Monthly Archives: March 2017

on bartering sins

wet pages of a book

yet not of your own tears

teeth and the crook

of expensive mortal fear

.

a shower of falling

hair, the strands you stole

and insults writing

on skins and stained wall

.

a wicked smile to

test your own patience

torn apart by you

for my liquid penitence

.

a sin for another sin

to pay for what i haven’t done

if mercy it shall win

both will cancel out each one.

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The Liars’ Roll Call

They tell you to keep drinking

When you’re tired of one cup

They tell you to keep breathing

When you simply want to stop

They tell you to keep speaking

When you’ve already shut up

They tell you to keep falling

When you’re already on top

They tell you to keep fighting

When you’re shouting enough

And they tell you to keep living

When all you wanna do is give up.

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Saccharoidal Profanity

Look at darling mumsy Angel with lovely punkin Lisa, being sweet to each other

Like candy cane stalks and jellybean treats and yellow piss on the choleric water

A taste of their shared diabetic poisons is enough for retinopathy and a lethal kill

But if that means I don’t have to throw up seeing their coddling act, then damn it,

I fucking will.

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Falling Down and Burning Holes

Sometimes I just

Need a leverage

Even though no

One is asking

Me to hold

On.

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It’s so fucking easy for one person to ruin a family, one person who thinks they’re all holier than thou, someone who’s unaware of the damage they have caused, with the naïve mindset that they’re in the position to poke their noses in like a rabid bloodhound and fix other people’s shit. Because they think that by doing the right thing, they’re setting the cogwheels of the clock back in proper motion, when all they’ve actually done is to make a hurricane collide with hell. Yet likewise, it’s so hard to inform them of what their measly prim fucking actions have actually helped create, even though you just badly want to drop the entire fucking earth on their shoulders and let the pain and the burden simmer in on their consciences, to let them know what they’ve done, and hope to the stars until they lose light that it will kill them slowly, every single waking moment of their goddamned life.

It’s so easy to find out when something is truly broken, to know when all that whitewashed innocence and preambles of hope and faith and death high ambitions all chase the striped zebra and circle down the drain, all replaced by the honours of horror and perennial promises of suffering and calvary and hours of being fucked around like a perused machinery, and it’s so easy to realise just how fucked up your own family is, nothing but a bunch of underestimaters and underachievers trying to eat the other’s throats out and laughing when you break both your legs clambering up the stage. Yet it’s so hard to accept the costs and the heavy liabilities, the initial hard sting of the sullen vodka that kicks your balls and makes you keel to your chosen deity. And there’s a moment when you still wish you can revert back to the usual standards of being able to ignore just how fucking pathetic your bloodline is, because somehow, that’s a promise you can still attest your flogged wrists to.

And after all that’s come and gone, it’s so especially easy to play the role of the family disappointment and succumb to the promising embrace of death. Leave it to the kings and minstrels to rejoice at your loss, to hold parades and sigh in relief like the sick twisted bastards that they are, because after all that’s come and gone, nothing can truly be the same, and truly it will be easier for you to just fucking up and leave. After all, what’s the easiest thing to do in life but die.

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Aberration Alphabet

A is for Annie, who got dropped by a stork

B is for Bernard, who poked a toaster with a fork

C is for Clarisse, who tossed a gun in the oven

D is for Desmond, who jumped a building to reach heaven

E is for Ellie, who got her scarf stuck in a door

F is for François, who thought quicksand was a floor

G is for Gloria, who slept under a falling seesaw

H is for Harold, who shaved with a power saw

I is for Irah, who swallowed radium as a trick

J is for Joseph, who downed twenty pills when he got sick

K is for Karen, who drank her weight in the ocean

L is for Lawrence, who juggled knives for some fair fun

M is for Mary, who used hairspray with a lighter

N is for Norman, who got splashed with liquid nitrogen all over

O is for Olive, who had a hungry spider living in her ear

P is for Philippe, who slept with his car in second gear

Q is for Queenie, who thought the iron was a phone

R is for Richard, who hugged a lorry while walking home

S is for Suzie, who caught her pigtails in the turbines

T is for Thomas, who forgot to chew his pork rinds

U is for Ursa, who tripped while holding an axe

V is for Vladi, who set jackhammer levels to max

W is for Wanda, who mixed antifreeze with a beer

X is for Xerxes, who wore sausage links to lure a bear

Y is for Yancey, who touched high voltage live wires

Z is for Zachary, who read this rhyme and got highly inspired.

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Vanishing Point; All That’s Left Are Traces Of You

And without you is how I disappear
And live my life alone forever now
Can you hear me cry out to you
Words I thought I’d choke on
Figure out I’m really not so with
You anymore, I’m just a ghost
So I can’t hurt you anymore…

~This Is How I Disappear; My Chemical Romance

~*~

If you found me gone one day, with nothing but a whirlwind of scattered letters and notebooks and papers, with one parched fountain pen dying of dehydration in the middle, lying forgotten in my dislimned room like an ironic tableau, to indicate the figure, the mass, the emptied space which my once-corporeal missing body once occupied, what would you do?

Would you silently shut the door, lock the house, and leave, leave that damned place that swallowed me whole, and start afresh, burying all memories and preludes of mine, allowing it to be covered in dust and cobwebs along with the crumbling papers, in that lonely dark room in a restless abandoned house, doomed to become another cheap haunted tourist attraction—?

Or would you take a deep breath, gathering all your aplomb and composure in a single oxygen intake, preparing yourself for the worst yet still hoping for the best, grip the knob with sweaty quivering palms, open the door with a prominent creak, and step in cautiously, allowing the darkness of the shadows and the lingering ghosts of what once was to chill your bones and embrace your every being—?

And if you were to choose the latter, if you were to gather all the papers, crumpled, clean, torn-up, every scrap and bit scribbled upon in a fit of either ennui or frustration, and put them together, as if they were the puzzle pieces that will finally solve the complexities and mysteries of my shambled life, and you read them, word for word, letter for letter, line for line and rhyme for rhyme, the mindlessly scratched punctuation and intentionally scratched out words blurring into a singular monstrous emotion that discreetly ravaged and poisoned your child’s system internally, now reforming and threatening to tear at your soul’s throat, as you read the unorganised pastiche of all my regrets, passions, agonies, jubilances, those things that I wanted to say, those things I never said, and those things that I will never get to say, what would you do?

Would you tie those anthologies of pain and paradise altogether in a messy little bundle, and without so much as an apology nor prayer, simply toss them gracelessly into the raging hungry fireplace, letting each scrap of paper curl up like dying butterfly wings and be devoured by the rising flames, starving for memories to destroy, turning my thoughts into bitter ashes, no longer to be sifted and repaired, rather only left to the whim of the wind, to get caught in people’s eyes, leaving my life to be an open case, speculated and falsified upon, leaving the words of the dead to remain dead and only an unspoken echo, a pale blot in the fabric of time—?

Or would you tie those florilegiums of hurt and happiness altogether in a neat little bundle, and with utterances of faith and assurance, share them eloquently with the others wanting in hope, letting each page be turned with eager fingers like flourishing petals of blue forget-me-nots and be devoured by the willing masses, voracious for memories to engrave, turning my ponderings into a spectrum of colours, no longer to be ignored and rotting away in a locked grey vault, rather to be left in the whim of the breeze, to get caught in people’s hearts, leaving my life to be stipulated and validated upon, making the words of the dead come back to life and to gain a voice of their own, a universe itself in the tapestry of time—?

And if you opted for the second decision, and you succeeded, what would you do if you returned to my room one day, and found me, sitting casually on my bed, with an overflowing ink jar dripping murky tears on my desk and a flurry of blank sheets of paper like a hurricane of unconceived literature on the spotless carpet, taciturn as I write out brand new compositions with a faint yet genuine smile on my solid scarlet lips, content with my slowly unfading existence, colliding shades of carnation and pastel tints efflorescing on my pallid cheeks and everywhere else that the bleeding colours chances to touch, revived by your efforts, revived by the memory of my name fresh in everyone’s sentience, unaged and youthful, looking as if I never left, this place, this world, and a void in your mind, in the very first place?

Would you tell yourself that all this, was simply nothing but a tired delusional dream of yours, disintegrating into the aether as soon as you make contact with it—?

Or would you dare step in again, completing a full möbius strip of the vanishing cycle, into my bright phantasmic room, and touch my skin to see if the bubble pops…?

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The Towers of Santo Dominique

That letter I sent

Lost at heart

Lust—

Indited…

A floral destiny was mine to be.

Over which

Constables and

Troubadours and

Knaves and the

Jesters and all

Aldermen have

Fought over, yet

Gone, begotten by

The nary prince that

Stood forth upon the gates

Of the limestone castle

As he passed along for my arms,

Hearkened unto ballads,

Holding a mint envelope,

Hoping to be desired.

Fourscore years hath he

Travelled over glebes and

Moors for a princess

Hence he inquires now.

I refused mine hand,

Why, which sensible dame

Dares to cast even skin

For a roaming heathen

Wild eyed and contraband?

Yet; goodly as I erelong,

Forthwith his compeer begins

Persisting and pursuing

The masks that he now put

For a show of cavalry, mayhap

And severe generosity

To make milkmaids surely faint

Oh, dear sire, but not I, said we

I am a stubborn lot, I fare

And one ritual is all it takes.

So I held my stone heart

In one lithe hand;

Lightning pendant in the other

Glim of light betwixt,

And prayed for redemption.

My wishes were painted,

Yet, in a cruel djinn act

And, on the morrow

The bricks began to fall

And the rain wept in agony

As screams intertwined with

Death church knells, tolling;

Warning for oncoming doom.

Yet, oh tragedy—! Not too soon

Did it come, all too late, and

The towers crashing

Over Santo Dominique

Twisted a thousand fates

And claimed a hundred souls

I wailed in bereavement

And I proclaimed to fled

Thinking myself a wretched witch

A damnable soul, I.

But still he, braveheart,

The chivalrous gentleman,

The unfaltering prince,

He pulled me from the wreck,

As he did hundred others,

He did the work of an army,

A battalion borne to save.

He claimed with intensity,

And passion forsooth,

And calm forgiveness,

And faith in his God and I

For mine spare emotions

Yet humanity is a fragile thing

And hearts more fragile so

And two of such broke

As I realised my cruelty,

As he passed on within my arms,

Hearkened unto dirges,

Holding a tattered envelope,

Hoping still to be wanted,

That neither

The constables

Nor troubadours

Nor jesters

Nor knaves

Nor alderman

Can even begin to pertain

Yet asunder our destiny was to be.

Indited…

Love—

Lost at heart

The letter I sent.

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Promise, I Promise

Did you think the arrows

Will not pierce my skin?

Did you think that I was

Too desensitised within?

Did you think promises

Will simply always work?

Did you really think that

No one would get hurt?

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Fallere

Pray I shall never be a better man

For failure is who I am

And if you take that away from me

Then what would I be?

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