Monday 28 December 2015

The stars' to wreak



I have bared myself for the stars to wreak
The stars’ to take, the stars’ to deck
In ancient scars and unbloomed flowers
Breathing life from long-dead bowers;
And mere shards they are, nothing more
Fallen from glory, scattered on the floor
Beneath His feet, above my head
Mocking my Sanity’s drunken tread.

A renewed truce with the Hangman



Do not let the blinks fly away while the sun is still in the middle of its ritual. Of cleansing colours out of everything and transferring steady depth to anything that stands still long enough. 

Lines of mirages held down low.
Insensible mutters left adrift.

Teach me how to-
No. Don’t. I realized I know already.

Just stop the whirring inside, the constant karma of intangible webs.

And take back your scythe from me, please. And your gallows. And your sacks and chalk and axes too blunt.

Welcome back, old friend, to home where you belong.

Thursday 17 December 2015

Space warps and blowing up stars



‘’Oh you know very well we can never have enough of space warp and blowing up stars.’’

Blowing them up, huge and far, trailing scented ash in their wake. A comet tail for us to walk on later. And we will never be tired of extolling the many absent virtues that galaxies forgot to instill in minds.
Minds which, by the by, make invisible shards glitter with opaque sheens.

No, we will never have enough of blowing stars to smithereens. Of rocking our heads to cosmogyral beats. Blowing shiny dust on blackened hearts, blinking awe at still transformations.

And warps will forever remain our forte. Where Space falls short, we will put ourselves forward. Miniature dimensions folded up in cramped hollows. Fault lines canvassing our souls incognito.

We can never have enough. Of space warp and blowing up stars. Of wondering what they all mean, held in suspended gravity. The centers of their universe, asteroids that orbit us.
We are the warps, imperfect flaws on dimensionless magnitudes.
We are the blown up stars, scattering worlds like dust.

Tuesday 15 December 2015

True Inheritance



We will find our true inheritance.

Not In the mad calligraphy of trees, like someone said, or a clear plunge into the pool of many betrayals.

In the rivers of blood flowing through those streets, and in the sunken skulls hanging on gold-rimmed tapestries.

In the whispering willows that weigh down under the burden of secrets too much to carry, and in the pirouetting fairy dust bringing gold magic into momentum.

In the translation of nonexistent dimensions, amid rooted galaxies in welkin rings inside my name.
Under the cliffs housing ricocheting falls, loosened catches of drowsy screams.

While sewing up the cataclysmic gongs reverberating echoes surging through my poisoned vessels, and after paraphrasing the blank pages spoken straight through conundrum.

But most of all, inside the dead washed up on the beach sand they said was golden down from heavens’ clouds. In the silent acknowledgements of cold horror that grasps the spires kissing the blue silk of sky.  In the sea waters that churns up rigged souls that were thrown out by solitary islands in the midst of red lagoons.

And in the clouds drifting past your eyes that are ashes left by a shooting star. In the rising tides that engulf the best of our laughs and give way to the most beautiful of the innumerable tragedies we personify. 

And in little erased flecks, in memos bursting from our tongues. In the many layered frequencies inaudible in their being, and in the spray of whispered apologies not breathed.

We will find our true inheritance.
Tell yourself that.
We will.

Ballets on a needlepoint



I dance on the brink of an abyss. A jutting fall that hangs over an infernal mob. The tethered chains holding me out for the unknown to devour. Malicious irony cutting into the bloated veins of feather-soft nightmares. Incoherent shapes leaking out meaning for the blind to ignore and for me to breathe from.

Crawling out of their dens are the demons who are your soul-mates in disguise. Love was what you did not want and wrath is what they granted. So take their gift with grateful hands and smile in shallow contempt. 

Their vigils have not been wasted, at least. They caught the worst that hell could give, the best that heaven could spare.

Indecision ticking away



I know. Tomorrow. The curtains white already faded will hang in battered tatters. The pressed leaves in my yellowed journal will crumble into veined ash. The lines are going to be cut down and the dead ends will invert upside down. 

And I know. Tomorrow. You might not be here anymore, near or far. Our hearts might erode from the countless juxtaposition they refused to adopt. This house might be a bony remnant of broken bricks, and our skeletons might be wreaths of blooming buds.

Maybe. Tomorrow. There won’t be a today. The calendars no one bothers using anymore will spontaneously burst into combusted wind, and the ticking days will fail to mark attendance on anything. 

And maybe. Tomorrow. I will be devising a new list of things to look for in the moments hurtling my way. The hourglass could spin it all out in a single instant and deliver all the sifted deserts inside my palm. 

All in a single flash of another morrow.
All in the clutches of an indecipherable mayhap.

All these tomorrows we have and don’t have.
Sit on your corroded desk, write the letters you will never send.
And wait for them to never come.