Love being lost
My tears merge with the storm
The cool rain is making me sweat
Don't want to be found
Nobody is wondering
Love being lost
So enjoy the quiet vibe of being invisible
So much of so many that I so miss
Don't want to be found
The mirrors go black in solidified hibernation
Love being lost
The apples receive scars from the falling limbs of aging time
Soaked to the bone and blue throughout my weary soul
Don't want to be found
Everybody is centered on self
Love being lost
Stuck in the past like bloody thorns counting sheep making wishes
Happiness is missing the time machine that I have not the simplest of talents to make
Don't want to be found
My favorite parking spot is wherever and whatever is long since forgotten like unsung trailblazers collecting mummified dust
My devilish mausoleum painted
with bloodcurdling remains
Cobweb gives spine-tingling
in mummified body
Tonyx
The knowledge of necromancy
- unknown X ?
Macabre beasts, tyrannize
a world of exorcism
Anti depressants !
The galaxy grows cold and poor
GoRe, gorE ... GoOOOre
- destroy the planet
Haunted xanadu didilduX
"Do you want ice with It?"
Why not,
the deep snow will be more slidable.
I rattle the cubes.
A snowstorm keeps me
twisting and corkscrewed
even when at rest.
'Not too cold for you?"
I am muffled
cocooned in layers of invisibility.
My spine is insulated,
flesh mummified
yet under these red lights,
I almost glow.
"Where are all your friends?"
They shelter in empty shot glasses,
the whisky in them is still warm.
They die alone while talking to my memory.
"What's your problem Mr.?"
It's that mirror back of the bar
it keeps thawing and dripping,
soon my face will emerge,
and its eyes will be
forever unlocked and open.
January, the first of the year, always waits, lulls, and wakes a nice cold feeling
Every year it comes and haunts me, it's like death, this month is the reaper for me
I feel dead, many Januarys have waited, and my soul has been mummified
I'm not alive
Life knows
Already gone
Comes and goes
A solitary tear escapes my eye,
As poignant thoughts shuffle my decor.
If only I could rewrite the script, defy,
To release the burden that anchor my core.
"Why me?" reverberates through the ventricles, mummified,
Ripped apart by destiny's cruel spell.
In this moment of truth, I stand crucified,
Awaiting light to penetrate each cell.
Acquaintances revel in my agony,
As I waddle through the puddles,
Tripped by the weight of bitter irony,
In molasses-like mean shackles.
Yet I strive to rise from the ashes of fire,
As cadavers of self-pity unleash,
Infusing life into a desert's sapphire,
Elevating my spirit—hope as a feast.
"Non-intervention by others or by other means than natural causation, accords the many hither before you the pain of death, and the many hereafter the pleasure of eternal life, " ...by The Poet.
formation fleeting forgiving ~
swelt sunset surrendering
drooping dusk dying ...
crying crescent cessation
traumatic twilight terminates ...
named numerated nullified
remains respite respected ~
shallow space shadowing
masking midnight mummified
permanent passage paradise ...
In this arid expanse, where life's essence is drained,
I wander, a lost soul, forever unchained.
The desert's embrace, a relentless sea of brown,
Engulfs me, in its barren grasp, I drown.
Granules of sand, like time's relentless flow,
Cover my body, from head to toe.
Each breath I take, a dusty, arid gust,
Leaving me breathless, in this desert's trust.
Oxygen tainted by the earth's cruel crust,
I gasp for air, in this desolate thrust.
My parched lips part, but only powder escapes,
A silent hymn of despair, as my spirit drapes.
With knees to the ground, I succumb to the land,
Letting the sand claim me, in its arid hand.
Mummified in this moment, my vessel now still,
In the heart of the desert, I find a tranquil thrill.
Amidst the vast emptiness, I become one,
With the sands of time, my journey is done.
In this desert's embrace, I find my reprieve,
A solace in stillness, a moment to believe.
Ancient Egyptians had terrific mummification skills
They practiced on a variety of lesser animals
hippopotamuses, cats, dogs, camels, and apes
there is non-living proof of their talents in their tombs
pharaohs and their queens were also mummified
Their mummification techniques are still admired today
I'm writing my heart out clean tonight; my
Mask only read in your mummified veins;
I join your heart in its breaking's right—
I'd not meant you to be alone; these days.
I still grasp your dawn on me you made.
The hieroglyphics of your world
That never ciphered more a lovely soul—
The feminine Phoenix's winged image
By my heart and yours; though a crashed port—
Do we not still speak the same language
He was a body in flames,
like all that walk, fly or crawl
his body was a hive
for both death and life.
His skull was ancient
the bone of it, was a small hill
at the root of the Himalayas.
The child was conceived
under a broken wing,
one created by the tainted purity
of all damning prophesies.
The child was taken
to a sanctuary city,
a place where imagination
was mummified,
a place where heaven
was stored in clay jars.
His lamp was lit, yet it did not burn,
flame took his flesh
until he could be seen by the blind.
Homeless he was,
yet he sheltered from the elements
becoming them, acknowledging
the truth of them.
No person can live longer
than his last memory -
he did,
that is why we light candles
in honor of his continued arrival
in every womb.
Begin by stripping my skin to the bone
Misfortune is baked in layers
Mania in DNA is more than kin
I trust nurture entwined with nature
Tattered veils obscure perspective's light
Shameful gauzes are undressed
Ran madly half-bare to sis's arms
Suicidal wolf cries no longer tempt me
Re-parenting without weed strips me
No more wine ushering the beast
Make abstinence my embalmer
Repatriate this childish soul to the slab
But, bare days are still in need of veils
Nicotine measures hours hemmed
Buried childhood squirms for treason
I have yet to abandon painful threads
Terrors of walking nude will be learned
No parents to steady with hands
This old man-child still wants claps
The past waits for touch inside the tomb
Miles of selfish ribbons unwind clinging
Stand half mummified yet alive
Walk roads of perils on bare feet
My uncloaked condition accepts it's terminal
Life without bandaids is one beginning
My mania unwinds what's hidden
I'll rise from the crypt together
Till ash revealed is cleaved from soul
John 19:41
At the place where Jesus was crucified, there was a garden, and in the garden a new tomb, in which no one had ever been laid.
There's a stuffed animal
that sits in the kid's
corner of the coffee shop
closest to my house.
It seems like a dog,
but it's wrapped head
to tail in what appear
to be bandages.
A mummified canine.
I used to think
this oddity was a bizarre
choice for a kid's toy,
but I think I understand it
now.
Behind the screen
of a body cast, he's
a chocolate lab,
or a rusty dachshund,
a rabbit-chasing greyhound,
or your childhood dog Annie.
Its tangential existence
dependent on the brain
that picks him up.
For me, he's actually
a cat, gone undercover
and every time I pass him,
I whisper "Godspeed, brother,
your secret is safe with me."
Did I mislay my bell ringing skull?
Thoughts are out of school
they run into fields of white mice
they multiply - fruitlessly.
Many mock me in front of my other
more head-ridden selves.
Got out of my sleep
with a crowbar and shovel,
mislaid the brain I had yesterday
or was it the day before?
Distant chomping sounds in a rabbit hole.
You can think too much, you can spread yourself
like marmalade over a hundred sticky memories.
Problems appear but only to be unsolved, just
mummified in a facsimile of an afterlife.
I once had a screw-top,
it kept the thinking down to a few finger bones.
Rampant are the curly-tailed nibblers.
All is well, for I dream in the emptiness
of a bell ringing skull,
one placed somewhere else
and far out of sight.
Stuffed heads on stuffed walls
beady glass eyes glare.
The house is stuffed with horns,
tusks, fangs, and jowls.
The heads are taxidermized;
constantly maintained by moths.
The walls are filled with the mummified flesh,
not of slaughtered animals
but the bodies of Dead Presidents.
Teddy Roosevelt’s
elephant gun leans against a hollow elephant foot.
He baggad them all.
It was not considered a disgrace at the time
historical context is everything.
Years later Teddy Bears make amends
as best they can.
in the corridors of this endless labyrinth every corner hides the abominable, like your last sad diagnosis, crumpled up and thrown on the old sideboard, or my pale face in the embarrassing portrait, still scared of the storm that made the sunflowers disappear from the city, because this is a suffering in thick drops, it descends slow and bad through the cold walls and within all the medicines we find no solution, even trying to corrupt happiness with false therapies or keeping and forgetting the tickets of our trips to illusion, but now not even the broken armchair misses of our pain while it rots quietly in another dark corridor, in the abandoned house a mummified grasshopper lies beside the little boxes with padlocks, as if we could keep the screams of the wind that toppled our world, or if we could still see and follow in the footsteps of who we would never be again, it was you who tasted the sour void, you who saw the exit sign that time swallowed, It's really good not knowing who we were, because if we've lost each other forever and I'm no longer allowed to remember, the mirror of memory did well when it broke
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