After a time, of trial, underwater, I, have been, made a trial, of, for, my green naïveté. By, blue judges, sojourning, atop; seabeds, oceanbeds, and, riverbeds, all, whom, convey. That, it takes, only, seconds, to be; jettisoned, or, cast, or, swept; away. Even, less, of a while, to dive in, or, to get wet, and, be carried, upon, hooligan-ed waves, without, a single, sorry, soaken, word to say. But, it, takes, an untidal age, of eclipsed, moonlit eons, for a river-, or, ocean- mouth, to speak. In shock. When, their, jolting undercurrents, are yet, to ever, state; change.
Once upon a notion, I warred, against, an Ocean, of uncried tears.
They coalesced, on the battlefield, of my Soul, rigid, reticulated, frozen.
I gunned down, the last of the emotion, with, shattered shells, of me, broken, cannons fired, on fears, at my behest, a forked feeling, on every axed pole, insides, ended, by implosion.
The waves, of, my innermost, sanctum, are consumed, like Whales, swallowing Plankton.
I’m left, just, about, alright, alive, trapped, between, the deep, blue teeth.
All remedies, are, corked, and, I sank them, the puddled spite, serves as, memorandum.
The unsurfaced truth, is, what, lies beneath.
I am an inky blot, a hydro-error, an oxy-thief.
A misshapen, lost sole, a forgotten footprint, on the Seas.
Ego Oceanum sum. Ego naufragus sum. In aeternum; erratum.
That, unitchable, scratch. This, abominable, sense, of yearning.
The setting, of Ignatius, upon, a thatch. Yet, even, cataclysmic floods, didn’t douse, the unrelented burning, for, odious and loathsome, goods.
That, monkey, clasping onto, a back. This, sour crabapple, bitten, for the gurning.
Fruit flies, swarm around, use-by-dates-past. Tasting riper, than, Stygian buds. Maggots embed, in scandalous skins, squirming. As, oily shame, seperates, from curdled bloods.
That, fear, of firstly, coming down, for the last. This, offer of being sated, that is drier, for the spurning.
Saturation, is, just, about, the only thing, that is, lacked. An idea, stuck, sinking, in the clinging muds. The verdict’s in. Been caught. And, there is, no, adjourning. Weighed down, at the gavel, by, unsentenced, “should”s.
That, one wish, that, fell-off, the starry mast. This, uniform of stripes, worn for, elliptical, turning…
The unhatched egg, that is craving, to be. Cracked. Despite, the inevitable ending. Thuds. The yolk’s eyes, are; yielded, yellow and blurring, a yoke, unwing-ed, foul, hungers to fly, high, from, unturning hubs.
“Does it make the contrived medicine, any easier on the gander or the swallow, when it’s from a ‘scaped Nanny goat’s, ground skin, flesh, bones and marrow? The bitter bleating maa’ing pills will turn you into the very same tomorrow. While the birds will peck, honk, hiss and cheap-en it from the heron to the sparrow.”
“Are comets simply shots fired by luminaries during interplanetary warfare from galactic bows and arrows?”
“Does the rain wet the appetite of Godly stars that wait patiently in the shadows?”
“A scope turned hanging rope is the Milky Way fallen from a spacious wheelbarrow.”
“The horizon’s panoramic vista to a universal puppeteer is still awfully narrow.”
When you set out to deeply ponder, on the ever-expanding nature of all things, you become an avid first responder, to the ubiquitous pulling of the strings, the camouflaged veneer of over yonder, and the unsurprising pain as it stings, the moulting and shed skins of anacondas, the outstretched spreading of eagled wings, you care not for worldly riches squandered, instead you enrich your soul in everything, you say a prayer fervent, full and sombre, for those living on ever-thinning strings, the trapeze actors you’ll love ever-fonder, for the beauty in the hanging-on of their cling, and the daily tightrope they dare to wander, in order to trample, to revolt, to be uprising, to be a Rapparee of the highest honour, against deluded grandeurs of any king.
If time were human would it want to hold on for eternity? Would it grasp for the stars knowing of their inevitable fate? With vast sums of hours for hands grabbing into tenebrous obscurity. A comet’s tail slipping through it’s minuted fingers while running late.
If space were human would it feel self-conscious about forever growing in size? Would it count asteroids instead of calories to reduce it’s weight? Other universes and planetary nebulae pointing and whispering about it’s belly being bigger than it’s eyes. Trying not to show off it’s favourite cascading multicoloured galaxies in order to placate.
————————————————————
Stuck in an orbiting, far-away rut somewhere along the Milky Way synapses resembling stardust each trajectory a threaded fray.
An umbilical cord unravelled, cut and used to climb down into space downtrodden by an intergalactic foot satellites pulling at the cosmos’ lace.
The book of time will no longer shut and there’s no finish line to the race trapped in an orbit without any luck fortune has roundly forsaken the brave.
Celestial hands on quills are taken, took, and handwritten upon Andromeda’s grave…
The epitaph reads,
“Your shining pluck of courage swirled around us, and, saved many a sinner’s soul from being stuck, betwixt vast nothingness and spacial slave, but, was lost on matterless knaves who don’t give a fuck. Creatively you birthed new worldly waves, white horses’ prisms surfed as we shook, stars walked the plank, plinth and staves, the midnight skies couldn’t creep or snuck, from your twilight masterpieces, engraved.”
To think there came a time when the locks were changed on a door I could no longer open to a home with the coldest of shoulders it’s back turned we were now estranged.
One blink no clue, no secret sign the musical chairs unchanged I’m out of key out of ideas and tokens ill-fit for shouldering winds blowing colder twig silhouettes cast on a tent, so, strange.
A rink of icy breath, resigned my skating notions unexplained a sense of self; fractured, jawlocked, broken a phantom door handle without the holder can ghosts over the threshold be obtained?
Succinct erasure’s bereft timeline memories besmirched and stained wipe away bleach coloured tears soaking “Let’s just forget it” is what I told her but, there’s a room in my head where it stays…
Superficial, living the breadth, of, newcomer’s struggles, your future’s, fickle, skinning, the depth, of, summer puddles.
Aella, your whirlwind, wraps your hair, each lock, encircles, to make a noose, your gallows, stand high, above, your flare, we swing, like, pendulums, excused.
If, it’s eminence, you seek, beware, of, rosy, passing cheeks, their emptiness, will, fill, you whole, like, birdsong, without a beak.
Peripheral, the outliers, omit the truth, they’d rather, speak, of stats, robes, of kingly purple, a smacked mouth, so uncouth, bites a tongue, until, it snaps.
Aella’s lipstick, on her ex, marks his gob, the treasure, planted, she leaves her foal, neigh-saying tears, themselves, do, sob, as, her spirit, moves onto another soul.
When, it’s tragedy, you find, don’t blame fate, for, a lode unkind, your hibernation, outlasts, what you bear, and, honeycomb promises, sting and bind.
And, Dale, like, the road, we knew, so well, you tried, to drag me, down to Hell, with, your nose, so wet, unwell. A white cat’s collar, rings it’s bell.
I climbed, the banks, of, the Glen, without a thought, a hope, or, ken, up, the paper-sharp, clinging, edges, without, a purpose, a plan, or, pen.
And, Dale, you could, always, tell your lies, without a mouth, you, still, have eyes. They seldom blinked, at other’s cries, they never saw, your glassed demise.
I ran, with every notion, of escape, knees and elbows, grazed and scraped. The lined and needled hedges, scored me, for my sake.
And, Dale, you think you know so much, but, you have, only, read, one book. The book, that answered, your bad luck. The questions mount, and, you’re mistook.
Do hypocrites, make sense, of words? Can, a shark, out-fly, a bird? Can, the past, out-swim, the dredges? The answer you hate, is, all, I heard.
And, Dale, can, you turn, water, into wine? Create, signs and wonders, all, of the time? Live, in, the House of God, sublime? Or, are you, just, really, past your prime?
The bed, you made, is, crawling, with, your lies. You, always, said, you’d rise, we’ll see, how high. When, your final sleep, comes, to soften, all, of your edges. And, the larvae, have, sniffed you, into flies.
To He who hath taken all of me for a fool let it be known it’s for the birds and that I shan’t say much out loud better yet anything at all because mouths and souls at a loss have no need to recoup stolen words.
Your idle hands ashame even the dev- ils that plague your mind and shallow attention seeking prayers cannot save you from the various versions of yourself.
When the clock strikes infinity the warmth you feel will not be from your loved ones but rather cynically will be from the burning coals of suffering that burn blacker than your heart and that you felt were worthy to place in the grasps of those that gave to you unconditionally.
Now they scorch your feet as you walk the blackened plains alone knowing what you beseech is an obsidian desert palace made of oily tears left unweeped and a blaze of suffering’s coals compiled with charring hate to make a throne.
I sincerely hope you reign for as long as the desert dunes reject the rain and that your seat of conceit brings you comfort with jet mirrors that caress and worship you proudly and vain as the sinking sand is melted into glass and blown for you to view consume and feel the nothingness of your empty soul through it’s open pane.
Without a great lake in-between us of wide compromise our pining sorrows warm upon the heath they’re dried and deride the placid waters atop underwater genus unhiding the disguise of depth-ly untruths and what lies beneath.
With a baptismal in a great lake to cause a disconnect ‘whether’ brings a wetter faith to pause upon, bereft drowned truths that are never faced just, unsaid, even, in jest.
What was washed upon the shore made for grisly viewing of shock and appall the waves lapped caressing all that came before and boats hung their heads as they stalled the water even parted ways shocked to its core the currents couldn’t decipher the cryptic, coral shawl.
What was once a great lake was now murder underscored.
What was once a great lake was now murder to us all.
poorman'sdreams 