Drifting Into Ruin

our distance
belies summation

amid the sacred frivol
we chose
to quantify
ourselves

defiant
like the sentience
of existence

inundated
with the drivel
waning tides forgot
to tell

timeless dimensions
lay between
the worlds
within these walls

teemed with apprehension
we haplessly watch
verity unfurl

drifting
into ruin

When Consciousness Comes Calling

there is a pang

when consciousness
comes calling

magnetic forces
disrupt the atmosphere

and dormant thoughts return
as torment ripples
throughout my being

with the ominous silence
of imminent shockwave

bearing the gravest
consequence of logic defied

tearing me
from the static sepsis
of my heart’s invasion

to answer its unbridled beckon
with blinded reckoning

as i shudder to behold
the untold tale
of my greatest failing

through portals of peridot
long dulled from life’s laments

sodden earth
from sullen stream

once culled from squalor
placed within the bezel
of my breast

and pulled me from this berth
by the undertow’s drag

jilted like sloughed slag

amid a mournful requiem
of shrill remorse

Not Even Death

when everything
is gone
nothing matters

the only place
you still exist
is barely even tangible

but you don’t care
no one cares

not even death

and so it persists

Shades of Pompeii

somewhere
along this wayward
path

i lost
the sum
of you

in broken
buttons

crumpled
papers

whispers

faintly
promised

to reflections

we once
bared

scattered
over trails
capricious

memories
thread precious
pleas

plotting
their escape

like petty fools
from plighted faith

parched
from implore

upending
thoughts

would mark
the path

that led me
to your vested
heart

when vagrants
sought
the stars

and charted
the descending
hours

of our last
reverie

rapt
in such despair

’til all
that i could
see

were driftless
streaks
of blackness
stripped

amid
the grip
of shame

unearthed

where flashing
shades
of pompeii

stayed
in grim dispart

impressed
upon

the distant
sky
estranged

a world
apart

rant of scant merit

I guess I’m an emotional masochist because I always fuq everything up far beyond the precipice of merit propitious.  Dare I say, it’s depressingly disconcerting for it’s duly quite fervid, the ferocity with which I unfailingly inflict this inbound bondage.  I have deemed a living hell upon myself whose reins I shall never relinquish.   Nor shall I ever dispel the curse that these verses disperse on my pithless personage.  I search for the dirge that might deign to divulge my divergent urges surging to ravage my visage with savage compulsion and vague supposition.  Vulgar and vile these vices I vaunt when enveloped in venting with vanity’s wont.  As I saunter hauntingly to a daunting demise.   I witness this witless world through wistful windows of time since rescinded sans residual reticence of rote compliance that readily dotes on my amative recalcitrance.  To further articulate this artless affliction so to properly parse the veil of this valse lacking prevalent cause, prudent pause must be given to parlay the amplitude of dispossession so that I mayhap, per se, gain from said deprivation.  With all best intentions mentioned ad infinitum, impressed upon god’s greatest audience of none.  Yet somehow I find that the soul of my mind ever shuns me thus spurring to run underground just so that I may hide from this hideous horror whorled in writhing. Undermining my chances to shine with such vibrancy confined to contrivance in idle contradiction to idyllic ideals.  Where no sound is present to presage profound plights of piteous people persistently perishing garishly sinking into sentient pits of sapient despair.  And here I lay, hapless in hyporeactive states hopeless to extend a helping hand bearing the selflessness of our sole salvation.  To solve any quarrels of lore’s requiem as ennui quandaries of quietus quell squeamish skin squandered.  Acclimatization to scandal and scourges encouraging naught but a purging averred. Spurious inference evinced disingenuously, a word so misused it defines what is wincing.  Thrust upon miasmic oceans of plasma in plumes plotting schisms of ruinous rue.  Sophists usurping poised with dissemblance, in spite of supinely presented sound pleas.  At which point I ponder to pander implore that you please apprise me what purpose this is for. Aside from assuaging an aging aplomb ere appearing as pompous as this pen’s pathetically impaired plies of reasoning so paltry. Alas, I digress, for my state of distress is distorting the functions compressing my chest.  Lest I cease and desist I shall cease to exist but at least I know this much is blissfully true: I am fuqd and I cannot resist this fool’s fate of such languorous and lasting lamenting libration.  Intent on selling my soul to the devil in reveries of such voracious dyspepsy and lack of discretion so disseminating degrading the ground that I share with my fellow formations of foul indignation interred.  In tombs of tempestuous vestibules flailing in failure so profound it resounds and reverberates in sonorous echoes that beckon our reckoning in this armageddon that hails from charred skies. Rippling throughout our decrepit contortions condemned to a cold crippling morphine drip faintly gripping death’s sinewless hand where we lie.

A Polar Divide

a polar
divide

e’er pervades

this wavering visage
of sinuous veil

the restive wrath
of breathlessness

whispering
frailty

the freeing influx
of fire’s adorning

roaring
with impassioned plea

and sordid rationale

a brashness
pent
with lunar ashes

but sooner
harken voices

with wretched dissonance
squandering
madness

freefalling
in monochromatic
disparity

distant reflections
sentenced
to toil the time

where heart’s
divergent dwell

the wells of hybris
beget weeping stone

by the lurching
of earth’s tormented
breeze

release me
to discordance

In Layman’s Days

in layman’s days
sorrow yet reigns
in remnants
of our love’s refrain
disseminating
through these veins
like silken web
to dying flame
a sallow face
of shallow waste
e’er haunts the gallows
hollow space
as wraiths in fallow fields
yet reap the harvest
of a heart’s disgrace
none can replace
the solace lost
absconded by
the albatross
e’er perched atop
the arch of Eden
bound by freedom’s
final cost
where pandered woe
bleeds disarray
sleeves brandishing
a heart of clay
turned languid
from the anguish
of exsanguination
on display

Separation

imprisoned
in irons
of ivory’s irony

inconsolable
impenetrable

in spite of ourselves
a splintered perfection

o, splendorous winter

let us seep into the silent spring

to sing assuagence
and sate the urgent seas
with tempest

Such Dreams Expire

pray this memory
tell no lies

in light
of truth
since shone

to strip me
of my last reprieve

pray not
these newly fallen whispers

speak ill
of our erstwhile tales

should they unravel
all my world

would vanish
into despair

for every sinuous
sorrow felled

arose
a sanctuary

that once
we shared

to dare
such dreams expire

but time
forever
radiates
in solemnity

and thus i am fraught
with this aching moor

of that which
i can never
come to mourn

rant of dreams forsaken

In life, we are plagued with many things. Some serve to compel us forward. Some, seem only to exist to thwart our pusillanimous progress toward the arbitrary goal of being human. What on earth is this innate desire to adhere to such insidious standards of corporeal existence? What is this tethering to that which can only be thought of as tormented torturing? To be able to reasonably anticipate the fate of each moment is a fate worse than death itself. To know the rhythm of each step.  The cadence of every footfall. To know the precise frame of time in which that insidious sliver of seeping sunlight will slip in through the window’s crack to smack you into the oblivion of consciousness. Beholden to the call of nature’s never-ending reminder that our minds are moored to primal needs to which we must abide. To know that if we ever hope to reach our dreams ever dangling within our reach on string-bound carrots tied to sticks that sit firmly within the grasp of capitalistic ceremony. Only to be ripped from our hands as the sky rips off its fleece of sloe that flickered with the promises of worlds we’ve yet to know. Worlds we once had known. Our dreams become less reasonable as reason wriggles into our conscious condemnation of the hope we must forgo. The cost exceeds the measures of the treasures life might show us. And so, we go from lavish fiction in depictions of our making to the stark and unforgiving scripts seemed written solely to afflict us. Imprisoned by a temporality that deems our freedom nothing more than fruitless. Scheming to destroy the only things that make this life worth living. And believe that it’s a given that regardless of how much we strive to live the lives that linger long in silent songs that writhe in our subconsciousness, we slowly die each time we’re forced to lift our eyelids open.  To the moment of our hope’s demise, we try to trick ourselves into thinking thoughts in which our dreams aren’t sinking fast like ghostly ships aghast into the vast, dark abyss of bottomless abandon. So that we might barely subsist. This is not the life we want. Dubious portrayals made to convey a fervid fantasy none can achieve lest they bereave their one and only soul’s reprieve by leaving all that could have been.  To sleep beneath the silent seas of muted pleas whose surface screams tempestuously with festering feelings of remorse and discontented cries of silent implore. Born into a life of languishing where anguish rules as king with such an iron fist the siren’s kiss falls into effigy. It’s far beyond what’s known as wrong but come the shadow of the dawn we must persist as listless pawns e’er clamoring just to go on.  For if we were to choose a fate not left effete by our own feet and force ourselves to deviate from what’s accepted and expected we would find ourselves neglected by our peers appearing queer whose scolding sneers and jilted jeers sustain our ever-loving fears of failure as our freedom fades.  As quickly as we can adhere to anhedony-addled tears of consequence beyond compare. We forsake freedom for the sake of filling holes of corporate waste for ends that we will never taste. A lifetime of egg on our face. There is no hope for time replaced. Still, knowing this, we must awaken without time to contemplate our dreams in hypnagogic states that hold the key needed to free our soul from these arbitrary weights. Inflicted on our conscious being bearing on our consciences absconding with the only thing that would ensconce our existence. But our purpose has been purloined for acquisition of gold coin in copious amounts of which we’ll never see by all accounts. As pointless is this penned appeal I must present this truth concealed for I must voice these things I feel lest I succumb to my ideals of suicidal impetus of such unbridled force that thrusts upon me like this bed of bricks from where I now sit writing this.