I dripped into the night liquidating and metamorphosing.
Somehow managed to form a string of emotion tied with self deprecation, darkness and other forms of chaotic Structure.
Conceived into black and bathed in cold emotion.
A world of depression leaves me bound by persistent fear forever drowning me in despair.
Submerged in a liquid sense of isolation that shrouds the deep Ink abyss.
Defined yet undefined underwater sinking me further.
Will I ever emerge from the liquid that sinks my body.
Act III, final scene, psychodrama script-
the world is ushered off into history's crypt.
All the super heroes lie slaughtered on the floor
while apocalyptic addicts are screaming out for more.
A handful of patriots ride the airwaves into night
broadcasting dire warnings to bring the truth to light.
General population is glued to the TV set
watching situation comedies, smoking cigarettes.
The program's interrupted by a special news update
"World War III declared" more details at eight.
General population pumps his fist hard into the air
grabs himself a six-pack and settles back into his chair.
Less then twenty cases later he is morgue decor
from the radiation resulting from the war.
The tube becomes his headstone, body decomposing on the floor
beneath blue light TV flickering...1984.
Anguish
The bastard race of tumultous ferver
Forever fallacy in chasing what cannot be saved
Lawsuits abide in troubled times
The search continues for the castle of glory
What can finally be awarded degrades to dust
A fearing mind sabotages itself
I've been in and out of a creaking rat race
Selling secrets to promise slashers
And it burns to be so scorned
A cleansing fire emerges
Searing the psychodrama from personality template
Mystery never solved
Just evolving to higher planes
The incongruity sparkles, dirty diamonds in a drain,
With hackles rising, lips drawn back, in lemon peeling pain;
A psychodrama stage of sleight springboards the stupid head,
“I know,” she thinks, “I’m always right, I know that’s what he said.”
The egotism sponges as a leech ingesting blood,
The eyes are wide, the **** erect, the loins in moistened flood;
A stimulating shafting sort of sycophantic surge.
“His words are all about me now, he can’t control the urge.”
The craziness develops like a Polaroid of junk,
A dustbin lid, a bag of nails, a blue remembered funk;
A schizophrenic symptom in a druggy wrecked-up mind,
Ideas of reference screech, protesting honour is maligned.
The fantasy grows darker like a stain that slowly spreads
Upon the crotch she fumbles with, her fingers cold as lead;
In face of letting loose of grip please don’t forget to smile,
It’s only pretexts in the mind that bothered for a while.
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