ah, to move
with gentle
agility
through the
night...

instead
a clumsy
staggering
racket devoid
of grace

i turn my
head, so the
mucus can
slide to
the other
side of my
skull

and the
ringing in
my ears
swills from
right to
left

this is
something
else, a
shallow
breathing
through the
throbbing
night

an insipid
dance with
exhaustion
breathing in
the shards
of this
shattered
heart

the impermanence
of this notion
that this is
us standing
at the edge
of the tar pits.
our future
now a bubbling
blackness.
the stench of
this darkness,
the coagulation
of it in
our throats
and sinuses,
the attempts at
a simple breath
have now become
our belabored
futility.

the braying of great beasts
trundling through the
opaque mists of their
nefarious sorrows

their legs giving out
their souls cracking
with sounds like
arthritic knuckles

their chests heave
once, twice and
crush beneath the
plodding weight of

their surrendering
hearts

i have
a jealous
green heart
blackened
with smoke
and soot
and cliche
splashing
through
sentimentality
like a
drowning
idiot

the switch blades
quick as lightning
enter at the base
of the skull
where that flesh
is tender, soft.
into where
everything is
white hot.

into the blinding
light i go
dancing with
falling leaves

there is no
comfort in
this repose

there is no
reverence,
no solace

for a
dying
world

out from the haze
of the blotted sun,
our transgressors
anointed in acids,
lay waste to
all our lands
our blood running
cold and thin
in the raining fires
death comes from above

descending in obdurate
hordes, the chill of
the dawning greets us
with hopes of death
and their blades
warm with blood,
their eyes hollow
with greed

seek refuge from the
vile swarms in
those ivory towers
built tall from
the friable bones
of our dead
on these,
the raptures
of our harrowed,
mournful days

witness the conflagrations
of these, the last days
when fire came from
the sky and the ash
looked like the first snow
of our last winter

in the distant baying
the cries of confusion,
chaos, pandemonium

yet you stood still on a hilltop
at peace, serene, easy
aglow in the fires' light
saying farewell to this
and that madness

the days
grind
to dust.

our sorrow
swells
the clouds.

we have
nothing to
ask of you

any longer.

this is now
our deepest
river.

devoid of liquid
but swift
and eager

to drown.

we move,
like all
things,

toward
the end.

in this,
the penumbra
of depression
emblazoned across
falling skies
the soul
liquifies,
and its slow
turn to acidity
corrodes
motivation,
stiffens all
the joints.
the rest
pours through
thin fingers,
intertwined
and seized
feebly grasping
at the void.

from beneath
mountains
they attack,
my mind
like a
burning brick,
incomprehensible,
bewildered,
and dead.

as the pale
light glints
in the dust
risen from
below their
hooves,
their faces
dark and
mangled,
their swords
dipped in
gore,
the viscera
of my brain
steams in
the cool dirt.

the scene,
again
unfolding
across the
shaded hillsides
of our unending
histories,
the fog
glowing red.

and as the
swollen sun
cuts across
the apex of
the tree line,
everything
hushed now,
the call of
our last bird
carries into
the yellowing
morning.

to murder this night
i must glide in
as an assassin
mute, taciturn
as if on a whispered
raven's wing

with a thin guitar string
wrapped around its throat
with a twist of the wire
i feel it cut
into the tender flesh
and the night gasps

the stars wince with
their dead flickering light
the moon turns its face
away, so as not to
bear witness
of my impropriety

the garrote slips into
the meat of my fingers
the blood pools at
our feet and in the glory
of the sun's first rays
my hands glow

like two electrified
rubies, dripping with
the dangling gore
of a butchered night

i get in my way
often with these
hands

i used to make things
now i break
them

crush every little
thing, every little
bone

the black birds
scream and dive
bomb

out of the sunless sky
into the welcoming
earth

they, like me,
finally have had
enough

i wake up from this
nightmare, i wake up
dead

everything drained out
of me, the bloodletting of
hope

i am upon the time
of my mangled
dreams

i gather my crumpled
confidence and realize
nothing

this better be good.
a thought slithers
down the spine
gliding on venom.

and once again.
bitten by that snake
of ambition, the
heart chokes with

disappointment.

i feel as
a peddler
on the street,
a street

peddling his
flimsy and
shabby concoctions
of doom and grime

come and
get it
get it here
now or never

except i lack
the street
and the cart
and even courage

i feel a
traitor to
my soul
my pneuma

but even the
gods had to
show us what
they'd done

a nascency
frivolous
often wicked
and seldom

equitable

he stood there
dreaming of
greener grasses

the potentiation
for a collapse
grew larger,

stronger.

he watched all
that green fade,
rubbed out

it could have
been so much
better and

in supposition,
could have been
worse too.

these judgments
of quality are
of no necessity

they trample out
his grasslands, strip
out the verdure

if he could
stand as
something different,

stronger.

if it could just
be disparate
for him.


with all these ifs
that beauty once
beneath his feet,

all around him dies.

it is cold
and silent
a grey wind
moans through
the loose
window
when it gets
just like
this
i feel the
world has
stopped
and now
it is mine
to fill

all i have
to fill
it with
is yellowed
memories
faded and
melancholy
films
a dull
and sullen
pining
for days
that might
have been
that maybe
were

i can't be
certain

but i hope
this silence
lasts.

fingers,
twisted as
the aimless
souls on
these streets.
frost bitten
with winter's
duty and

this job,

nothing always
changes.

for them
as for me
the days
unwind and
unravel,
disappearing
and to what
end?

in wonderment
of supposed
purpose
the answers
clatter about
in my skull.
inscrutable

insomniac

phantoms.

and all
i covet
is sleep.