This house has been set ablaze; ashes rain like snow,
covering what has become my deathbed.
A weighted blanket of ruins lies heavy upon my chest.
Laboured breaths and the taste of soot coat the back of my throat,
stifling oxygen from reaching the whites of enervated eyes.
Blue-tinted lips incoherently whisper, flirting with my demons,
living in purgatorial gloaming
whilst my spirit hovers between diminishing light and shadows.
Reality blurs, amalgamating with hallucinations
where demons dance in a macabre ballet,
reenacting repressed sorrows,
torturing an undead heart to the brink of insanity.
With each twirl, each act, tales of desperation are etched onto flesh.
Riverlets of blood stain the sheets bright red,
as tourniquets are nowhere to be found.
There is no way to halt the flow;
emotional instability will be my bloodletting.
Every second ticks by a little quicker
until each heartbeat grows fainter.
A clenched jaw relents,
eyes roll backwards,
and a damaged soul is severed from its mortal coil,
yet its fate is left undetermined,
flailing in the in-between forevermore.
Behind the moon, where hunters hunt
In secret, the whiff of boiling lipsticks
Chastises the lungs of scorpions.
Murals hang on battered doors of
Decrepit banners, hoisted by dust-swept
Elements of colours –etched and painted.
Drums are sober, frightening withered
Hands that beat them to lean delirium.
Rotten eggs hatch on their own,
Their shells, white-toothed fragments of
Lost archives, posted with the obituaries
Of totems of muted art.
The silence on the moon haunts.
That on the back of the moon sears,
Sears incoherently,
All agonies of a wasted age with fires,
Moon fires, old and ravenous,
Which smelt the vagaries of a
Limitless anxiety.
Expectations brings
about self deprecations,
sometimes I wonder if
the thoughts running
through my head are
my own or somebody
else’s?
The world lives
in constant turmoil,
waves crashing,
tides swerving in
and out from open-
ended beaches,
abysmal delays of
the lighthouse directory,
guided by supplemental
shocks of lightening
rays trajectory.
I stand firmly in front
of the baseless sandcastle,
a fragile foundation of
past voices from lurking
shadows who slowly
poisoned its interior,
lack of motivation,
wandering in between
spaces incoherently,
my mind in anxiety help-
lessly what I could
not understand,
the words stare back
at me in silence gradually
suppressing the last
bit of life found closing
in underneath,
time holds on as
it falls into deep
sleep.
I often see him panhandling on the main streets.
Ranting at things only he could see.
He once surprised me at McDonald's drive-through.
Banging on my car window, barking incoherently.
I quickly jerked away from his fifty-caliber eyes.
Didn't spare him one dirty dime.
While eating my supersized meal off to the side
I silently justified that he looked too clean to be in need
and that he wore better sneakers than me.
They say angels sometimes crisscross our paths.
Fully disguised, to measure the size of our hearts.
Let's play a game of telephone...
crepitant tongues converse
overly dramatic tendencies
incoherently concrete
awakening preoccupation
a train flying off the tracks
chaotic clumps crust up
dissonance distended
indecorous reception
viral instigator
I dont want to sift
sterilize rhetoric
abrasive to the ear.
A game of telephone...let's play.
Now, that the world is getting purer and cleaner
everyday
who clear incoherently harbour dirts and spillage around.
Is it not the hand meant for cleaning and washing
and working out this and some of the other things?.
And the mouth for eating and drinking and talking
and laughing and many ,many, many other wishes
of sort kind?.
And foot and leg for us to reach out the dustbin for
instance?.
The dirt can't be a waste products perse nor the hand
a part of such dilemma nor the skull a kick hell out
of a thing cup? nor what dramatic human right nor
political taboo?.
I have a problem and that is true is quite different
from I have problem and that is true?.
Why then these people pollute nature
when already it's suffers contamination and stagnancy
and spillaging and wasting like quacks and qualms.
Hate hangs from me like a disintegrating cloak
It’s sickly oil tendrils trailing from me
It never gives passes
Eloquent in its misuse
Scratching its way through the sheerness. of the
slivers
Feeling so black that blue isn’t quite enough
Love drapes from me like a sculpted marble toga
It’s twirling twines exploding into fluff
It lives in the past and futures
Incoherently overused
It coddles in lessening touches of soft
Feeling the light before it lands
Love can be such a gol darn pain
A delicious delectable pain
With a large helping of hugs and kisses
It can just about drive you insane
More than once I heard someone ask
Is it really worth all the trouble
You better believe it, at twice the price
Nothing else bursts my bubble
You sweat and mumble incoherently
To concentrate, it's really no use
Useless as dangly things hanging from a bull
Totally and so udderly obtuse
So what can you do if you get infected
Well there's really no known cure
Just dive right on in, swim around for a while
You'll wanna stay I'm pretty sure
Let me know how that all works out
Many have tried, it's well known
Never were cured, spend a lifetime in love
Now resting comfortably in a home
“Give them back! Give my tears back, right now—with interest!!”
—Natsuki Takaya
She wrote her marine a letter, hopeful, bright
loved with her kisses and perfume. In sight,
the postman circles ‘round. Expectantly, she
hurries to the wooden box, near the Pear tree.
Spring is in the air with robins mating, daffodils
in potent bloom and the sudden goosebump’ chills.
Sarah shuts her bedroom door, pounces on bed,
allows steam to open the envelope, read what’s said.
“Dear Sarah, soon I go into the fight, I will write more
later, after the attack. Kiss kiss, x x, hug hug score.”
Later he continues with blood, sweat and tears.
Incoherently, blots - black and blue, slide down. Fears
march up and down her spine. Vietnam’s magic trick
was to steal her joy and love. America’s turning quick -
long ere, a neighbor, fathomed regress from her guy,
which would rip the torrential tearful cloud of her eye.
Love can be such a gol darn pain
A delicious delectable pain
With a large helping of hugs and kisses
It can just about drive you insane
More than once I heard someone ask
Is it really worth all the trouble
You better believe it at half the price
Nothing else bursts my bubble
You sweat and mumble incoherently
To concentrate it's really no use
Useless as dangly things under a bull
Totally and so udderly obtuse
So what can you do if you get infected
Well there's really no known cure
Just dive right in swim around for a while
You'll wanna stay I'm pretty sure
Let me know how that all works out
Many have tried it's well known
Never were cured spend a lifetime in love
Now resting comfortably in a home
bottleneck
gridlock
no go
five miles to the rest stops
tense grumbling
vultures are gathering
there are people out of their cars
screaming incoherently
like zombies
inside an in-car video game
avatars turn helplessly
in small jerky circles
IDEAS
an
applied sense
of the literate
conceptions
undevalued
gratituous
but
honourable
in
curious phenomena
change places
a mark
of verse
fluctuating rhythm.
gyrating
emotions
so irregular
of
no consequence
incoherently
emerge
so freelyASSUMPTIONS
subtle &
many
illustrative
observations
in
layered
settings
on many
levels
amplified
foibles
in
an absurdity
of
unlikely flights
of
imaginative
action
so plausible
&
authorial
in
tone
from
ingenious
angles
recognised
or imagined
setting
to
&
create
restoration
to
illustrate
A man jumped on the subway tracks,
Delaying every train.
He paced and shouted; people asked him
What he hoped to gain.
He ranted incoherently
Yet strangers offered aid,
Despite the fact that they’d be late
For plans they might have made.
As minutes passed, nobody
Could convince him he should stop,
But he climbed up at last
Where he was handcuffed by a cop.
Reporters called the man “unhinged,”
As good a word as any,
For lately, that description
Might apply to far too many.
This joyous season will soon be over
But the memories will remain in my heart
Of all the warm wishes from you sweet people
So sad though we're so far apart
Surely these long distant friendships
Are the way it was supposed to be
Otherwise I'd be torn between too many sweeties
I'd start babbling incoherently
So here's to all of my dear lovers on the Soup
I adore every one to the moon
You're all in my will and you'll share in my fortune
But zero times zero is “aucune”
I burned a book today.
The author will remain unknown
his words unread,
yellow pages untarnished
by the grit of hungers need
his ideas set free upon the wind
disembodied ghosts
hoping for redemption
I passed a library today.
its shelves stripped
of error’s errors
dark corridors
leading to locked rooms
suffocating the voice
of freedom.
I wrote a poem today
etched my heart
upon the paper
baptized it with my tears
nurtured each word
melded them into a union
of mindful contemplation
I passed a mob today
chanting incoherently
carrying contradictory signs
demanding unity,
equality and justice.
after the riot and looting
I went home and
I burned a book today.
John G. Lawless
3/21/2021
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