely made out. Shadows of insecurity obscure my mind.
Fruition in a haze of lies. I'll reanimate. I'll tell myself anything.
I'm losing my soul, and it's the cost of everything.
If anything goes, then everything goes with me.
It's all my fault; that's what you said to me.
I'm losing my mind. A decomposing family tree.
I try to remember, I can't remember anything.
If that's what you want
Tombstone
What's the point of living?
Might as well get busy dying?
Darkness covers our paths.
All the days under the sun won’t last.
The graveyard is inviting.
There's more empty plots where we lie.
You can’t escape from judgment.
No place to hide but stand in line in blood red.
Tombstone underground or burned alive in a vase.
Become the dirt with no face.
No one will remember you.
Shadows will cover your grave in shaded blue.
Underneath you will become worm food.
Green grass will grow in the morning dew.
No more tears to be shed.
In a box alone pitch black dead.
Sometimes the living would want to trade places.
Make a wish, you could be next laid to rest.
A hard life above.
Rejected from the world and unwanted.
Truly you crave the ending.
Grab a shovel and start digging.
The moon casts a reminder of your guilt.
Take it with you, the blood has over filled.
Lay facing up decomposing.
Being in a dark place is very lonely.
An unearthly fog thickens nocturnal’s peaceful aura.
Scents of lamenting petrichor mix with slick, decomposing leaves.
A disharmonious death knell calls to me,
Untying the red strings of fate from the celestial loom.
My heart weighs heavy against a faltering ribcage,
Standing in front of the wilderness of mirrors.
Disembodied voices duplicate—
Head spinning, whiplash ensues.
Reflections distorted, coated in soot—
I've become both saint and sinner.
Looking down at my hands, veins darken,
Burning from within—realization strikes:
I’m the ashes, the smudges obscuring judgment’s view.
What can I say
I dream about dead things
Skeletons in my closet
Hanging on hangers with names of people I no longer know
They whisper remnants of the past
Of times that were filled with laughter and joy
Now they’ve become sour
Everytime they speak I push their voices out of my mind
I carry dead flowers with me
To remind me of all the love I once had
I drag a black trash bag behind me
It holds every idea that I threw away
Every idea that I deemed bad
I envy dead things
They exist without being disturbed
Like a body that’s decomposing
Lost and wanting to be found
But not all bodies are found
Sometimes I want to rot away
Lay down on the forest floor
Waiting for animals to pick at my skin
Tearing me apart one piece at a time
Waiting as the Earth reclaims her Son
I was born with a beating heart
But I was never truly alive.
What they don’t tell You
What the recruiters tell you:
“Be all you can be.”
“An Army of one.”
“Fly high with the Air Force.”
“Join the Navy and see the world.”
“Be the best. Be a Marine.”
“Join the National Guard and get an education and keep your job.”
Things recruiters leave out:
Watching your friend(s) go home in body bag(s).
The dirt and sweat.
C rations, K rations, MRE’s.
PTSD, suicides, drug addiction.
Limbs lost. Traumatic brain injury.
Bloated, decomposing corpses.
Dead men, women and children.
Fear so intense you soil yourself.
Lice, sand, dust, cold, heat.
The stench of death.
Families torn apart.
Long road to rehab or death whichever comes first.
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