Post
Scrawling and jolting, indulgent difficulties would flow freely a colossal waterfall black as a serpent’s iris,
A place of unnatural beauty and grotesque innocence,
A pinnacle is reached in its exploration.
But now, finding a tamer place, new,
One less wild but just as treacherously easy to spoil and wilt,
for The Fortnight’s Dark Long Gale
I beg the lines to punctuate.
Clear and ordinary, as it should be.
The diary seems as calm and pale as any other,
Calm and pale with possibility.
But perhaps it is not,
Precision phrasing could not do justice to this crisp new leaf,
tear apart all classics undiscovered if I would even taste
the wilt, spoil of such a union with eager pen and patient page.
Or so I would wish to believe.
If it is only measure that rules the leaves,
These inkless pages would bleed me dry.
Post
In time, given dusk or November mist,
The heroes will return, holding heavy
Their encrusted cursed swords,
Greeted desperately by the worn and well-meaning.
Oblivious in a place of kind flame and harsh words,
Oblivion for them, their frayed harsh world
Renounced by having seen, or what was
Seen too, memories unseen fade.
No number of quart nor silken sheet
Will level them to the delight of those who stood by,
While the horror that blood would wash so easily
Wretched their minds like time
Post
I sit over-awed to believe
that light won’t justify;
being old and worn in it’s fragile treading
through white window curtains,
the place all my own that i have discovered.
Foreign, it spins in a technicolour intoxication,
when i consider, and soar despite the prejudice that i would not
jest, kick and bet in the general fall.
Though it, too unavoidably will ebb,
showing never to have existed,
and dry the future indent curves that
document the pointlessly known.
It will neither be nor not be for now as one, far-
reaching difference,
in all the world the same.
Post
You’re not insane
You’re not to blame
You’re not special
You’re not left out
You’re not a freak
You’re not unique
You’re not out of place
You’re not dark
You’re not unlucky
You’re not new
You’re not the only one
You’re not fun
You’re not a victim
You’re not elite
You’re not incomplete
You’re not chosen
You’re not alone
You’re not stuck
You’re not out of control
You’re not complicated
You’re not much
You’re not out of touch
You’re not mysterious
You’re not interesting
You’re not boring
You’re not heartbroken
You’re not in love
You’re not better
You’re not worse
You’re normal
It’s normal
Sorry
Post
That I, if only for a moment,
find solace in the beauty
of “Irregular” as to “Iregular“‘s form.
Only to see that the lease is a hollow presentation.
That if it is found an
escape exists, I am wrong.
This i already knew from
the grandeur of recurrance train
and the cigarette-smudged shadowettes
that stab at the jealous moon.
And so should again curl
in the knowledge that it is final.
Black is only over used
Black. Not to be perused
Post
What lies in a time box?
Too much freedom for these two hands to run empty,
vast expanses of a flickering screen that tempt the torn.
Cruelty only in such wanted disguise.
Is there no law that would have the broken left alone,
and not stomped on and crushed with such vague interest
that ground now perhaps to a state-torn powder
the wind might give leave of such.
And swirl the glistening grains,
into the open expanse
Page 1 of 4
