Crock, kettle, boiled pot. Blackness after stratosphere. And, after body’s stiffened rot. Melancholy and the fear when set upon by black dog. Burst clouds over heading near. Foot stuck in the bog. Doomed days blurred, unclear. The jamming of the cogs. No end in sight but that’s more common than it’s not.
Yes, there is more in common here than not.
A vision, now, I can steer and see blue skies over every plot. The motor’s running easy, top-tier. I’ve got my foot loose from the crop. The rain is more like happy tears. What I thought was a houndly leer turned out to be a gaze from a log. Happiness’ touch in the eyes of deer has pierced straight through my fog. I’m glad to be alive in sheer rocket sensed uplifting agog.
Either way you look it here.
There is so much more in common between us all than not.
I, Myself. Constantine. A trailblazer. Making my mark, until tremors, quaking, and, a long lived aftershock. Got trapped, got sick, now, making my way home; to Torment. Manifested; off-track, lost, unfound, raging, bitter, twisted. And, sick. Obviously.
Disorientated, tranquil tornadoes, of, marauding memories, revolve statically; sarcastically whirling, with the sincerest, of all, ironies; like a Dervish, riding a languid carousel, a Dervish, named; ‘Constantine’. The inert twisters, carry, and, cast – concealed emotions, that are; born to seek death, that are; created to destroy.
The camouflaged saliences, are;
re -visited, re -worn, re -vealed;
‘In the stitching – a khirqa of shame, whispers, “guilt survives, long after, the dead, have been mourned.” As sorrow seeps, from, a blood-soaked; hood, cuffs, and, sleeves – where cloying, bloodthirsty tarmac, bore it’s teeth, causing shudders. Devouring all escapes, to salvation. And, after grasping, deep-down, in those, endless, cloak pockets, Mercy, was found slain. Smothered, by iniquity, concrete, rocks and rubble, as compassion is, demolished by dark, anguished, traumatic silences.’
Uncontrollable obedience – stagnantly spins, and, turns, soothing provocations, into, a, swooner’s consciousness. Hushed screeches vomit, teasing and tormenting; to mutilate… To massacre; a begging, bruised, exhausted, inner-sanctum.
A colourless draining. The colour is fading, from psyche’s cheeks, a liquidating; of shady pulp, of soft, once radiant, rainbow spattered, but, now, only; grey matters.
I, Myself. Constantine. A soggy, battered, quivering, hasbeen. An already; blazed trail. Long forgotten. Lying beneath, a superego’s ocean-jungle undergrowth, where there, once was, a long, plumed, dove-white robe. Overgrown, crestfallen, and, un-phren-dly; lying beneath, the forsaken waves, of; lost seas, past shocks and, cruel, convulsive, inclemencies.
To triumph over adversity, is to know, the purest vengeance of all. For, those who doubted, ridiculed, disbelieved, gossiped about and wronged you, are forced to realise, that: they were wrong. Nothing needs to be said, nor, interaction had. Yet, there is; a secret, smiling jocund, a humble, solemn joy, a discreet, soulful jubilance = in knowing that; the universal scales are, once more, balanced, and, true justice is restored.
When dodecahedron bombs fall; will you be my buried and sturdy shelter? When cohesion is trodden to asphalt; would you wage pitched and bloody welter?
Breakfast, served at his majesty’s pleasure, often ladles out food for thought… The menu – provides; convicts, politicians, businesspeople, and, royalty, with plenty to discuss… Such as, ‘do the high and mighty ever dream of tasting prison porridge, as they commit high crimes, whilst they starve and cull the poor?’ And, ‘can beggared worms chew through royal lead-lined coffins from a dead beggar’s ulcered stomach sores?’ Yet, what lies in the unasked? The public inquiry into corrupt power, like lunch, awaits.
Relief without a branch to cling to. Bare, shaken, but, also, beyond agonising disbelief. Avalanche met Alpine Firs; a collage of bitter viridescence – often mistaken, as, not life, but, death, imitating art.
What a relief!! That’s the “good stuff”; the pinprick and the poison-pill… The Medicine Men have long traded in shady deals, of jabs and hooks, wearing labcoats lined with vaccined, pain-killing schemes. Patiently making case studies of us all, all the while, toasting, our declining health, along with silent, complicit and sickly governments. Sláinte!
Encrypted night; puzzling and studious, awaits us all, along with an unshrinking denial, a half-blinked eye, a non-thinked; why? And, a nihilistic sigh. It is all, so… insalubrious.
Awaited relief of a final breath when no more lies can be proferred no more lines can be crossed or excuses offered no more questions unanswered no more victims no more cancers no more derision and pain due to another’s conceited vision and gain no more losers no more winners no more abusers or willers of forgiveness.
Just peace; unreplicated.
And, relief, no longer, awaited.
When dodecahedron bombs fall; will you be my buried and sturdy shelter? When cohesion is trodden to asphalt; would you wage pitched and bloody welter?
poorman'sdreams 