Tag Archives: moth

Callosamia Promethea

Has the moth in your flame

Finally begun to complain?

Weathered nerves, testimonies

Burns—felony—in third degree

.

When the pressure caved your ribs

And catgut spun from the ceiling

Drenched with red but never bleeds

Gums clenched from dissenting

.

But when the moth in your flame

Brings the fire back into your skin

Their sanctity becomes your agony

Pain—murder—in second degree

.

But ashes shall beget winter ashes

As dust conceals carrion under pasts

Maybe you deserved all their abuse

And maybe the flies deserve to watch.

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Filed under Poetry

why are you like that

i say that it’s

unreasonable

and yet i keep

seeing reasons

to be foolishly

drawn to this

chaos—a moth

recklessly flitting

against the sun

your ardent rays

have burned a

hole through my

common sense

and i can’t patch

it up with all this

tedious poetry, nor

careless ire, nor

all of the nihilistic

promises i lie to

of patiently waiting

of finding something

all before dying out

and falling off to nothing

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Jealous Butterflies and Ochre Moth Wings

We’re just two jealous souls breaking envy against the tidal waves, bleeding out elaborate cesspools fervently, and leaving soundless mouths agape for the stained porcelain butterflies to enter, hoping that the fragile incipient creatures would exit our perfidious throats undaunted and provide our dilapidated larynx with an ameliorated song to sing. Yet we only manage to choke on their flimsy polychrome wings and cough them out unceremoniously before we suffocate, the meek and hapless butterflies bent in twisted angles, traces of leaden dust leaving residues of faithful solemnity in our tinted lips, tongues whispering the painful words that no sane mentality dares to hear, destroying the only scant chances for our treasonable prayers to receive heaven.

Then, after all the nascent vituperation that ensconces our quiet bones like an impaired skylight, where would we be? Plucking burnt tawny moth wings out of wilted candle wicks in the destitute hopes that they shall acquiesce the same way those quaint looking glass butterflies did, yet never realising that there is no fraudulence nor varied substitute for that abstract tessellation, that modicum of infinity, that metamorphosed dimension that those nebulous lepidopterons accumulate and exhale. Recovery cannot be replaced, and a replacement cannot be recovered. Amid the failing maiden glow and taffy-stretched daydreams, there is only maligned reverie by maimed lightweights, attempting to endow the subtler nuances of this life a vaguer and more coruscant definition.

Against the jade-eyed desires that we fought ever so vigilantly with inured devastation and bargained discrepancies, against the covetous recidivism and the elaborate secondhand lies that come tucked along within it like opening a painted russian nesting doll, against the prehensile avarice ascending above everything and drowning us in its remorseless cyclone, our jealous souls stand resolutely falling apart. There are no more iridescent enamel butterflies to count prismatic wishes on, no more ashen moth wings to cling onto fragments of faith for, no more candid humility and hackneyed selflessness and altruistic implications, only an imminent invidia and bilateral resentment. Reality ensues, and chaos along with it. Where will our lost nightmares dream now?

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Filed under Prose