Tag Archives: pulse

D i s g u i s e d · A s · M e

Set free all of the limitations, and suppress the discreet dalliance

Conceal the killer that resides in wait behind this dead end home

Photographs and signatures won’t atone for such plastic romance

And with every beat of your thundering pulse is a right in its own

Enamoured as you stepped on the glass they kindly laid out for you

Heaven may be a whole mess, but hell is still open for you to accrue

With the only retreat in a barren wasteland that paralyses each whim

So drop the honour and storm the weather, it’s right there in your skin.

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Chase Atlantic

For you, I chased down atlantic until it was drained and empty, consuming every last drop, and still, you were thirsty.

Xans, Oxy, gram, adderall, molly, vicodin, ketamine, codeine, amphetamine, heroin, every medication legal and illegal you selfishly overdosed on like it’s the sweetest candy, drugs and money fucking everything up, riding the waves, breathing in the ozone layer and craving the vaporous atmosphere, until all you could hear are birds singing at midnight and all your blank glazed eyes could see where pink shadows coalescing in the basement and the sound of your own synesthetic undersea voice, sewn up into crude stitches before it shatters soundlessly against the restless pastel ghosts; and you find out you were uncomfortably lying on your back in the bedroom floor all along, staring at the unlit ceiling dripping what you thought were your own tears but turned out to be rainwater, dial tone screeching your garbled songs, trying to call nobody at half past four in the morning, worn-down carpet igniting the smoke alarms with your interminable vices. I could only wish to hell that I was there to put it out.

There was a certain elegant delicacy in your tactlessly constructed words, soft beatnik aspersion and aggressive indie slurs romancing and entrancing my chilled spine, humming saxophone amid the alluring amalgamation of incoherent voices intertwining together into a strange, tangible, panicking tranquil. It was an art form in itself, inimitable, one of a kind, scattered accentuation your personal intricate signature. Every careless lilt about the dangerous pseudonymous girls you slept with last night, Angie, Cassie, Roxy, and the pill-popping pharmacists you’ll hold up with a gun as soon as the sun hits tomorrow. All these unsettling courtesies set in three parts of pastel grey and explicit roses, the dalliance and the nostalgia of everything, you were speaking in a foreign language only the truly sick in the head could properly understand, and the way you talked about all the mental pressure and self-esteem and choking anxiety so goddamn beguilingly, the way you talked about addiction as if you weren’t an addiction in itself, the way you just fucking aren’t, it got me overdosing on the panoply panache and sovereign shit on your bedside, but I was so into it.

How many times have you made my pulse beat when it was no longer mine? Every single afternoon, I wake up with a stabbing jolt like a guillotine’s rope pulled tight against my throat, gasping and desiring desperately for more, more of your prevarications. It was a talk show tactic, and you were the host telling me to talk slow and tell no lies, and I was your prize trophy, spilling my secrets and picking my battles cautiously, even though I knew that you were probably lying to me all along. The world was on your shoulders, angels hissing temptations under your skin, and we danced to the beat of your laughter and talked endless miles of film spiels about friends and no friends, gravity and good vibes, church walls and dancing in the dark with the devil, indiscretions and junkie stories high on adrenaline and dopamine, driving too fast and run over by the cops and swimming and thrashing in paradise until we’re so much higher than before, and everything was rhapsodic…until you hit the trigger and got me begging on my bleeding knees again. I’m scratching my nails, shivering madly, abusing my liver, and tearing the veins off my dead-ass heart as you killed my sanity, and baby I was only 23.

I’m obsessive. You said hold your breath, you’ll save me from the fading injections and we’ll run away right here to the underside of the world, and I won’t need to miss you and your anchor tattoo. And fuck it, but I believed all your twisted promises so fervently. I didn’t expect to fall instantaneous victim for such a scrupulous stratagem, this alternative relativity of drugs and parties not my accustomed niche, fucking up this whole thing. I was married to the screaming voices that serenade me everyday and haunt me every night, and I was theirs to render completely deaf into freedom; until you came out of nowhere and divorced me from the nightmares, and you incarcerated me—you made me even worse. You’re a psychopathic fringe wearing a smile on your face and holding a knife in your hand, you’re becoming a work of art. You don’t look too sane when you act like that, and babe, you won’t live too long with a mind like that. I was always fastidious about the taste of serotonin that I place against my lips, but even though it’s fire I’m kissing now, I’ve already been burnt, I fucking have. And I love counting the cigarette stains in my fragile marred skin, sepia-shaded nicotine tattooed permanently between my fingertips, branding me with your whispered name. My parents say I’m crazy, but I only wanna be buried six feet under your bed, ready to meddle about and smoke the cancerous stars away with you anytime. They say be rational about these things, but I stopped being reasonable the moment I listened to your drugstore symphonies and drowned in your cheap perfume. This chemical destruction is beautiful. I’ll keep it up, and I’ll keep riding the waves, crashing into you once more. And why stop at all? Okay is all I know right now. Mama I’m sorry, but reality’s boring.

For you, I’ll chase down atlantic until I’m drained and empty, consuming every last drop, and still, I’ll be thirsty for your eyes.

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Places In My Veins

I’ll lower your body down into an open grave 
And let the vultures have their way with you
We’ll take you by surprise and spill your blood like wine
Scarlet stains upon the flesh will end the night…

~*~

There’s a place for my pulse

Somewhere within my wrists

But no matter how hard I try

I can’t figure out where it is

.

I’ll rest my head in a sea of nightmares

And drown looking for a sweeter dream

I’ll marry a liar just to find out the truth

High on the promise, low on self-esteem

.

And the haze is piercing my blacktop heart

Latent vortex swirling in a negative universe

Rotting with the blindness that I call my eyes

Hides the blood of another paralysing curse

.

There’s a place for the vaguer beat of my soul

Somewhere under my skin, between my wrists

But no matter how many deep incisions I make

I simply can’t seem to find it; does it even exist?

~*~

Everything you say rings hollow
But you will tell your stories again and again
Sell your half-truths with a smile
Take and inject it, inject it!

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metal & skin (xxxv.)

yeah, maybe

i will stop

when the

blades hits

my pulse.

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fever dreams

i hope that there

are times when

the silent hitch

does not break

to vernal death

.

where ultimatums

and eidetic dreams

are not distractions

from your idle ides’

varicoloured aching

.

let the fragrance of

cherry blossoms lull

us into oblique sleep

falling into aesthetic

advents of febricula

.

as i lose to twilight

fend off paltry beats

of my delicate pulse

and lay me down in

melancholy pastures.

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Café & Concerto

I need you like the flower needs the rain
You know I need you, guess I’ll start it all again
You know I need you like the winter needs the spring
You know I need you, I need you…

~*~

overwhelming—

the crashing tidal waves

of concerto and palatable

patisserie tastes alike

strummed electric strings

intertwining with bitter

yet dainty chocolate rumble

rough vocals like rough sketches

of rembrandt’s lost art

interlacing and intertwining

in rosaceous thorns like earrings

around my wilting lungs

and caramel macchiato sips

dripping on cherry ink.

beatbox, wind chime, cymbal

symphonies and deep bass

thrumming withing the pulse

of my heart’s sanctity

like the tick of woodblocks

guitars twanging, reverberating

in ceramic sugar jars and

lilliputian silver spoons

placed aesthetically in tables

of a checkered cloth blue

siting under ruby rotund lamps

and incandescent fairy lights

the spill of fountains and tree roots

mellowing down tired eyes that

even the most glaring of

tiny glowing screens cannot

disrupt nor ever distract—

as their helter-skelter classics

bring me back to the past

among decades and centuries

of the good olden days

sixties, seventies, eighties

losing to rustic country music

losing track of time

losing sense to the rhythms

losing languorous repasts

losing myself and finding out…

until my drink is lukewarm.

and the sanctuary of the audience

humming, clapping, cheering

in pleasant pleasantries

sweet teeth stuck in a smile

effete tastes and composition turns

crashing and colliding,

disorienting and dizzying,

blinking and blocking;

until the beat of my halcyon heart

is chiseled to the atmosphere

of that whimsical place

and i feel like i completely belong…

overwhelmed.

~*~

And every day, I’d laugh the hours away
Just knowing you were thinking of me
And then it came that I was put to blame
For every story told about me, about me…

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Thirteen Minutes Of Scattered Reflection

1.

Insipid thoughts

None of them so much

As to be considered

Noteworthy—

I’m going to write

It down anyway.

2.

Dawn falling in fragments

Chasing the nightmares

Back into my drowsy head.

3.

Classic novellas that

End with a kiss

Rather silly, when

The whole point

Of the story

Is missed.

4.

Am I still your delight?

The pinnacle that throws

Blossoms under your sheets

And makes you smile with

Atrocious gesticulations?

Am I still your late nights,

Or has insomnia coquetted you?

5.

The silver snow stirred

In an autumn pantomime

My patio steps are slippery

A blackbird hums distant.

6.

I promised I shan’t admit such a thing, but…

The songs they sing feel like home.

8.

The irretrievable memories

Of you laughing drunkenly

Under sodium streetlights

As I kept the secret of time

Away so we wouldn’t have

To depart so suddenly now.

9.

Realm infected shadows slip under cedar oak limb

And they painted solemn lips a disorienting black

Vagabond lilies predicating the spirits of escapism

And again the sober hostages soused away the rest

With thrushes, silhouettes and asphodel disembark.

10.

The magnet polaroids

Stuck to the refrigerator door

Showing a false smile under layers of

Clown-vicious makeup

In a bad party for the ageless

…How disgusting.

11.

The pedestrians of Ridgemont High

Are caught in fast times

And the brake halt threw their heads

Out of the car window.

12.

My pulse is dancing in colourful circles

Won’t you try to catch its flightless beat?

13.

Calla-lilies serenade the moon

Icicles piercing icteric sunshine

Stars made for butterfly cocoon

Frog grass stepping, undefined

A diary written in brushstrokes

Of one artless individual’s chest

My ink is bleeding out and soak

I’ll tear out the pages of the rest.

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Pull The Plug

Am I better off dead, is it all in my head?
There’s a snake in my mind, spitting venom and lies
It runs through my veins, paralyzed by the pain
I’m at the end of my rope, as it’s placed around my throat…

~*~

Maybe this time I’ll wear these scars over my shirt

And tell everyone what it means to be hurt

Drag my broken legs around to chase their lost sun

And bite down on my own tactless tongue

Maybe this time I will stop swearing in wasted sins

The serpent in my neck, behead the prince

Drown past crosses, and tiptoe around rosary beads

A faith to tie over my wrists is what I need

Maybe this time I shall cease searching for my aorta

And don’t believe in entropy, even for an iota

Demolish this satirical pulse, retire the beat and kill

Maybe, just maybe, this time…I wouldn’t heal.

~*~

Wake me up, I’m seconds from the end
I’m dying to feel, I’ve been dying to live
Will somebody give me a sign, so I know I’m alive?
It’s time to wake me up, or pull the plug
Pull the plug! Somebody wake me up!

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Faces in the Mirror

“No, I’m barely hanging on…
By the time you’re hearing this
I’ll already be gone.”

~*~

Vacancies in visible endeavours

Spectres gaze back, alluding the mirror

Enchanting curlicues and plumes of smoke

Remorseless, bitter tryptophan in spokes

Unresponsive heart silencing my pulse

Cascading lavender, faux fragile ghost

Persistent aches colluding in my chest

Paralysing asphalt refusing rest

Exquisite grievous, scant aphorism

Whilst speculations worship sadism

Coalescing exaltations infest

Imitating a clockwork heaven’s best

Your faded temper embraced me goodbye

You’re the divine phantom piercing my lies.

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Filed under Fixed Poetry, Poetry

Picnics in Cemetery Weather

And your beautiful boy won’t wait for you
Because he’s busy with the stars and the fame
And I don’t know why I breathe
It’s taking too long for me
Can we speed up the process please?
But show me the one I need…

~*~

Vindicated reveries I swallowed down again

Intervals of distorted depictions that harshly glow

Condescending sensations bruise my heart

Tantialising and reminiscent, yet arrogantly so

Obsequious whims that won’t let me speak

Releasing profanities in a dead language, I seek

Valiance and candour, your voice is but a faint pulse

In which I can never fathom how to exist without

Neurotic spills of pain preventing this blood overflow

Colliding your star-laced firmament with my tenebrific doubt

Emollience of your elegance, almost a kaleidoscopic song

Neverminds I attempted to hazard into a remorseful clandestinity

Truculent tantrums terrifying, as cemetery weather rages on

Forever’s not a problem for you, so I’ll wait for you and listen to eternity.

~*~

I need somebody (somebody)
Somebody crazy enough to tell me
“I will love you ’til we..”
I will love you ’til we are buried
Our bodies (our bodies)
Our bodies buried close together
Cemetery weather…

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