The faces, of, both, bad, and, good; have, all been; painted red.
Now, that, the world, has begun, to, be spun, in, an entrenched, deepfaked, forward-motion, tethered; backwards.
The paint, is, innocent’s; apathetic blood, mixed, with; a hue of dread.
You’ll taste; the metallic gun, and; the setting sun, in, seasoned, incensed, photographed; before, and, ever-afters.
And, in, the final, scarlet rotation, as, the splatteredgore, befouls; oceans, forests, and, old mines, the enfleshed vinyl’s, last quotation, will be, “We grovelled; to gold. So, we bored, we trowelled, we became hollowed, for; plastic, and, mankind.”
It’s better, to be, the undertrained, underdog. Than jumping; over, jinxed hurdles, through, fiery hoops, and, rings.
Or, unfounded, in a metallic maze, of untruths, and, lost, like, a lonely, bereft, missing link.
It’s better, to be, underrated, than, in-over-your-head. Under, the ever-watchful eye, of, the overseers; it’s better, to be, an underling.
It’s better to smell, with your eyes, those fragrant, delectable stars, looking up, from under, that, kitchen table, of, a midnight sky. Than, to have to clamber, over, your toileting ego, and, get over yourself, when, pretending, that your shit, doesn’t stink.
It’s better, to be, under, than, over. Just shy of greatness, yet, unpoured down the sink.
It’s better, to be, under, than, over. Better to be underappreciated, than bent-over, ignorant, mentally-dead, a zombie between the ears. Extinct.
It’s better, to be, under, than, over. Unless, you’re overcoming, the undercurrent, of those, torrential tears, of pain, that will soothe you, long after, the deluge’s sting.
And, when you’ve, finally, counted, all the missing fingers, lost, all the stacked decks, and, dealt hands. When the wind, has, all, but, gone, from your sails, when you’ve kicked, punched, head-butted, and, fought every demand. When, you’ve searched, your innerly desert, to find, that, evasive, elusive, grain of sand. When, you’ve been, knocked down, time-after-time, but, every time, you’ve gotten, back to your feet…
…that’s when; your courage, your grit, your resilience, rises up, and, the real rebel, within you, arises.
To capture, nurse, and, hold, the unfairness of it all. The rapturous, coal- heartedness, of Hellish snares, beneath, the Mall. When, afterwards, those cauldrons, spout nightly mares, of, bridled gall. The captor cursed, his embold- ened heir, is, a; hairless toupee, sheared, and, effortlessly, shorn.
The flesh, is, pierced, and, punctured, by, the blade of wickedness. A chest, buried, by, the weir -y, encumbered. Wreaths are laid, by, Triffid’s Bliss. Sounds of stress, fierce, and, repugnant, line, the glades, of, Inner Wist. As, the Rest, rely on tears, while, torn asunder, cutting their way, through, thicker mist.
The end, much like, the start, starts with, a flashing in the pan. As, the friend- ship sunk, apart, embarks, for Unhappiness, with, Sad. Send your dogged embittered bark, hearts hear no sorries, in a lost, unlistened land. And, you can’t mend a broken heart, when broken hearts is all we’ve had.
The Baku’s, outstretched, snout, rises, nightly, in the East, consuming, nightmarish novel surprises, like, a, bargain bucket, twilight feast.
The Nuckelavee crashes against Orcadian rock, vehemently, full of neighing, nostril-burning, acrid, whale-boned, salty water, drowning; joyous cheer, hopeful dreams, and, love aplenty, along with; tossing, turning sons, and, daughters.
Elephantine tusks, and, trunk, Rhinoceros-esque ears, Cow’s tail, Bear’s body, and, Tigerly, protective, compassioned paws, Baku, is, never, knowingly, unpronounced, until, the worldly children’s fears, give it, a rousing reason, to grab a meal, of unsleeping dreams, betwixt, it’s claws.
The crop-wilting, breath, of the Nuckelavee, leaves, eyes; badly harvested, as, it, tramples, at full sprint, young ambitions, thoughts, and, visions, bringing down, all, upper-trajectory, and, chasing, fear, by the scent, of, terrestrial islanders; cumbersome, teary, slumbering footprints.
All the way, from, West to East, Baku, catches whiff, of, the Nucklavee’s, despicable, despotic, demonic plan. So, Baku, cleans, it’s teeth, and, paws, with, eyes; wide, and, wildly, yellow, like, lemon pith, steels, it’s gaze, on, an aquatic equine’s, face, for, all, to see; Gods, angels, demons, all creatures, and, this man.
What happened next, was not, of, this world. They clashed, so mightily, that, they, even, made Titan’s blush. A menagerie of; horse, whale, tiger, rhino, elephant, bear and cow, unfurled, all; teeth, eyes, manes, and, limbs, ablaze. But, brilliant Baku, had, the cutting edge, on, ne’erdowell’ing, Nuckelavee, and, the Nuckelavee, was, crushed.
As, the waking world, awoke, and, sneezed, with, an Achoo!, fears passed, we were no longer afraid, the dreaming disease, had been crunched, swallowed, and, consumed, by, Baku, leaving, the Nuckelavee; ‘je suis désolé!’, and, in, it’s heart; destroyed, devoured, decayed.
So, we pledge, this day, as; Baku Day. We travel, we fight, we feast. And, we drink, good health, to the Nuckelavee, lying dead, on the ocean bed, fed-up, bested, beaten, and, drowning, it’s sorrows, in defeat.
Surrounded, by wet, sycophantic blankets, and, lettuces, that, forever, call, each, and, all, of, your names, slipping, sliding, but, set, pernicious gambits, that, play apart, whilst together, in, capricious dreams aflame.
The current, flies, and, pulls, at, your sleeves, and, collar, waves, of, ennuied electricity, from, a powerplant, of, shame, overhead, the, screeching gulls, bribed with, seafaring dollars, and, kinetosis-carried-ambiguity, in, surreptitious dreams aflame.
‘Your words, are, all that matter.’ ‘Your worth, is, the only thing at stake.’ You’re diving, headfirst through a cliché, ducking, and, dodging, a world of superstition, repeating, “things will never be the same” but, as, bursting bone, and, blood, do, splatter, and, your soul takes leave, for, it’s own, sardonic, sake, you’ll, be “glad”, you prayed, every, and, each day, as, you, set light, to, Gods, fear, and, religion, in, transcendental dreams aflame.
To win, at this, early, age, agrin, waving, embryonic banners, akin, new, on this, worldly, stage, a limb, times-ed by, October’s, gauge, minus – two, equals, twins, fresh, from a, primordial, manor…
…I wonder – double, you?
To lose, in, the middle, be, empty, a bowel, twisted, sick, dysentery, an, unheated, griddle, paucities – aplenty, a cat, with, no fiddle, under, the moon, sun, set, blue envy, a, marital link, lost, unquick…
…I wonder – ex.
To draw, be square, with, the House, of lore, a yarn, now, fully, spun, galore, experienced, by, the ounce, above the law, looking down, on, all, espoused, a chromosome’s, final – breath, of, alphabeted, awe,
and, a question, of, beginnings, and, ends, undone…
There’s a house missing, on the road, you paved, in this, bustling city, that is, my heart.
It was home, to all, our reminiscing, on the misty, cul-de-sac, I’d wave, with knees, grazed, and, gritty, as you, smiled, like an arc.
The beloved bricks, and, mortar, that held, your house, and, our familial bonds, together; are, now, used, in the future homes, of your children, and, grandchildren.
Those bricks, will be grouted, and meld, with water, from, a familial pond, forever; so, impressions, you made, on your stones, will, eternally, house your kin.
We miss you daily, and, remember, mainly, the way, you helped; shape, build, and, bring love, into, our lives.
And, sometimes, maybe, we cry, and, smile, bravely, knowing, that; we are your buildingblocks, and; in us, you, survive.
Is the pain, deserved? Or, delectable desserts? After gut-bursting meals, of, vain & swallowing, self-pity.
Does it taste, of, verve? Or, dystopian, Earth? Are tantalising screams, atop a tongue, tasting, so, so, pretty?
Do you wish, for, nerve? Steeled, mettled back, uncurved? Or, just a chance, to feel? In an unlit room, at the centre, of the city.
Or, would you, rather, serve? See war, across, the universe? The devil’s making, deals, at every, checkpoint Charlie’ing, committee.
Do you look within? Or, know, you’re without sin? At the beginning, of, the end.
Do you even, care, at all? Considering, just, how small, our impact, leaves, a dent.
If you started, over, would, your coldest shoulder, be there, to meet, plastic, family & friends?
Or would, you, always, make, those, silly, same mistakes? The ones, you could, never, comprehend.
So, I’ll ask again, is, the pain deserved? Or, delectable desserts? After, meals, of vain & swallowing, self-pity. The answer, you’ll never find, and, probably, nevermind, until, you’re called, to play, your final ditty.
There’s a box, I keep a lid on, at the centre of my soul. It’s got several locks, of, division, to keep it full, and, whole.
It’s not Pandora’s, or, a goalkeeper’s, it is mine, and, mine, alone. It once, got porous, and, holier, so, I rebuilt it, out of stone.
The box, holds all, my pain, all my sorrow, all my fears. All the times, I’ve tried in vain, to only borrow, Grief’s own tears.
The box, is very, weary now. I must admit, that, I am too. And the locks, are worn, and, weathered. Just like, my other soles, and, shoes.
To hide, my box, I wear, a smiling frown. Inside-out scowls, plastered on, with glue. So, that nasty thoughts, are severed. From, skies outside, and, my insides, turning blue.
I would love, to find, the keys, somewhere. To my box’s locks, so long, unlatched. But, every time, I find a locksmith, here. Everything, inside my box, is, snatched.
I hope, to one day, come to peace, with everything, inside my box. To, simply, shake the hand, of, dreaded Grief. And, tell him; he’s not the only one, who’s lost.
Tears falling from heartbroken skies; Hope’s eyes. “It’s a wonder, she, ever, shows her face around here, anymore. What with the amount of people she’s let down.” A meteor-ological frown. Meets a stagnant, puddled, still view. “After all, it’s that, neverending, Hope, that kills you!”
Prayers go unanswered in a maze of deception; A loss of Faith’s redemption. “You’d expect her to know her way around, and, these hedges could do with a trim, as well.” A journey into viridian Hell. At first, coloured green, now, covered in blue. “After all, it’s that, unwavering, Faith, that kills you!”
Soothsayer causes anxious clients; Destiny’s future winces in defiance. “She doesn’t have a feckin’ clue that one, I’ve heard dog farts that make more sense.” Mockery and ridicule are made as recompense. Mick is taken, along with piss, too. “After all, it’s that, unbeknownst, Destiny, that kills you!”
Pontoon is played, unluckily, at the age of 22; Black(eyed)Jack beaten, black and blue. “He lost the lot down the casino. Wound up getting into debt to some pretty serious lads. Last I saw he was looking for his teeth and spare change at the same time.” Not long after his body was covered in lime. And, Jack, the waiter never, even, got chance to spill you. “After all, it’s that, bedecked, gone missing, Jack, that kills you!”
Thrillseeker takes a tumble; Max’s wife paid for a shove, unfumbled. “Did you hear she got the payout from the life insurance. Sure, she’s more minted than a Menthol’s breath.” Breathing life into jokes, long dead. Sometimes it’s better not to seek what thrills you. “After all, it’s that, pushing it to the, Max, that kills you!”
‘God Save The King’ plays like a deaf dragoon; Victor draped in Union Jack licks his silver spoon. “Apparently there is this crazy thing called a Republic that they do next door. And next door but one.” Where you don’t pay taxes to a prodigal family’s son. Get them royal jobs stacking shelves and on the tills, too. “After all, it’s that, Victor, of war, death and taxes, that kills you!”
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