Is, it, really, worth, luxuriously, spending, any, of, the time, thinking about, a laborious, zig-zag, evolution, when, we’ve, all, gro- und, to a halt, and, theneverendingstory, has, fallen down, tumbling… tragically, then, …drowned, in, sobbing, bottomless puddles, keen for; restitution. Be careful, when, slither- ing up,the greasy ladder, to, pole position, when, it’s, a long way down. Theslipperyslopes, moult and, slough, most, like, the skins of add-er. Poisoned with rage, they; take-away, every, soul cast, equalling; the loss,of, much more, than, is, ever, found.
Furring clasps, around; synapses. The servitude, of, stroke-ing, lost selves. Capital flesh, is, imprisoned, in, the cholesterol, of, shop aisles. It collapses. “There’s, MORE, in the back… Hurry up!! Stop thinking… Stock the shelves!!”
The pills don’t make me any better anyway. It’s all just another person’s scheme. They just leave a bitter taste…
…leave me bitter…
…without a mirror to save face. And without a self or even it’s esteem. Without a saving grace. Just simply without.
insomnia is just,/,tsuj si ainmosni a word,/,drow a these days,/,syad eseht it all blurs into a,/,a otni srulb lla ti breathless scream,/,maercs sselhtaerb
I wish upon some stars but they don’t hear me calling. Maybe because we are both too busy lovelessly falling from our broken skies and dreams.
I used to be so sure that these indignant days would pass. That I’d reach a peak up high above the flat. Made in my honour. And peer into joy through a looking glass.
but, that, too, fell…
cracked,/,dekcarc
broke,/,ekorb
and, shattered,/,derettahs into morose,
just, like, everything else.
The apologies don’t reach this far down. Sor-./.-roS
Midwinter, is, an unsleeping, corpse bride, unwed. Who’s tormented grief, permeates, the ether. She’s, permanently, entombed in, every; glistening, sorrowful, cracked, mirror, that seems to, impress upon, the pitch, the brick, and, the grass, the forested branch, and, tarmac…
reflecting Her open caskets of bitter hatred.
Runaway lover, uncaught. Jilted, by a luminary, of the day. Which, means, no light, can, ever, comfort Her. There, can be, no other. Not even, His, night-time adversary. All, that was, uplifting, became, vacuumed, icy dunes of hope; dead, unshifting, through, limp, wet fingers, sifting…
solar grins outshone moonlit passes made.
Hearken to, Her. She, embodies; a silent, keening chorus. It grips, all, it touches, far, or, near, with, unmoving, silent decibels. Freezing, on impact, with; clear, dulcet, spiked, nothingness. Please, my dear, be careful, not to crush, Her, underfoot…
air rues another year of Her spinsterhood.
A, lament, seizes. Each, day, and, night, as Her, immortal, enemy. Making them; rigid, uptight, uneasy. Immovable, except, of course, for the eyes. She, has; Her reasons. He, always, used to, compliment, Her features. Now, She longs, for a love, that, unfreezes…
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.”
poorman'sdreams 