titled to life: Ice of Death
wrecked sounds echos
whitin the vault of my mind
twisting in pieces the remining
fragments of my dying soul
Yet, my splittering spine
won’t bend or listen to
the voices of my ancestor
shaming me for
my choices.
i ask to the dead pulse of my heart
what it is ‘to feel alive’
and he responds:
'it is to be.'
splutterin liter of blood
when the world makes
me bleed
crawling in stagnation
when the people makes
me evil
i can do nothing
but
close my eyes
when the sea of confusion
ravage my mind.
#confusion #death #life #struggle #battle #be
Errant Drivel
I took one long hit from the southpaw, and then passed it along to my left before dissolving into a mildly painful coughing fit, which caused me to laugh hysterically. The room was dark, save for the bright blue christmas lights lining the ceiling which, to everyone's awe, created a sort of supernatural, ethereal atmosphere. The speakers boomed, drowning us in the blasphemous rhymes and rhythms of artists ranging from future to frnkiero and the patience.
"Is that a tattoo on your arm," I ask, knowing it is, in fact, a tattoo. I'd intended to ask what it said, but I was already forgetting both the words I spoke, and the words I'd planned to speak.
"What? Yeah. What?" Everyone laughs. No one knows why.
That was a regular occurrence in my life for many years. It began in my gap year, after high school. It followed me through my handful of semsters in College, where I studied animation, story design, acting, and a slew of other fine arts. It followed me through adulthood, when I couldn't find work and resigned myself to lingering at the bottom rungs of the Food and Bev business forever. It followed me right up until now.
My friend is dying. I glance at her tattoo again, chuckle a little. "Still there, eh? Guess it is a tattoo." A quip I've made for decades now.
"What? Yeah. What?" Not a quip. Her dementia is acting up again. She stares at me, her eyes void of recognition. Tears well up in my eyes, and some impossible pain grips my throat. We both laugh. Neither of us knows why.
Fist of Night
Lost in the dark, tangled in silken threads
skeleton fingers of gnarled oak twist,
leaving empty spaces between lunacy
and distorted visions of obsidian darkness.
Mourning in cobalt skies of midnight hours
forest becomes the enemy of old wounds,
stones knead blisters on quivering feet -
confusion of illusions in dress of doom.
Muted energy splinters along my trail
unraveling nerves in soupy congealed mist,
rough sands of time lingering in deep recesses.
Fist of night pummels in long reach of silence
an eroding numbness fading into nothingness.
hovering moon swirling over river edge illuminates,
following the sunrise into spirit of new beginnings.
One of those days
We're halfway into another one of those days when I'm extremely lightheaded and you stand by to hold me up
When you implode and explode into a million pieces and I make jokes about my own pieces and how it's taken years to pick one of them up and you ask me how i could just stand there holding that piece of me
It's just another one of those afternoons in which you talk so violently about wanting to end your own life that I know you're serious and I wonder if there's anything I can do about it
Because I'm sick in the head, but not like you, I want to die but I don't want to end it, I want to sit through the movie and watch it play out
Well you, you're just too impatient and maybe you should see a doctor for that temperament and how that bipoliarity you talk about is taking over your mind
But after all, I keep promising to see someone but I never go
We gossip together about who we used to like and how funny it is that everyone thinks we're together when it's not really funny and we're just good friends and it makes me uncomfortable when they say that, but you don't seem to mind
Then we look over across the cafeteria at the person I love now and you give me advice about him and about everything, and it always makes me feel better even though I wish you'd take your own advice for once
It's another one of those days where I wonder just how sick you really are and I wonder what I'd do if you acted upon all your desires and ended it
I wonder if you'd even consider me when you did it, who you'd be leaving behind
I know I'd consider you, but I can't get inside your head
You try your best to get inside mine
To help me and hold me up as I'm falling but we're both falling, two dominoes that are doomed to Hell and laugh as they feel the fire licking against their backs and say they're fine
Because it's just another one of those days, and God I can't wait to sink into my bed again and push these thoughts away
wicked
call me
lucifer,
the itch in your mind
telling you it’s fine
to touch me
blame the wine and my
devilish hips,
too drunk to taste
the sin on my lips, i am
disposable sex,
scripture burned on my
chest
blame the skirt and my
stiletto heels,
too drunk to tell you
how it feels, call me
she-devil, siren,
vixen and shrew,
i am
asking for this with my
infernal flesh,
too drunk to say no
as you hike up my dress, you are
instinct’s victim
come sunday,
forgiven
blame the breasts and my
wicked thighs,
throw your sins on the women
who see past your lies, you are
the itch in my mind
telling me it’s fine
to touch me
blame the wine and your
fiendish claws,
too drunk to say no
as you tighten your jaw, call me
baby girl, angel
don’t make a sound,
i am
asking for this with my
devilish hips,
too drunk to taste
the sin on your lips, and you
call me
lucifer.
_________________________________________________________
* The word count is 300 but that's all I have to say, so here's a relative quote to fill the "quota" <:
“Suppose neutral angels were able to talk, Yahweh and Lucifer – God and Satan, to use their popular titles – into settling out of court. What would be the terms of the compromise? Specifically, how would they divide the assets of their early kingdom?
Would God be satisfied the loaves and fishes and itty-bitty thimbles of Communion wine, while Satan to have the red-eye gravy, eighteen-ounce New York Steaks, and buckets of chilled champagne? Would God really accept twice-a-month lovemaking for procreative purposes and give Satan the all night, no-holds-barred, nasty “can’t-get-enough-of-you” hot-as-hell-fucks?
Think about it. Would Satan get New Orleans, Bangkok, and the French Riviera and God get Salt Lake City? Satan get ice hockey, God get horseshoes? God get bingo, Satan get stud poker? Satan get LSD; God, Prozac? God get Neil Simon; Satan, Oscar Wilde?”
― Tom Robbins
Star (Full)
She was reminiscent of a star. Exceedingly bright and exceptionally lovely from the outside. And like a star she was dead inside.
It isn't hopeful, nor a play on word lost to the same cliche of time. She did not look to man as a way of sealing off the cracks in her chest. Instead, she looked to him as the cause.
In every crack she was reminded of him. Him the addict with the silver tongue who pierced her heart so easily. Him the man who fed her sweet nothings while tearing her apart.
He was every evil analogy written in Shakespeare's hand. A devil disguised as an angel hell bent on making her feel small.
And yet she had loved him wholly and with her entirety only to be left torn and tattered with nothing but a dim light left in her soul.
And like all dying stars, she exuded beauty to all who's eyes fell upon her, only to be burnt out entirely inside.
