The books to be read piled in the corner
not too many, just enough
the smell of the imaginings yearned, wafting into the air
a room lived in
yellowing, like the pages
lives and worlds intermingled
becoming part of each other’s history
a feeling in our guts
that life just has something missing
that can only be found in books
In anothers eyes
Another’s eyes can consume you
Always, forever
your face emboldened behind them
and they can draw traces around you
drawing you into caricatures
telling themselves that’s what you really were
Malaise
A sense of malaise had set itself into the stone of the building
The clouds pregnant with promise of storms
Everyone inside held their breaths
Waiting for the first pin to drop
But it doesn’t come
Instead it builds up
A dreadful space filled with cigarette butts
The air acrid with sweat
And we persist
In spite of them
Our shadows a crowd
Crawling out from the walls
We think aloud
And the ears that pry litter the halls
And in our breath, the air is rigid and stagnant
Our lungs sensing only absence
Is there a more appropiate time to reblog this?
The UK once again point their fingers at a minority group and pulls the rug from under them. A distraction from the real freaks, the powers that be, and they have so many people hooked, line and sinker.
A mundane moment with secretive silences between teeth
The world holds on around us
While we fall apart
still, we falter in this dance
not allowing one another to ever change their stance
we shrug, palms up and say, ‘Fuck knows, eh?’
and we smile knowing smiles
a joke that needn’t be said
the birds sing
as if the world wasn’t broken
as if we didn’t yearn for slings
to support us with our aches
and we listen and we say, ‘That’s a blackbird, advertising for mates’
then we smile sheepishly
Secrets between our teeth
‘If you were a bird, which one would you be?’ You ask
And I reply, ‘a bittern so I can hide away in the rustling of the reeds and boom and bust with secretive laments, where no one really knows where I am or what I meant’
But, no, I don’t really say that, I shrug and say, ‘I don’t know.’
because this is part of the game
always holding back the little parts of ourselves
when we’re not sure what should be shown
A mundane moment of shared indifferences imagined
Look at us
pretending we don’t care
with a shrug
inside I’m thinking
I want to fall to my knees
and dig, and dig, and dig
rub the dirt on my face
then just lay there, like it’s my grave
playing dead
But I just smile instead
take another gulp of chilled beer
and point out a bird perched on a branch near
we both share the moment
but behind our eyes, we’re so very different
perceiving what we can
but missing something, each
alone in each other’s hands.
Mr yellow sun
Fuck your horizon
this teacled air I breathe and eat
The sun only makes it heavier
I hate that ball of fire
there he is
Mr yellow sun
fucking shining
while I watch you dying!
I know it’s a self centred thought
to think the universe should tremble
for you and my breaking heart
but fuck, I cannot fathom
the worlds indifference
and how that fucking sun
shines on him
all while the light goes out of him
It feels as though you, you Mr yellow fucking sun
stole it
with your fucking heat bearing down on us
I hate your promise of such light
after winters afflictions!
But he falls now!
He falls now! While you rise!
And it all goes back to that feeling
where I want to shoot you
you fucking cunt
I hate you, Mr yellow sun
I hate you, Mr yellow cunt!
Melancholia
The machines outside whirred and buzzed like flies, and I noticed how with every spoonful of soup some dripped back into the bowl.
The air was fetid with melancholia as the wind drew dancing shadows with the branches of trees.
The machines outside carried on with their hums.
‘Life is just a liminal space between death.’ A voice in my head said. And I nodded.
It was a mundane Thursday, and the dust was making me sick, along with the melancholy which burdened the air with its treacle.
‘The world eats us all in the end.’ The friend in my head said.
The nausea rose from my guts, and my head started to ache.
And I ate the treacled air till I was empty inside.
The floor under my feet was no longer solid. I needed the talons of a predator to grasp the moment, but vertigo had me in its clutches.
It should have been a Sunday; it felt like a Sunday
This melancholic disease is the defining symptom of a Sunday.
But alas, it was Thursday.
and melancholy on a Thursday goes deeper
I sat and ate that treacled air until I was empty
and was just liminal space.
Clown Show
I’m one carnival ride
from breaching through the circus
rage broiling beneath the surface
It’s all been said before
semantic satiation
got me dead
and I’m done with these thoughts inside my head
taking me away from all I’ve ever believed and said
I want to burn the world to the fucking ground
I’m done being the jester to you fucking clowns
the zeitgeist is under my skin
amorphous clowns snaking their way in
intercepting algorithmic spin
hate is the new order
empathy the sin
all these serpents folded within
the scales never fall far from their eyes
before they’re drinking the venom in
praising false idols
standing at their podiums
spewing prejudice
animus animating contempt
that got their teeth grinding in their heads
and all our skulls smiling behind the dread
all while they paint the world in red
whose blood will run then? It’s not them
they’re war lust scroungers, not men.
To The Drum Of Slain Beasts
the blush of autumn since passed
the world lay naked
since life found its place in death
seeded with that which will spring
redressing all the ruin
when the earth puts on her blooms
and swathes us all in her scent
while we make smoke of the summer
as if burning incense
to the Gods of hell
and what comes rushing
but the blood of slain beasts
as our hearts beat to the drum
of this machine
we’re surely cradled in
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