Preoccupation

to have arrived
is to die

I have since
surrounded myself
with cut-out cardboard
reconfigured with no particular preference

staples and tape

to ward off the hatred

a color completely devoid
of vindictiveness

the windowless model is quite suitable

for I have not the time
to look up
and ahead

I am far too caught-up
in this whole “being dead” thing

oh, what a dreadful façade

[image credit: Jan Toorop]

Symmetry

the paradox of a promise
one cannot hold

known so well

ask not why

anxiously fleeing
leaden clouds
of dusted wake

and coerced ruination

blanketing
the black horizon

heaven, pray forgive me

nothing

but the bleakest silence
can allay these blighted days

tempting the mirrored gate

it reveals

that it is time

[image credit: Pablo Picasso]

Extant Toll

reeling from the shrill assail
falls entropy surreal
shrieking past in amaranthine streaks

present will
spawn futures fading

fanning flames
of phantom fears

the silphium of self-affliction

arms outstretched

wretched hands of spider-like accosting
insistent to collect the extant toll

mortals of a moribundity
so profoundly mundane

stranded on ledges
of bridges burned
at oblivion’s edge

a futile spiral of lament
into event horizon

[image credit: Freydoon Rassouli]

Daydreams

some days
we long to be killed
more than others

to save us
from spilling
our secretive druthers

in rum-soaked confessions
to loathsome ex-lovers

or nameless encounters
with strangers uncovered

shamelessly asking for help
from our mothers

whose salt stings the wounds
from the womb to the gutter

whose ruinous choices
left pagans to shudder

impetuous voicings
so flagrantly uttered

lugubrious lamentations
seethe and smother

you see
i have neither the will
nor the the wanting

to languish in suffering
ever so daunting

i rather prefer
to bestir to the coffin

and slough this infernal coil
right the fuck off then!

[image credit: Edward Honaker]

Stoned Miles

ashes eschewed

usher fall underfoot

 

the remnants

of endless days

 

gray

and despondent

 

shuttered

 

i no longer see

the trees taper

 

impressions

once flourishing

thought, sound, and feeling

 

flashing

in shrill peals

 

a tale stowed surreally

 

stolen

by flickering

madness

eluding

 

strangely retold

in a cold, bleak immersion

 

hours burned frigid

of infernal mind

 

rue forms a sordid soot

of the soul’s toiling

 

inward it folds

fueling lucifer’s fire

 

solitude broods

failures born of inaction

 

on mattresses

barren

 

time-worn

and forgotten

 

mottled

with mildewed crumbs

 

bones for a pillow

 

the contrast stings anguish

 

shone stark

with such loss

 

beyond even nightfall

its poignancy stretches

 

these truths

weep beside me

framed by the faint gloaming

 

the autumn dawn

breaches

 

as ardent

claims feigning

to never have cared

 

but the silence

she already knows

[image credit: H.J. Ford]

Our Condition

this dream that teems with emptiness
is one I know so well
for it permeates the essence
of existence

despite how it may seem
on the surface of this shell
its reality looms ever
in the distance

the laughter that you hear
is the mirror reflecting tears
transmutated by a diligent subconscious

even when I smile
it’s to subjugate my fears
in a world where judgment rules
such fools as Pontius

if I appear serene
it is only to belie
every tempest ever brimming
from within

the depth of this despair
has breached the realm beyond repair
and it’s all that I can bear
not to give in

the worst might never be
save to say this lonesome curse
will afflict the hearts of all
who dare exist

that we will never know
any truth by what is shown
the disgrace of our condition
e’er persists