Tag Archives: #4

Catastrophic Demarcation

Go wreck the clean air for me

And replant some darker green

The kind that runs the world

The one you sought to destroy

With cigarette spewing factories

And cold corporate handshakes

And mass hysteria ignorance

.

Go and poison my faucet drip

With more than bitter chlorination

And occasional sediments of rust

The kind that snakes highly-resistant

Prions right into my better sense

And chokes away all my optic nerves

Into the brink of utter blindness

.

Let me taste all our past and future mistakes

And pay for humanity’s most heinous crimes

For we all deserve imminent hell, don’t we now?

The kind that boils civilisation down to ashes

And piles up bleached bones for the scavengers

Cause if you heed requests from dying machines

Their toxic wasteland will be all that’s left of us.

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Elizabeth and the Zealot

His embittered smile proclaims of an innocently senile man, but his rancid breath reeks of irreparable psychological damage.

Outside, a group of children playing tag in the playground across the street, clambering across loose gravel and joyously shrieking as outstretched hands willingly grab for their shoulders, caught unaware and simply caught.

Inside his shirt, the old crucifix his long-deceased mother gave him on the brink of her deathbed, clasp half-broken and several priceless encrusted jewels missing; a toothless grin, unfaithful gaps. The tiny metal weighs heavily against his unwashed chest, the unpleasant sensation almost burning a hole through his heart. Sometimes, he mutters a memorised creed out of reflex, though no one believes in it anymore. Perhaps not even God Himself. But him?

Mindless gazes. The chipped, mouldy statue of a weeping wooden saint in one dark nook of the living room, rotting food and dusty candles its ever-resilient offering. The mirror, barely reflective, smudged with soot and cobwebs and his tuberculosis-infected saliva. The closed window beside him like a sleepy eye, tiringly wary as it occasionally betrays a resounding laugh or a glimpse of excitedly-billowing hair. He forgets so many things nowadays, but he always remembers. The children. He must watch the children.

Or else?

Or else…

Grabbing his ragged coat from the settee, the man coughed into his fist once, twice, and absently wiped the offending knuckle onto his beige pants. He headed for the door and resolutely grabbed the tarnished doorknob with a shaky hand. The hinges squeaked. A child, perhaps the acting leader of the pack, called out for everyone’s attention as he insisted to play hide and seek.

A countdown, and the palpable air of small bodies scattering. The man decided musingly, that he would humour them and join in their little pastime. He’s always been good at hiding. Though, he sighed out in quiet lamentation, with his old age and raging rheumatism, it would not really make the job any easier for him.

But only one child would win the game that night.

No one would ever find her.

He’ll make sure of that.

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anatomical dissection: ears

the very ends of my

threads are frayed

and my earphones

tangle up and unravel

as i intertwine them on

my fingers and press play

i’m going deaf from

listening to too much

of this earsplitting music

but it’s the only thing

that can shut out the

noise of this world and

the noise in my mind.

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mental block. (4)

***

i’m just

a broken

mirror

and you’re

just an

ugly reflection.

***

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grave mistake

“My fancy grew charnel. I talked ‘of worms, of tombs, of epitaphs.’ I was lost in reveries of death, and the idea of premature burial held continual possession of my brain.” ~The Premature Burial; Edgar Allan Poe

~*~

buried alive;

screaming my

strained lungs

out, i’m desperately

banging on

the casket door

blood is beginning

to seep from my

nails onto the glass

and onto the

plush coffin floor

buried alive;

i’m twisting and

writhing until

every part of my

postmortem

feels deathly sore

i don’t why i

even bothered

to try when i know

that help won’t come

and i’m secretly

enjoying all this horror.

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★ southern ☆

♫•*¨*•.¸¸♪

poles of red and gold

keep spinning on

the ends that i hold

singing a song

poles of blue and silver

keep spiralling on

the ribbons you tether

cascading and long

opposite directions

upwards downfall

gravity anomaly

separate wall to wall

highest low blows

different games

continents of snow

share common names

northern southern

to meet you with i

either you fall down

or i attempt to fly.

♫•*¨*•.¸¸♪

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Filed under Poetry, Southern Constellations

The Marauders’ Ode

The dead of the night in whispers “I solemnly swear that I’m up to no good”

Four friends quietly remark elatedly under the invisibility cloak’s hood

Thin ink lines appear in the parchment, and a complex map will unfold

A clever little foolproof trick that only they’ll be able to use and decode

Four friends on the wildest adventure, breaking rules and breaking ennui

Mad marauders making magical mischief and the messiest of melody

The untold heroes with the bravest hearts, silent legends in the academy

And they won’t cease with their fun, mischief-making, and camaraderie

Moony, Padfoot, Prongs, and Wormtail are out to take the world on a rampage

And afterwards, when lumos turns to nox, they return, and…mischief managed.

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Filed under Fandom Poetry, Poetry