Tag Archives: imagination

L’exquise L’angoisse

Palpitating arteries eviscerate, a familiar taste that tastes like nothing

Frustrated art under his eyelids fading, clever words I’m never caught saying

Lost impressions leave deceptions, a tempestuous flood caught in the fray

Wish my headspace wasn’t suffocating the sun day after another day

.

Imagination stuttering, slowly dying, what are you trying to hide?

If hell’s your new phenomenon, I’m afraid it’s far too late to be described

Every broken bone that the restless audience throws back to your act

Refusing to feel right again, this time I know that I don’t know where to start

.

Don’t look at me. Don’t look at my deathwish. Nor my blinded existence.

I do not wish to breathe the same way you do. Do not bleed out of my presence.

My words are glass blades lodged under my bruised throat, so do not dare me to cough

The eclipse feels impossibly heavier without your weight to hold me down

And so I quietly submerge with only the sound of my empty thoughts.

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writer’s block

i’m up against

a pen that

thinks too much

and an imagination

that refuses to

function.

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ghost in the walls

Broken compass still moving forward
A constant north, the one I’ll never know
Like everything, I gravitate to what ends up killing me
We’re separated by a hell of a lot more than the sky…

~*~

i have not dwelt

simply to haunt the stubborn

nor to be wasted away

by tides of hubris.

i may be a mere spectre

but i am nary a ghost

nor another figment of your

mischievous imagination.

you may think me but

another flickering shadow

lingering past peripheral visions,

in the darker corners of your

tired, bleary, hallucinating eyes,

but i am not transient

and quiet mantras and disheartened

prayers will not be enough to

make me go away, vanish.

and my silhouette shall eclipse

your sunrise mind, until

persistence turns to paranoia

and mysticism turns to madness,

morphing your shallow dreams

into abysmal nightmares…

you deserve it,

for you are a murderer—

you have not killed my body,

but you have mercilessly mutilated

my spirit, leaving my heart

beating steady yet badly hollow,

making me vainly ache

for the former tragedy instead.

with what you have done,

it is only fair and just for me

to be the deathless past

billowing rather furiously

behind your closed curtains,

trapping you in my perpetual gale

as you have done to me.

for i have not dwelt simply

to be another superstitious legend

passed around in whispers,

nor will i stay in insignificant limbo

just to be entirely washed away

by the arrogant tides of

the fear you once called love.

~*~

Your wings might be broken but it’s not too late
You hide your emotions so you can escape
You can’t be afraid to make mistakes
And you can’t fake perfection…

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La Bella Fantasia

“I swear that I can hear you in the wind…”

~*~

little phantasmic phantoms dance about

growing flowers at the garden of my mind

waiting to pluck out each bluebell and daisy

to fashion the wreaths into something kind

the playful zephyr is a fair weather friend

lulling each berceuse to sleep until the end

orbit sending me high into the atmosphere

but i won’t fall, no—i have nothing to fear

listening to the cherry blossoms that hide

in the boroughs where there’s a tinkerbell bride

and the mystical creatures would understand

with every speck of dust, a magic that enchants

.

but the delphi hearts and oracular tongues

speak of stories and brier thorns that selfishly clung

to innocent naivete still stubbornly preserved

though only to the pristine youth that it deserves

the wily eyes staring into the darkness osiris

as the nettles grow wild prevent cogent dreams

they scoured the atlas looking for eternal citadels

the nondescript pangs unaware of incarnate bevels

shrines that i pray to now submerged in irascible sins

incoherent adages leaving bruised indentations within

will the pixies be daunted? will the elves repatriate?

Quietly accepting the moiety of their unfortunate fates?

.

but beneath the black and white of underground paradise

is a fair place for scathing asters and aureole mirth alike

beyond the curlicues of charcoal smoke that paint the stars

a gossamer love decays, recording a dictaphone of past wars

in an imbroglio of lotuses, past the wafting scent of sandalwood

on the horizon, a transit of venus, a crescent smiling platitude

thoughts as crystal clear as seaglass, reflect candid illusions

show a bouquet from the spectres, a plethora of guiling ruminations

amid the taste of camphor and lead, i return to lacklustre reality

wondering and pondering when i’ll get lost again in my crafted fantasy.

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Weekend Hymns

“If you call me at all, don’t tell me that I’m ordinary, ’cause I won’t be passing you, please don’t leave…” serenades the familiar strains of a soothing voice, interlacing delicately with the quaint glassy chords of a softly-strummed guitar, and dissipating behind the skeletal mist of the hazy whorled coffee smoke. Spongy traces of a cold jelly roll melt and shiver in my tongue, leaving traces of a sweet sensation to tease these anticipating taste buds of mine. On my right side lays a Fantastic Beasts colouring book opened on a page of Newt Scamander’s luggage, abandoned coloured pencils scattered everywhere, and a half-finished unwritten postcard with vibrant pastel shades complimenting each other in mild, careful strokes; and on my left side a battered notebook overstuffed with scribbled papers and a slightly-chewed black pen, waiting patiently to bleed words into blank parchment.

Turn off these lights, call my name. Don’t talk, just drive… Another potent vocal joins in with the tranquil music, rhythmic acoustic strains and deep baritone timbre sending quiet shivers pleasantly down my spinal column. The rain has come to a cradlesong refrain, and, time being, has ceased from thrumming a metronomic pitter-patter against the fogged-up windows. I pause, place a cat bookmark on page 12 of John Steinback’s Of Mice and Men, and take another sip of my tepid milky drink and huddle further underneath my delicate blue blanket, starry night socks rubbing against the creaky bed mattress as I do so. After partaking in such a short interlude, I indulge zealously in my awaiting literature once more, losing myself against the mollifying song and letting my imagination run away and be caught between George and Lennie’s frolicsome bickering and humbler conversations.

“Red and blue and green rabbits, Lennie. Millions of ’em.” George concluded drowsily as the chapter came to a finish, synchronously alongside Jonny Craig’s flourished crescendo of And baby, honestly these teeth won’t let you go…”, and I thumbed down on the page and set down the book once again, lost in a silent reverie. This day seems to be nothing but a lucid woolgathering, and in a momentary splinter from reality, I am quite unsure which is a fact, and which is nothing more than a mere dream anymore. It left me slightly confused whether I had actually been chasing musicians through a cornfield full of bedraggled zombies in Southern California, or if my grandmother had actually been confined in the hospital after an unfortunate slip and needs three months of bed rest to recover, or whether any of those were even real, not just derogated fantasies of an inured mind in dire need of a proper rest. Perhaps I’m simply tired. I had, after all, been looking for my exuberant nephews for a good part of the afternoon. But this is a good tired, unlike the draining emptiness of a tired stress that I have been beleaguered with the entire week. And this time around, I’ll sleep not to forget the memories. Rather, I’ll sleep to remember them.

“If you call me at all, oh if you call me at all…” The mellisonant sincerity of his lilting assurances envelopes my weary and aching bones tangibly, as if the xanthous stars had personally touched down from the lavender-blotched sky and given me a synesthetic embrace from the gentle cosmos. The final coda of the song falters and fades against the distant monsoon, washing away every worry, every qualm, every cynical thought and nightmarish daydream of mine, washing me away under the horizon’s encore performance of dying sunshine and inchoate moonbeams alike. I breathe deeply and finally close my eyes, listening to the hymn of the rainy weather and halcyon weekend continue to play around me. I’ll be alright. For now, at least…I’m alright.

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Past Bedtime

So here we are then,

Two night owls refusing to sleep

12 AM beckons now

And yet we’re indulged far in deep

So here we are then,

Imaginations fraught with sorrow

Maybe we’ll regret this

But we can save that for tomorrow.

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pen on placid

the ink

on my fingertips

is the only

thing that’s

keeping me awake

if i chisel

my mind with

words, maybe i’ll

past make

when the rot

in my imagination

is spreading

like a disease

It prevents

me from spoiling

into debilitated bliss

the rusted

gears turning

whilst ejecting

the carbon dioxide

the ink

on my fingertips

is the only

thing that’s keeping

me alive.

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A Refreshing Interlude

I was expecting failure to taste bad.

Like a burst aneurysm occurring at the very back of my throat, a weakened vessel choking and frothing and overflowing out of my disgusted rictus, though I am unable to stop it.

Or a rancid meatloaf comprised of all this sinful world’s filth and vices, shoved haplessly and overcooked in an untempered oven by Coraline’s button eyed, arachnid form mother.

Or maybe a deceased decaying goldfish of a sadistic child, given a couple dips in the yellowing chloride loo for good measure and then swallowed whole for a final swim down the gullet.

Perhaps a pulsating papule, filled with blood, pus, sweat, excrement, scabs, and tears, a viscous abomination, almost self sufficient, raring to be popped by a curious lingering fingernail.

Dare I even say a dead roadkill, preferably a hedgehog or a possum, its uncoiled ropes of smashed viscera scattered all over the 97 intersection, rotting carcass gathered up by a redneck for dinner.

Or even just my Neanderthal of an older brother’s unwashed sports socks, tossed into the overflowing laundry basket after a long day of intense football practice, under the afternoon heat.

At the very least, that. Something vile, putrid, regurgitation-worthy of a disgusting meal, something that keeps me from stuffing it back in my gluttonous yet highly clueless mouth, like salty PlayDoh.

But surprisingly, failure tastes a lot like a chocolate mint. Refreshing to the tongue, with a sweet recoil and a bitter hint of an aftertaste.

Suffice it to say, I may try it again anytime soon.

Cheers.

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Quiet Reeducation (in the dead of the night)

There is a fancied quiet reeducation

Borne by the dying ember flames

In a gaily evening of dull recreations

To which the knocking cloudburst dare pertains

.

A strange set of ponders came visiting that night

Rapping sharp within the chamber door of my mind

And this began the lesson, a slight shift of vision

By the obsidian visitors out on their mission

.

The softest glance at a faded polaroid

A swift knowing glare at the ceiling paint

Is my active mind rushing to simple paranoid

Or am I just dumb enough to be a saint?

.

A plaintive sip at scalding liquid black

To which my unkindly thoughts wish to hack

A finger burns, dipped in the grey shadows

Until in the butter candlelight it mellows

.

An absentminded stare at the leatherbound book

All tan pages and copper lines and senseless hooks

Yet dare that crepuscular midnight filled with stars

Entertain my empty heart of flurry jagged scars

.

Those enchanting lights dance fickle and merry

That moon of mirage winking back like a fairy

And doth faithful silence hold my whispered nevermores

Trance frozen till that slipping book falls upon the floor

.

The whistling train of thought nay stops for rundown stations

Wonderful whimsy intertwining amidst aberrant abominations

Yet, I lean back, sighing, and content my mollified soul with this quiet reeducation

Borne by the dying ember flames, and snuffed out with rest like all my troubling notions.

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Idle Imagination

No light at the end to think

Of this infinite tunnel further

A dribbling pen with dry ink

A piece of paper underwater

.

A cage surrounds my mind

Nowhere to stretch my legs

Metal bars restrain behind

No place for creative to extend

.

A simmered cold cup of coffee

Crumpled papers been tossed

Frustration builds inside thee

Scribbled thoughts been crossed

.

I reciprocate and designate

But puzzle pieces don’t fit the slate

I try to accelerate and elevate

But end up with a brick wall state

.

Bland colours mixing stark greys

Fantasy worlds that actively decay

Black horrors and murky dark days

No stars left now for my soul to say

.

And idle mind hanging, a stalling stale thought

Pondering flowers that will never fully blossom

Quite ironic, that my halted ideas stuck in a rut

Hurts my head more than an active imagination.

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