My innocent crimes transcend into sinful mistakes,
While yours roam in circles to stay the same,
Pangs of conscience rip my melting ventricles apart,
When metal-cold claws depart out of your mouth,
And my viscera learns to keep itself together,
When you say your metallic jaggedness was ‘as light as a feather’,
And now, the claw that mauled my heart,roams about my body,
Sometimes in my throat, otherwise in my eyes,
And changes their colour into a red gaudery,
Watery tears flush from my eyes,
While you only notice how fast they sublime,
And so, I wish my tears were of blood instead,
Just so you could see the guilt that relentlessly stabs my head,
But I know it’s of no use,
And I know my efforts are futile,
For my innocent crimes transcend into sinful mistakes,
While yours roam in circles to stay the same.
Jittery frame could spill its viscera -
earth shouldered, light on the world,
a storm of stars and stripes.
I recall by chance the astuteness of rain
When the thin smoke from charged pulses of cold haze
Befriended the weeded way . . .
Leering further into the viscera of the village,
Clouds of old beginnings heaved potent sighs,
Loud, frenetic and full of powder.
I revelled in the warmth of acid lightning,
Quick to mirror the village in its own image.
The grey breath was intense,
Fusing teethed mirth with grim spheres.
Then came the vitrined harmony of fleeing spectres!
Tricks were revealed.
Tenebrous paths came to light.
And the rumps of sensuous fowls stood stark
Before the reality of weaned souls.
I recall lighting up a cigarette.
Adding to the atmospheric smoke,
I held on to the banter of coyness, flat,
Resolute, and with rummaged blessedness of initial stages
Blending well with the greed of May.
no sound
in a cascade of nerves
submerged
amid a myriad of silences
a serpentine fold
slices through the viscera
and a breath
of phosphor
burns
in the chest’s hollow
a crawling rhythm
of an aborted name
shapeless
a lunar longing
locks into the bones
among the remnants
of a collapsed nebula
I do not heal
I do not return
I am
flesh that refuses form
You bind my hands,
Command me to kneel
For what you know are my final moments.
(Surely you know this will kill me)
You take your axe,
Split me down the middle-
Clean.
And I open.
You rip through my skin,
Tear through my fat,
Destroy my viscera.
Prying each rib open,
With the tip of your axe.
You contort my body into grotesque form,
I let you.
I can be whomever you need me to be.
You watch my heart,
Its movements now erratic,
In the wake of ruin.
The carrier of my pain, my thoughts,
My love.
Even still,
It bleeds for you,
It beats for you,
It burns for you.
My blood pools around your heels,
Staining your feet.
You step away,
Disgusted by the mess you made.
Reciting, of the alphabet, not a waste.
I may get an A plus for trying.
I whistled for it, foraging
through its branches. Collaborating
with the Alpha and Omega, searching
for gold - that Atlantis-noun.
Lilac-gold or lavender gold…
“Forget about it,” railed the brain.
“…w, x, y, z,” I sighed.
Up…up…the driveway, uttering
with hysteria, viscera unclenched;
mysterious and victorious release.
“Speak up,” says the brain.
I release my whisper
into the wind, out the window,
“Wisteria…Wisteria…”
My eyes enjoy the vista,
the Spring feast.
I have lived,
so many lives,
I have passed through,
my many deaths...
I have lived from seagull to dove,
from canary to hawk...
A visionary of so many visions...
I have changed my entrails and viscera
I have reinvented myself so many times...
Today I am here... a man!
Mounted on two legs
with so many other paths,
crossroads to travel...
I have left behind many things in my life...
but I have always tried to preserve
my wings... because I was an angel...!
and I know I still am an angel...!
When I imagined what it would
be like to be a writer,
I saw myself hunched over a
typewriter with bourbon on the
rocks sweating a ring onto my desk.
I could smell the ink on my fingers
and feel the burn of alcohol in my gut
and hear the keys clapping, a standing ovation
for the poor sad boy who wrote wings onto
his back and flew away from the red mud county.
But it's quiet here.
I sit alone at my desk and I reach into my guts
and I grab fistfuls of blood and viscera
and the keys don't move
I choke up the rage my father left in me
and the keys don't move
I cut out the fear my mother so lovingly placed
and the keys don't move
I drag out every black eye, bloody nose, and split lip I ever earned, every fight I lost, every single argument I had, every sunset I was a brother beneath, every truck cab I ever fell in love in and
THE KEYS DO NOT MOVE
The stench of puerile self-aggrandizement wafts through the air, a noxious cloud of platitudes and pomp, as the pusillanimous pustules of pseudo-intellectualism congregate to lavish accolades upon one another. How... amusing. The notion that these self-absorbed aesthetes, ye armchair sybarites, consider themselves arbiters of taste and talent, is nothing short of grotesque. And yet, here it persists, leeches on the cadavers of real artistry, perpetuating a vicious cycle of backslapping mediocrity, as they vomit forth oozing saccharine, cliche-ridden tripe, and elevate it to the status of holy scripture. Quaint indeed. The stench of their ignominy is almost... palpable.
How does it feel to know that playing by the rules was your downfall, I said I would be the last poetess standing because I can do: abattoir hymns of crimson vortices shredding the children to rain sanguinary as viscera chunks hail from above. Sorry ai can’t touch me, it would freak out to even read that. I may not have won many contests, but oops. Hehe.
Amidst the hushed whispers of a fading day
I wander, lost, through paths rosy poised thorns
Seeking solace in the floras sweet newly buds
Rose petals scattered, viscera of spite
Petals that once adorned the beauty's scorn
Now wither, like the nigh memories we cling
To the fleeting moments of sugar cloy
In darkness, chanting mantra whispers low
Ennui’s eternal flame, that burns dire
A symbol of peace, in the heart's darkest night
A secret garden, where seeds take root in fire
Sovereign or martyr thus gravitas none dolorous,
dirge has keyed the grave motif to your succubus,
organs glistening as the innards burst vile viscera,
to bite on carbon release hammers sledge Invictus.
Not impressive but knot is a slip on your own noose,
gathering to watch a struggle as the buckets kicked,
amusing when the rope snaps and the monster runs,
turns executioner hacks away your scurvy populace.
Digress thus invitation to a horrid melancholy siege,
maelstrom of pianist crescendo a litany reverie,
masquerade these fair maidens as whomever,
still a mask and the rest of your face is plain to see.
Dreams are made not to be accompanied by meanderings of creatures of the lesser deities for the reaper is the end to everything this your prayers will not save you from the scythe’s guillotine.
Enjoy your expendability,
know that I do,
with that I take my leave,
soaking to bathe and wash off your crimson grief.
Zenith swirls of black rose petals,
burst into a flock of circling crows,
descending ash and rain on my frozen form.
Viscera and scarlet pools flash,
feet running of a child,
car screeching tires with broken glass.
Piano motif grave into a tilt,
fingers dancing like butterflies,
levees welting over the brim crimson,
down the side of the dam,
Moon alabaster dust suspended,
upside down pyramid spins ever so swiftly,
I wish to go inside this burgundy sepulcher.
Ferryman take the bribe from the crypt keeper,
under the veil of the cloak in black,
piano crescendos with a cello in orchestra.
Now I float amongst the wraiths,
nevermore.
Golden silence here in crepuscule,
wonder if that sun ray in the distance,
is meant for me,
a telephone ring.
Teardrop a shudder in a large mirror reflecting,
zeal cherry blossoms in its grasp.
Lilith is the queen of darkness,
caution tape blueberries and cherries,
a moth that never emerged from larva.
Skulls pile up at the cemetery,
husk buried separate on the moon,
an ethereal tether to the void.
To live a long life is to die alone.
My journey of blood
Sword of viscera and steel
The Black Rose Thorn Queen
At the crossroads between nights and longing,
He carries within him a season forgotten,
With a liver like sodden earth, chilled beneath dead leaves,
Viscera stirred by the silvery thrill of the void,
Eyes - two awkward stars bathed in dew of venom,
Wishing to dissolve,
In the mist of a river whispering its frozen wreaths,
His soul is full of echoes and untruths,
Unable to utter the teardrop, the wildness of a wrapped cry.
He fears the solitude that swallows him.
She is made of moonlit strands and woven gleams,
Chestnut shines in her hair, delicate as the wings of the morning,
Eyes reflecting colors of unabashed skies,
On her skin stretch myths boldly painted with strokes of the sun,
Bracelets of coolness and the scent of the ocean on her bared shoulder,
And she stretches on the sand - a ray in the silence of the shore,
In the noon where constellations seem to rest.
She does not know the awkwardness of voiceless days.
She lives in a world where loneliness finds no room.
Liquor license for my rubbing alcohol
Fumes and vapors have me squinting like a mole
Open my window, let the wind blow through
A bunch of spiders came and crawled right to me
Shouting and stomping like a maniac
I squashed them all, covered in goo
of black
Looked through myself, right at the mirror
Who should really be the fearer?
Do good people kill spiders?
Mop up the viscera left on the floor
Some rubbing alcohol make the stink no more
I left it there for over a week
The time has come to be a clean freak
Lock the door, sit on the floor, and breathe in
Sterilize my mind and sanitize my skin
Guilt is a feeling, shames a disorder
But chemicals, they are my warder
Do bad people realize it?
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