In shadow's tomb—
A dim, aimless flicker...
Void's grip, timeless
claims all.
Fantomsound: life's song is just a cognition in the null.
Rain, pain—
Stardust, dust, flesh
patternless on oblivions loom.
Decay's dance a molderwaltz,
Fingers grasp at phantoms
no hope
Peace in the abyss's open arms. Not…
Unveiled—darkness, despair's shroud
enigma's veil.
Hearts, no soul, toll; unpaid.
Dreams surrendered.
Woe's tale on wastesphere's icy breath.
Void's sigh,
Sun bleeds on the endless fight.
Souls adrift, yearning
churning, burning
Accept, the void's silent
starlit song mute.
From nothing, is nothing, in nothing /
to nothing, for nothing
Fade to black...
There was once a penguin who thought
That religion and morals were naught,
As he swam in cold water
He thought, "Boy, I oughta...
Do something, but I don't know what.”
Nihilist Footsteps
I have always wanted...
in the black on black silence
the womb and the grave
no respite is engendered
no soothing harmony sung
so it is that we are haunted
by the language of our fathers
wrapped in hope and fear
running down a hallway
feathers brush my eyes
across the red horizon
swept up by the loving edge
past tense on my left side
future perfect on my right
the mask I wear is speaking
I am the me I've never met
saying these hollow words again
truth is a liquid mirror
we are the orphan light of stars
reflecting back and back
a perfect web of distance
drawn tight around the spark
There shall never be another dawn…
Never another day to greet your family
Or hold the ones you love dear
You will never know the coming nightmare
Or look into the eyes of damnation
Never greet a great new day with optimism.
Or know a benevolent god.
There shall never be another dawn.
Never again read the writing on the wall.
Never watch a great play of humanities tragedies
Never feel the golden rays of a setting sun
Or stroll the moonlit beaches under the watchful eye of a silver moon
There shall never be another dawn.
No more radio, no more broadcast of television
Or digital streaming of data across a worldwide Web.
Your nation’s will be memory, your leader's ash.
Gone are the petty squabbles of infantile Presidents.
There shall never be another dawn
Forget your faith in an empty deity of crosses and bleeding scared hearts.
Or bald men deep in their inner universes.
Forget all you have learned, all the books you have read.
Never dream dreams again.
No more tears.
No more suffering.
No more nightmares.
Horrors.
Or despair.
There shall never be another dawn.
The rain pours down on the city.
A sense of putrid disgust fills the air,
as trash litters the streets
and grime grows in every back alley.
The clouds cast their shadows
and the lack of saturation sucks the life out of everything
and everyone.
The rain adds depth to the highlights and shadows of the world,
making the spray-painted brick walls and cigarette-ridden cracked roads look surreal.
The rain cleanses the earth of it‘s filth.
It‘s the emptiness that makes me feel,
the destroyers of my body.
For all the years of coffees, cigarettes,
opiates and alcohol have numbed me.
My insides feel sick, my organs venal.
My body is being held together by a rope of chains,
and the chains are rusting against my skin.
I often find myself in bed with an old fling or an attractive stranger.
Another night of vigorous intercourse,
makes no difference to me.
They take more pleasure in it than I do,
for even at the end of the night,
I am still
and truly alone in my mind.
Nihilist
Nihilist say we are here for no reason,
say logic in fact has no chance,
But we are born every season,
to lowlife and better half dance,
no memory of why do we suffer?
No recall of love in the mist,
hanged like the odd Cattle Duffer,
the burn on me neck do insist,
ironic we lack some good reason,
door shut in the well of the mind,
i'm here for what bloody reason,
the past of the path don't unwind?
Don Johnson
Farcical, extravagant
My birthmark is a scar
A speckled blotch ...
A spot of pox
An icon from afar
I'm an upstart, I'm an eyesore
Ranting with a flair
In a tempest, I'm a rabid bird
Setting fire to the air
As dauntless as a hellhag
Unmoved by love or care
I can hold up in a cyclone
Feasting on your fear
I'm your last hope
As a laughingstock
I'm your courage in a dare
As audacious as a terrorist
With death-defying hair
When it's time to play the tragic fool
I'm as flagrant as a glare
Seething with a vengeance
In a tantrum of despair
Written by © Raven Drake
After the heavy rain of bloodiest war
Broken directions are in front where to go
Nihilist eyes of visionary screen of boo
Neither life nor death of the rest of war
Victims are overbear to entomb the past
How it is ignored had the war of last
Victors insist to laugh and to cast
Crimes against humanity will not blast
Without minority called it is motherland
Without symbolic father called it is fatherland
Way of rhythm seems to be a grave land
War of victory celebrates in barren land
The capital runs trampling over the bodies of poor
Profit and commission are poured to the power
A Day today life of fate runs necessarily in low gear
Post war condition that is timeless, this my dear
Udaya R. Tennakoon
I am from solemn, vagrant, forgotten; from paper and cloth.
I am from the Wheatland.
A derelict gerdner, no longer tending the bud.
I am from Nietzsche and Jaspers,
from Mother and Father and Daughter.
From nonsensical and ecoteric voice and curiostiy;
The questions unanswered.
I am from no where, wheat and rye.
From the past; the scent and the soft hum dissapating into the never ending ether.
I am from no where.
How high the moon in comparison
To the depths in which I sink;
How black the nightfall garrison,
How black the thoughts I think.
In every niche I see her,
Every place I think I spy
Glimpses of something proximate
In peripheral white of the eye.
I seek with fevered staring,
I seek when more sedate,
And all the time comparing
Degrees of love and hate.
The searcher and his tether
Are bound so they are one,
Through endless shifts in weather,
Inclement skies and sun.
On desert plains and highways,
Through anguish and through bliss,
On crooked wasteland byways,
Or cold metropolis.
I microscope my mind,
My bare soul scrutinised,
For scraps of clues to find
Some answers symbolised.
The heart is driven weak
By all it left unsaid,
How long must someone seek
For something known as dead.
Yet search by force of will
Until all hope is gone,
And time is all to kill,
And travel travels on…
Embryos sing saddle-sore sonatas, beneath
the despot eaves of chromium skies, reflecting
black light down upon the harbours where
ambition claws the air and slowly dies; and
nighthawks scream a siren song of sadness, for
all the lovers lost and ripped apart, their
entrails steaming, scattered and decaying, cryogenic
memories still the beating heart.
Somewhere in a paean of pain and passion, eyes
upturned in sockets sear the night, telescope
and zoom into the heavens, ruptured
vessels crack the milky white; for
all the golden graces of the goddess, stealing
and absorbing love and soul, hoarding
with her sadist smiles of sorrow, reaps
the diamond, reimburses coal.
On the moon my blood drips sour and savage, fills
the craters and the fossil seas, scars
the surface dust like crazy paving, packs
the vacuum deserts with disease; on
the moon my blood is frozen solid, crystallising,
still as tombstone script, cold,
implacably cast as death's dominion, to
love no more, enamelled bathtub crypt.
Stretched before shaven imagining,
embedded in grey matter,
glistening sparkles simmer,
glint in muddy streams.
And dreams come on cascading,
traverse the emerald view,
patchwork of fields
stitched by olive brocade.
As far as the eye may garner,
landscapes forever spread,
distance spills incessant,
analytically dissociate.
Caged in a wide open space,
stand and stare and enfold,
loneliness rules the hour
for I and my captive self.
Parallel went the universe someplace along the line
When autumn French-kissed winter with tongues of leaf and ice;
The lamp-posts dripped drab amber with a dark and dreary shine,
A devil's brew of garnished sleet, elemental egg-fried rice.
Night caved long and colder as day fell short, sedate,
And I felt somewhat older, in my heart a dying spark;
Crying out for love rekindling to alleviate the fate
Of departing in pitch-blackness and returning in the dark.
Tedious treadmill grinding as the Christmas pines were sawn,
Down in the valley decorations sagged and popped and spat;
Sizzling bulbs of neon death, ramshackle and forlorn,
Greeting cards from no one close had piled up on the mat.
My eyes blurred red and jaundiced in a fiery bourbon haze,
Well-past midnight I still sit and hungrily imbibe;
Toasting all the ghosts I knew throughout my dog-tired days,
On glitzy wrapping clawed the wishes I wished to inscribe.
Never has the relevance of nothing meant so much,
The face of unrequited love recedes in mist and snow;
The angels on the Christmas tree bestow no healing touch,
Pull up the covers, settle down, there's nowhere left to go…
A bad moon on the rise,
Grinning like sour cheese,
Drips a rivulet of blood,
A groovy facial scar;
On the canal rancid surface,
Blacker than a witches’ bowel,
It smiles back at itself,
Death reflected from afar.
Don’t look now, for
Something wicked comes,
Trailing rotten funeral wreaths,
Along the catacomb way;
And the bad moon surveys
The handiwork of conscience,
Turns the plastic red and slick,
Predicting venous spray.
Nothing eaten, nothing drunk.
Waiting, waiting.
The clock ticks on with hourly chime,
A dull metronome of passing time.
Waiting, waiting.
Food grows cold, drink grows warm.
Waiting, waiting.
Nightfall scuttles heliotrope claws
Across the ceiling, walls and floors.
Waiting, waiting.
Shadows cleave the paling face.
Waiting, waiting.
Expressionless with staring eyes,
Breath reduced to vapid sighs.
Waiting, waiting.
No raven quothing “Nevermore!”
Waiting, waiting.
The chimes toll death again, again,
Prayers to ashes, all in vain.
Waiting, waiting,
waiting…
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