They shove germs in their mouths. They disappear as if not really there. People that come and go. Days that drift away like faces in a crowd of neon ghosts. Exoskeletons. Dreams of a life. Every eye that meets your own. Every gaze that cuts through disdain. A smile to warm even the most deadest of bones. Shovelling ashes and kissing burned asphalt. Pucker up. Settle down. Lose yourself in a moment of madness. Spread it wide like a lover. Swallow smoke and mirrors. In the time it takes for a heart to break, the universe has already collapsed. Light years on the nape of your neck. Shooting stars and wanderlust as we celebrate all that has ever been lost. Things that burn in the fire. Things never to be recovered. Praise each second. Love all that gets within the shell of what contains you. This cold abyss. This never ending story. Tears and fears. Champagne for all those who ever meant a thing. Pain for the rest. Glory on the crest of a wave. Not drowning nor waving. Just surfing. Being something and someone that goes beyond. The great big unknown, from my mouth to yours. With the falling of snow, all we can do is dance like angels. We leave traces of existence. We breathe not because we have to, but because we want to. We do it through the need to be open. Through the need to become what we hold somewhere deep within.
I am the elephant man, oranges down my spine. A pyramid between my shoulder blades, crouching through a keyhole. I am received dyslexic, son of Joseph. Ladies with no flesh hold fish. Triangles with eyes floating above my head. This maze is made of summer. It melts my bones until visions of a Minotaur devour me completely. With bare hands they cultivate plants. They caress stalks to teach new meaning. Barrels of wine. Distilled through transcendence. Heat from pulsating orbs. Glowing membranes dancing on the brink of dawn. Leaves of gold. Five left as the wind picks up and scatters all remaining thoughts. Smiling fox. Nose buried deep in the bush. Owl looking down. No sense in sense when the ticking of your clock clicks thinner each day. Butterflies and skulls. Like a worm on a hook. Like a cat in a bag. Navigate me. Mother of dogs. Norma Jean. Bleached skin revived through paper cuts. Only a god. Only an icon of passive desire. Forbidden fruit. Luscious apples smoothed on tender thighs. Reddened and spreading. The notion of loneliness, fluttering like wings in the suburbs. Homes of dreams. Gardens as weeds. Like snakes they slither until the coming of a pink moon makes itself known.
Rejoicing in the name of love. Slipping out of time as if it were only a matter of space. Folding layers of light, wrapped around skinny fingers. Swords and rivers of blood, flowing around the feet of the damned. Generations of dead souls, praising everything that serves no purpose. Holes in the earth. Holes in brainwashed heads. Bullets for sorry valentines begging to be found once more. There used to be a lighthouse. It saved the lost as they struggled through the storm. But it was only a mirage. An abstraction of what was once real. Raised hands and animal hearts. Blinding truth. The kind that saves when all is ready to be lost. Swaying back and forth. Losing your sense of self in a labyrinth of self doubt and confusion. Trees and hunters. Reapers of the faith. Divided by the ninth sun, we are sterilized by the deaths of a hundred elephants. Chained to images no longer relevant, we feel numb and without cause. Falling down a cliff face, the rocks of teenage bloodlust race head first into oblivion. Open mouthed. Ready for drowning. Singing songs with no words we crawl towards a doorway made of wind chimes. The sweet tones of enlightenment. The dazzling realization of finding all the answers. Through thick and thin we dance without knowing. Silence on her belly. Birdsong on her breast. All webs of connection, shimmering like oranges beneath a sky that never speaks.
Stretching across the ocean, I am the captain. Instruments of an inverted nature, twisting beneath my grip. Particles of distant objects sifting through layers of unspoken tongues. Hummingbird on a wire. Wrecked car by the side of the road. Covered in darkness. Swallowed by the cruel hand of fate. Laughing like gods. Howling like wolves. At your door and scratching at the stains. Fingers bent back. On tenterhooks and collapsing. Little someone in my own little Guernica. Stick figures and bombs raining down like April showers. The principles of famine. The decadence of starvation. The horrors and wonders of every living thing destined to die alone.
Shimmering. Glistening. Believing in forms that reside within and without. Flowing ink, swirling like water down the plug hole. Disappearing evil. Evaporating with the passing of a hundred storms. Lightening strikes before your eyes. The body breaks but the mind can take much more. Age is a hindrance we could all leave behind. Come now, and surrender to a feeling. A way of being that has no meaning. Split flesh. Sand on the passenger side. Cracked leather as the steering wheel keeps on turning. This path has been entombed. We feed on gloom and press flowers until they cover the scent of sin once more.
Shocking lights. Bones. Pious mouthed nothings. Finger licking nausea. The quickening sex of all that you left at sea. Mysteries at every turn. Unknown desires wherever there was once emptiness. Writing words to keep the tigers at bay. Letting out all that threatens to eat you alive. Hanging gardens. Multiple faces as a moonchild places stones on a paper sundial. Intricate features that blur as the sun passes overhead. Rain in slow motion. Cautious daughter with a fistful of whispers ready to obliterate the night. Doorways made of enchanted images. Opened with the simple hushed tones that an adult could never understand.
Speechless with the falling of snow. Softly moving where hands fear to tread. Virgin white. Bathrooms smeared with the haunting glimpse of a thousand hangovers. Big machines. Broken machines. Valves and tourniquets. Attack and surrender. From one life to the next, the strings of being are pulled this way and that. They pass without us even knowing. Love makes us stronger. It keeps us from the edges of the abyss. And god forbid we were to ever peer into the nothingness that awaits us just on the other side. Break the chains and swim to the shore instead. Breathe in the air of all that you’ve ever been. Breathe in the magic, of everything that awaits us so knowing and strange.
imprisoned by sexless desire
purgatory circles/repeated to infinity
picking little engineers/always digging deeper
chewing wires and tails/we long for release
for some kind of escape
in a darkened globe of terror/she shines like the sun
as sweet as water/as warm as the sands of a secret shore
the road is long/mistakes and regrets at every turn
black stockings/tender thighs
Scavenged bones. Lakeside lovers with hands entwined. River man. In a head on collision, vehicles pass from one phase to the next. Snarling faces a heartbeat away from martyrdom. Ornate patterns carved into restless arms. Crosses and lipstick. Embalming fluids. The truth of our fury. Ballistic bereavement. A first for creation. For pure waters where images know no meaning. Every breath we take a lifetime for the dead. All lined up. Soldiers of little reason. Bodies separated from thought. Minds and spines severed beneath a boiling sun. Thrown downstream. Tumbling through the rabbit hole with no place to call home. Bullets in ancient monasteries. Buried beliefs long since banished to the archives of pain. Chinese lanterns. Islamic terror. Giants in the clouds. Monsters that were made when we were looking to be saved instead. Burning churches. Dogs skinned alive for medicine. Rhino tusk and elephant plunder. Sacred sighs like righteous wonder. Climb the ladders of my nightmare. See visions of all that has yet to be. Puzzles of dreamscape. Torn fragments of uniform left tattered and scorched. Massacre of innocents. From cradle to tomb with the middle as misery. This ticking gun. These haunting collisions. Tomahawk talismans. Flowers of teenage battle. Scattered in remembrance.
Loves dart. A typewriter with eagle motif. Trinkets stolen in the name of atrocity. Almond eyes in the calling of night. Hunting for witches. Bitten by spiders. Stalked by native ghosts. A far cry from redemption. Improvement of interest. The lords prayer retrieved by pleurisy. Denounced by complicity. Wave upon wave. Crushed beneath the weight of half the world. Struggling against the expectation of a thousand useless systems, each one an arrow into your suffering heart. Bewitched by lonesome roads. Take tablets to cure your ills. Silence the weak. Cripple the crows with talk of childish humour. Seasons of spring. Slithers of golden sunshine on some relic of an English castle. Brick by brick. Stone by stone. A sequence of bizarre actions. Fine wine and voices on the breeze. Ladybirds and panic attacks. Sometime soon, a moment will come when everything will be in its right place. All those loose ends, dispersed like mist on a summers morning. See clearly through the haze. Find a trail through the trees and get back to where you truly belong. From such great heights. With such a delirious smile. She comes like a comet. She sighs like a prayer. On each and every stair, a glimpse of the man who was never even there.
Blisters in the heliosphere. Hibernating liberals. Stifled by rheumatism. Shipwrecked and coming down fast. Teeth and stones that skim the waters surface. Planets in the palms of our hands. Maelstrom. Helium. Elysium. Joined together like dots we are empty without the other. From sister to mother. Father to brother. Depleted youth. Lack’d through malnutrition. Conceived through heightened states of nowhere. Weathered outlines. Destroyed by nostalgia.
crescent shaped ulcers. besieged by rabid dogs
foaming like a waterfall. soaked in acrid tears
a pastime of whoring. deplored by critics unseen
they sniff and they suck. they tease and they pluck
shaven scalp. repetition breeds repulsion
from kingdom to crown. a freeway of horrors just waiting to be true
black neon god. dead sea scrolls bound in teenage mistakes
from vulva to throat. stitched together with intricate care
bottled beer and shame. necrosis of the heart
apostles on crosses. designed to disperse at the calling of dawn
inverted rainbows and sunken breasts. stained with the hands of
a thousand burning witches
Tiger man with teeth sharpened. She has vines and flowers bursting through ripened flesh. Others lose themselves because beneath their softened shells there’s nothing of interest to see. They escape beauty and replace it with the mundane. No visions. No tenderness. Just a mess of obscure mirrors and tired faces. Photograph your outlines, for that will be the only thing missing when you’re gone. No legacy. No footsteps. Not even love. There’s simply nothing of value to be found in the bodies that pass you by. They leave no impression. No seeds to be planted to offer shade to all those that will follow. From an abacus to a feather. From a jewel to a Jew. The underbelly of a snake. The curve of her spine curled next to mine. Leviticus for your sins. Solitude to ease a weary brain. Scratches from torso to limb. Lips on lips tasting where we came from. A golden platitude of morose children. A curfew on potent hips. Nil is the number of content. An absence of light the colour of love. Riddles around her breasts. Truth from ear to ear spreading like only a lover can. Parchment instead of chemicals. Wonder replacing an extinction of faith. Like animals we search for what brings us happiness. Catching snow in the dead of night we are angels outside of time.
Money can’t cover scars. It brings only a new way to disguise. What once was catastrophe now a garden of exotic fruit. Shovelling the ashes of our past, we bury who we used to be. Those ghosts just aren’t holy anymore. Bow down to the shadows. Feed on the abyssal plains. From Turkish cathedrals to the watery depths of Venice. Witches dressed in floral skirts. As hollow as the stump of a withered tree. They pucker up. They cling to the living empty. Cheap perfume and insects. A hive of terror. Generation Dead. Painted across billboards and magazines like there’s no other choice. They say it’s freedom, but it’s just another way for the damned to believe that they hold some kind of meaning. Tailored suits as rags. Sleek haircuts reduced to strands of nothingness in the wind of ages. Married not to the one they love but to their own sense of perfection. Gazing at their image, the demon carves his name into their bellies. He picks away at their ribs then makes himself at home. They invited him in. They sacrificed their souls just so they could climb a ladder made of snakes. Sit down and smoke a cigarette. Heal your wounds and let me breathe upon your neck. These nights are cold. They make us seek a light that will always keep us warm. Clenched hands and messy hair. Lucid dreams and stairwells to the moon. Turn your back on every little thing. Close your eyes and let us see what we need to see whilst every single star falls from the sky.