When days are no more

At the edge of the world is the corner of every bookcase, filthy and abandoned by a herd of ventriloquists.

It’s okay to hate this place. You don’t really. You’re angry because it doesn’t work, for you or anybody you know. And you’ve known it for as long as you can remember, back when they pulled you apart, extracted the venom from your veins. And when the window’s ajar and the breeze visits each loose strand of hair, you imagine you’re just a silhouette easing your way through the ferns.  Someone throws a grenade to blow up this eden so that you’re finally free to float away.

At the centre of the world is a canyon, formed by the the pillars of evolution.

It’s fine to feel like death. For death looks a lot like you. And everybody for that matter. Here nesting in our graves, below a renaissance moon and confined by a bitter sun. You scream out in decibels that bastard above owes you, if he ever cared to exist. Squandering a meagre appetite, maybe just a conclusion that our dens seldom satisfy our hunger anymore. And it’s been spring since the beginning of time.

We’re not okay. Ghastly creatures stumble forth. They reek of fear and stale wounds carved by flashes of the final sunrise. They gather beneath the evergreens of forests reaching their senility, with nothing left to take over when they’re gone. When every thing’s destroyed.

Candlelit Confessions

It’s high time
to escape stagnant cityscapes
concrete ambition
an upheaval of fruitful radiance
so the last facade
descends through crocodile tears

I dozed off for a moment
the crowds closed in
impermanent comfort
illusive dreamcatchers collecting each vision
with melodic impulsive
where I run off into the crescent moon
to die all alone

but the ballad of social remedy
can’t chase every lost cause

in the middle of an ice storm
there’s a tentative staircase into oblivion
and these feet mount it each time
as the fireplace crackles on

Captivated

I know now that when revelation speaks
she guards her ravenous tongue
with a wall of fleeting embers

every time I curse the bastard
whose name I can’t remember
every time the infirmary calls
claiming check-in is two years late
I see a clouded figure
a vessel of demonic compromise
angelic intentions
corroding the egg-shell walls
with a black permanent marker

“everyone is happy
no one gives a shit”

prisoner
of a different asylum
veiled architecture
breathes through broken aesthetics
corrupting my feeble alibi

madness
oh it’s just a symptom
of discerned depth in a time of drought

fantasize
of frozen perches
where kindred rooftops coat the avarice
of winning hands
wagers made
by the winter forecast on our untended bones
and you know I have to respect that in the end

Cabin fever

Up in arms
and woven catastrophe
red trickles entwine fabric
and the peeled hardwood casualties
of the dining room crusade

Mother of compulsion
and a frayed conscience
tired from all those years of crying wolf

She stopped by in the evening
to synchronize your heartbeat
and see if you were ready to leave

this fake fortress of mirrored walls
that reveals the cloud of shadows
and carves infliction onto your laundry list

she read the hesitation on your pursed lips
and took it as a yes

civilization’s a callous heart with few vacancies
and they shirked the guilt you owned
as she left you
adjacent to the ceiling fan