Of The Eye

Eyes awaken,

Right first, then left,

Stardust clinging to the lashes,

Refusing to concede

That wondrous moment was but dream

Leaving me alone

Comforted only by the memory

That this is all but a part of reality

Acidic Beasts From Way Beyond The Self

A fire anthem preens

Amidst a canticle of paralysis

Troubled thunder unleashing

The misplaced claws of disease,

Where desire at its core, becomes

The key to a spiritual unraveling

Force-field weak, worthless even,

When the debris scattering towards,

Are disemboweled shrapnel fragments

Originating from within some unclassifiable fiend,

An abomination of the worst kind…an acidic alien beast….

Yet stand we can and stand we do

Against all odds, amidst a severe state of

Uncertainty…we must ignore the realities

Sorrow holds no wisdom here…not in this world,

Only perseverance and courageous acts of vandal,

Can offer absolution to this type of scourge

Incomplete Delivery

I’ve never been the problem

But then again, never had the solution,

To solve the misery that ponders us all

I’ve always been another question

In a long line of rhetoric,

an exclamation point in the middle of a hypothesis.

There’ve been times I thought I had the answers

But the easier things are,

The harsher scream the fouls

Watching the sudden twist of a turbine’s gale,

Trysting nautically, amidst a fresh gust of carbonic air,

Fleeting, permissive, derision, dismissing—

A damage plan for the self-defeatist, a manifesto for a never-ender—Sword of promise in disguise, a fury with a roving eye—Assemble NOW the gallery of rogues!

Too often we assimilate with those ravenous chills, elucidating amidst the shiver of a broken dream— a few moments truncated, by grammar, both bent and unrelieved…

Incomplete Surrender

Sometimes odd reactions occur.

Most of the time I can tell the difference though,

Between the real and the brought upon.

However,

Occasionally

A blurring will occur

Transporting the flesh

To

Some mystically warped dream landscape

And despite the fantastical whimsies within,

The mind continues to play tricks upon

The warbling words playing soundtrack to the world

Once in a while the scenery is painted like nothing seen before.  Here, truth falls victim to perception.  The mind wants to feel and thusly feels.  The vividly sculpted canvasing created, spread naked, for the larger-than-life states of vibrancy deluged upon— the mixtures of grey clouds and colorful mountain ranges merge, forming some abstraction you need to touch. And touch you must.

One of the most common situations is composed, as a story would be by a competent fantasy illustrator.

The sword is firmly placed within my hands.  The blade gleams the heaven’s and the crested jewels upon the hilt glimmer when falsities near

Often we have sidekicks.  The mind typically steals these from real life of what was in view just the night before.  Tonight I am on a quest, searching for the persnickety populous; it’s cat-scratched fever, and hordes of grotesque curs—armadas of a drone that drowned to mewl. 

An unlikely cast of characters, each, accompanies me bearing individually meted responsibilities.  Tonight’s journey shows Salacious Crumb to be my man-at-arms.  He barely reaches the apex of my ankle, yet carries a full-sword the size of a mountain goat.  Babe follows closely behind, squealing the songs it knows and whines about the one’s it refuses to learn.  Yet it does it’s job fairly well, after-all, who wouldn’t get a kick out of singing pig, lost and looking for it’s way home, only to find a world without acreage to spare.  Yes, a very good jester indeed.  Then we have the Schmoos, a whole family of blobby beasts, they trail behind and hop about, making sure nobody sneaks up from behind. Finally, to round things out, there is my trusty steed, a dear, dear relative of Mr. Ed, who, to this day, when not out on adventure, shops himself a direct descendant, and thusly, fair or not, collects exorbitant stud fees, for all the 80’s steeplechase fanatics who always wished their nag would speak to them.

OH. PLEASE!!! JUST GET ON WITH THE THING.  worst seven-fifty ever spent...

“Where did that voice-over come from. and for that matter, how RUDE”

Too often than not, the stories fail to complete.

And, for some reason or another, something I can only pass off as a curse of modern medicine, they never continue on as we perhaps would like…

After the next pills take their place a newer cast bedazzles with their spell, and the cyclicality renews again.

Nightmare's Autopsy (The Will to Overcome)

Unawareness.  Sad, sad scourge,

Where despite the cleavers gleam

Enroll again! On we surge

Upon the cold, cold table we

Will once more lay prone for

His convenient dream

Watch we shall, March we will

From the silos to the unmarked graves

To cut across reaping fields, ever forward on we stave. 

Vivisection does not breed good intention,

Do not believe anything they say, it’s never about

The process, it’s always about the pain

Inflicted, where the loudest are the strong, and the screams expire before the walls wail their weeping songs, while the sick, while the poor, shed not one tear more

Bone to bone. Disassembled on

Slats of marble, practiced upon

For those not cared for

Are but generic and alone

stainless tin, cold, cold steel

each discarded, parts and whole

Sad it is, for these, not a tear is felt

Separated by the lash of an imposter God

Fearing a day without, where future’s freedom’s left in doubt

Leaving but an unheard requiem, a lesson, a sigh, for without the crackling, pain does not yield, ever forward stirs the prod

Reassembled, fractions and sums

As only a self-termed God would dare attempt make whole,

Such reunions of the recent dead

Your image yet fans each flame incited by the memories haunting the dreams of your dearest mourners, where words, spoken in your natural tongue, engrain each minute of slumber, with the writhing procurement loss endows

Every piece within is found without.

All lined up across this wall

Organized precisely yet scattered haphazardly about

And here treads a man, in the shallowest depths of water, pacing in wander, sloshing over each direction ever scoured

Ever mired is the misery concomitant to each shard remembered, never knowing what tortures persist to lurk

Yet, it is he, who we cannot dare guess upon; it is he, who never sickens thinner than frame allows, for repetition’s mysteries here assembled sour not the troubles therein

Jars of me, at rest, alone

In this sealed solution,

flesh plucked clean, off its bone

a floating cage with lockless ends

Forever swimming—

Never truly dead, yet life barely seep these veins,

Floating simply about, within this pool, an aquarium

Where waves are as absent, as those prehistoric beasts science willfully omits from the present-day vernacular

Pickled in formaldehyde; Awash, then dried,

By permutations cloth, preserved forever, yet

Never, in such company, could the soul hope to thrive within

Errors form the function, upon this weavers loom,

Tainted by misfortune, needles sew wryly their quilted interpretations, echoic of our most hollowed depths of doom

Expertise is ignored, when it’s failure that’s exposed,

Leaving only the thrush of pride, forever hidden—shall we try, to find pathos, through wisdom’s ever dwindling light?

Parceled streams create purported visions—albeit in lieu of the self-sustaining sufficiency such stained seams require—

Where thusly soon thereafter, we are quick to notice that the breadcrumbs have all grown stale and indigestible

Here, the body secretes away its last remaining vertebrae, crafted, is a sense of clarity, never known or seen before—proffering each sentiment stored away, with the dank chill preeminently found whilst creeping seditiously amongst those reservations not your own—for it is within these chambers, where the stagnant air of darkness, adroitly replicates mankind’s first regret—

Yet strangely enough, for now, a change is found—an unrequited epiphany appears—here, falling forward—we see through the murky horizons and past the greyest clouds, envisioning that fleck of precognition crucial to surviving this nightmare realm our beings have been unwittingly cast unto—

It was in each these bands of sparks, whose arcs bestowed more than superficiality, but legitimate directions to salvation—here, it was found that one can be lonely, without succumbing to loneliness, where one can be alone, yet sated still—for it was then, when needed the most, that I became aware, aware, fully, completely aware, where the torture that shall surely follow, will be nothing to the comfort I now feel.