Tag Archives: wings

Fall From Grace

pure disgust is felt

on the frayed ribbons

around your chest

you call your sanctity

.

as if it’s quite derivative

of a decried angel’s cut—

the pierrot’s sole pathway

to your own humanity

.

but it’s just vapour;

smoke and hallucinogens

lies dribbling from the

sludge of your brain,

.

crawling away in a

toxic kind of temporal

streak, an indictment

of classic chloride pain

.

oh, she’s malevolent

such brutality must be

a sanitarium propaganda,

just covered in someone

.

else’s later stages of rapid

cryptic dementia—pardon me,

but you’re still a stagnant

priestess…aren’t you?

.

we have ancient shrines built

over your grave, and waxen

wings, and the fruit that bore

no harm; as if that fake religion

.

is easily digestible—but our

disgust will constrict, just as

yours ties the final knot on the

noose wrapped around your jaw—

.

this is not your vestal sanctuary.

we are not your godless paradise.

autonomy is simply the crowning eden

you shall soon gamble away to lose.

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Into the Depths of Tartarus

Exhaustion burns madly beneath my temple, at your ever-cunning sacrifice

Of an artificial religion, set the final scene and throw dead blackbirds and rice

To appease the ancient gods thundering malicious incantations inside my skull

Kneeling before your hide, my coldest blood at the altar; do not be appalled

I shall pray in our devotion, mute out the shrieks of steel against ivory bone

And carve out your grecian name in monuments, of a wanderer set in stone

To dispel the seas and calm their fury, to capture lost angels within my grasp

Crush their wings as I assemble your own, and let the underworld be my only judge.

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angel fever

angel fever

you’re making

me sick

cigarette stains

playing dirty

cold tricks

.

angel fever

you’re running

me dry

cough syrup

and kisses

a sweet lullaby

.

angel fever

don’t send me

home yet

my wings are

still broken

and that i regret

.

angel fever

won’t you pray

for my soul?

your halo’s not

mine, but won’t you

please let me go?

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Schmetterling

I don’t wanna know where your heart goes
I don’t wanna die out of your throes
I don’t wanna know where the wind blows…

~*~

She was an exquisite butterfly

Her fragile and delicate wings

Shimmering in pastel colours

As it catches against sunshine

And I’m the withered daffodil

That she’s fluttered away from

After sucking all the sweetness

From my once-blooming bones.

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hello, shooting star

send my mind

into deep space nine

to reach for stars

that keep on lying

i’m dumb on dreams

and on unpleasant hopes

my neck is screaming

“hand me the rope”

but i won’t be dragged

by one or two mouths

this is all that i have

my body’s naiant south

and one day i will be

dancing with galaxies

i used to gaze upon

locked in wishful reveries

so send my lost mind

into bright circles of heaven

i don’t need angel wings

i’ll find my own way until then.

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Íkaros

submit labyrinthine will

to the empty defiant gods

and slithering in tongues

sharp riddles and daggers

allowing the burning halos

to mine paradise once lost

and repent away the wings

of arrogance in melting wax.

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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

Dear Divine Angel

In the morning, hear all the birds sing
It never stops, then, with tears in your eyes
You smiled dressed in coppertone tan lines
Oh, oh, I hope you don’t regret me…

~*~

The faint blush of the morning presents itself

In throes of sunlight and distant reverie

Clouds faltering against the cerulean horizons

Blots of floral spectres, a firmament fantasy

Where were your wings hiding in that fated summer?

Cotton feathers beating against the misted dusk

Hazy in dryads and skirls of falling zephyr

Precipitation from your eyelids ascending from rust

My divine angel, are you bedless yet again?

Gravity defying stars, constellation against heaven

Blooming victims of your violent delights

Splashing around scarlet blood within the snow

The shattered pieces of the diamond-writ sky

Burning out the match between my fingertips glow

Living in a digital galaxy that doesn’t exist

Of our never-ending anthems drowning to transmit

Coppertone static, your veil and mercury ring

Pens of neon twinkle moons accentuate your ‘darling’

Let’s pretend the clocks aren’t stricken with asthma

A heart attack to wake me up under comatosed dysthymia

Enigmatic and mysterious in worn-out outlines

Starlings swoop lost over the desert, but perhaps we’ll be fine

Pink pills under my pillow, sugar against bitter chemicals

Cynical affinity, please save me from their withdrawals

Sing me a piercing melody of pastel red and washed-out white

And paint intertwining chalcedony roses on my graphite ceiling tonight

Darling, I’m aware that I shall never be your personal admission

Your darker brushstroke version, your jacaranda circulation

But as midnight appears to coalesce in dawn’s daybreak gloom

Your twilight lips are mine, dear divine angel, don’t fly away too soon.

~*~

And it won’t be long till we drop this match
When I burn to your fingertips, you can throw what’s left
So long, let’s go and play those games you like
Let’s go and play those games you like…

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Filed under Poetry

angel mine

let me fly

and steal your gun

kiss the sky

let’s have some fun

let me fall

against your wings

time is up

so why don’t we sing?

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Filed under Poetry

★ i’ll ☆

♫•*¨*•.¸¸♪

ill.

how everyone

speaks of me

how they think

my mind is.

the silly child

with dreams

in the cloud

and wings on

the ground.

but this halo

of mine shall

shine again

and soon with

the skies i am

their friend.

the fall was

painful but i’m

made of stars

not ashes nor

welted scars.

they call me

absentminded

but i’m a dreamer

and i emerge to

be the winner.

it’s pretty much

how everyone

speaks of me, but

it’s not ill.

it’s not i’ll either.

it’s i will.

♫•*¨*•.¸¸♪

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Filed under Poetry, Southern Constellations