This is not symbolic

 

This is not symbolic

[Sample of The End by The Doors]

This is not my bread. This is not my blood.

This yogurt is not pro-biotic.

This is not symbolic.

All that's high, is up. All that's down, is low.

Melancholy strokes a slow arpeggio.

Runs a bow across my body and listens for a sound.

Laments in last and wretched testaments, and other things it found.

Mercury in retrograde, I've used up all my lives.

I don't need a penny arcade to tell my luck is out.

All suffered. All endless.

All is tenuous which holds together beyond all science.

Cannot say I know not what I have done.

The results are all to see of what I've become.

All pulp. All writhing.

My mind, A captain's quarters on a Man of War.

All ebony wood. All creaks and groans.

Candle flames casting quivering shadows.

The scent of oxblood leather straps like a red rose.

Ink blot scraps of hidden treasure maps.

Memories rolled into scrolls, books with broken spinal words.

Gun barrel grey skull on writing desk.

Thoughts skulk in the domed recess.

Regrets and missteps slide across the drunken ground.

The crew say this ship is cursed.

"It'll never see land" "The waves come as fever"

"The captain has gone insane"

They don't know. Finding shore line is sometimes worse.

I navigate and set course for another seizure.

All shifting. All needless.

My flesh, soft for talons to sink in of the morbid bird.

Happily pecking at my sweet gloom.

I have plenty it can consume.

All instinct. All hunger.

I'm of nature.

Only sickly hearts flutter. Wolves lay down in packs.

A woodcutter just means they possess an axe.

A sky above is to cry under.

Once a rasping rage at the anxious, industrial grind

I find glorious ennui lit peachy sunshine.

All juice. All fibre.

My two-vices.

When a nun comes numb from faith,

She finds colour with devices to feel her anatomy.

When a necromancer needs to be central to disassociation.

She throws herself into occult occupation.

Incense burning to feel her mortality.

Angel and demon both claim self-sacrifices,

when they're always acting in self-destruction.

My two-selves.

Open-minded and paranoid, I perform seances in coffee houses

In attempts to talk to myselves.

God or monster, it doesn't matter.

When each at the same time is sublime and wrecking ball.

They say artists jump. They say fools fall.

I'd be foolish to say I don't know what I am at all.

All beauty. All agony.

All mine. All requiem.

[Sample of Eight Mile High by The Byrds]

The eaten heart

 

This is... The Eaten Heart

I missed you, so I put a Led Zeppelin record on to be reminded of you
Robert missed you, so he fucked God to be reminded of you.
I wanted to see you, so I climbed the mountain peak, then after,
Climbed clouds on compound fractures, to get a better view.
I had to talk to you, so I built a temple from my body's ruin.
Cracked, broken, chewed by desire.
I'm on fire; for you I'm Rizla paper thin.
An outlier; Alice, here's a wilderness to get lost in.
Devastator in chief, hold me tight, like fresh-cut grief.
Eat my heart. Tear off bites like I'm a sugar donut.
Like the Queen of Jam Tarts, let red jus flow from lips apart.
Eat my heart. Without it, I'll be alright.
Wild beasts in cruel lands feast on hearts by electric light.
Eat my heart. Swallow it whole and don't let blood splash your evening gown.
This world is a hole already swallowing me down.

This picture is a storm

 This is.... This picture is a storm

Light running off jaded surfaces.

Low notes tumbling on and on.

Leather rain drops on skin.

Tendu and sculpted silver lined limbs.

This storm a slow ballet, now whips.

Sensual, morbid clouds catch in shock.

Guts spilling.

Oil sleaze spittle drooling.

Moans distorting in twists and turns.

Talking in tongues. 

Portamento slurring 

Dragging contretemps

Bouncing, drenching spray.

Snarling attack dog at prey.

This storm becomes all consolation.

Porcelain ghosts in the cemetery.

A whorl wind of reminders buffet the stones 

In the eye the sublime of the meaningless.

The beauty of the blankness.

Like smudges on the picture of Dorian Grey,

Colour pops from tones of gloom.

Lines stretch way on to far off doom,

Drawn from flesh and bone,

Breathless curses, soaked.

But this onyx portrait is so very still-life, it is a mirror.

Brush strokes weights like a mourner's overcoat.

Lithe leg and heel steps out the frame.

Candle flames all blown out

This storm is a terror!

I am moth, rabbit, and possum

This is: I am moth, rabbit, and possum

Your love bites are hypodermic.

I am a doll for you to dismember.

Dis-articulate me, without resistance.

String me up tightly.

Make me your vision of beauty.

My love is vulnerability.

And it makes me a frightened rabbit.

Sometimes I am so vulnerable.

I need you to put me out of my misery.

Starve me in a Faraday cage.

I no longer want to transmit or receive.

Wants of others are treasures lost in seas.

I can reach them no more

Than the moth can reach the moon.

And believing you to be the celestial being,

Sometimes I am a moth caught by a flame.

I need you to put me out of my misery.

Out draw me at high noon.

Spill my thoughts into the dust.

Put me on my back.

I will play dead like a possum.

And let my imagination take over.

Sometimes I need no future or want no history.

I need you to put me out of my misery.

Something throwaway for teeny-boppers

 It feels like a while since I wrote a love song for the kids to get into.

This is...

Something throwaway for teeny-boppers

Seance wind knocks in the crow feathered night.

Rain drives with the sound of cracking joint bones.

There's an unlocked graveyard, where what is carried in claws back out.

Over dripped tombs; from upstairs bedrooms; mother will be home soon.

We are cells in the body of a being that is trying to understand its purpose.

Surrounded by shapeless sea: shifting points of compass.

Under bleeding edge moon; only landmarks are our wounds; howling in tune.

Let's share in something throwaway.

A sunrise screaming at seven octillion atoms; death in its present state.

Let's get together to do something throwaway.

Hold each other down and dare to eat the fruitful flesh; defy the sky for aging.

Let's go and be something throwaway.

A spool of imagery blurred from lens flares; part of a circulatory system.

There's a nightclub that exists at the end, named the Four Horsemen.

It sells single cigarettes, private dances for necromancers, green fairies by the hour glass

Inside, names and histories are throwaway.

The Four Horsemen know there's a limit to everything and that is the limit of

The Place we are in and the weather outside is raging.

Let's fuck in a life that's throwaway.

Romantasy

 

This is... Romantasy

Laying on top of sheets, like witch piled sticks.

Limbs placed around ritualistically.

Bound like the oath given by a lover's samurai.

 A place of allegory on which to slay the king.

Where dragons are known to dive,

hunting on the wing.

Needle over vinyl on brushed stereo HiFi.

RPM forty-five: "I'm straight I'm queer I'm bi."

There's no such thing as committing original sin.

It's all been done before.

Over ankles, wrists, elongating spills over the floor,

Winter sun runs shadows like cats.

Mint winter air pinking skin in natural habitats.

Like seasons, love is cyclical.

"Love the sinner not the sin", as if they're not reciprocal.

I love you both.

Sinners sinning.

Don't panic, not everything's satanic.

Like walking with a collar doesn't make you a dog.

Or a religious man.

Operating in a society of binary low-key aggression.

Where the weather is important.

Extreme conformation is aspiration.

Fucking... being a man's man is an occupation.

We suspend our belief system that this is living.

To run fingers over the frame of mass delusion.

That this is a scene to be seen in.

That we have armour that is glistening.

So we tie ourselves in sheets and knot the linen.

To be rid of sports leisure fashion.

From feeling these people are Martian.

From being afraid of nothing.

To lay sticky skin to sticky skin.

You and you and me and me.

Sinners Sinning.

Butterfly Exits The Head

You come like a musical note.

You come like the crackle of lit Cuban leaves.

You come like a stab somehow missing an artery.

You come like from a bygone era.

You come like burning sienna.

I beat like a pen on a love letter.

I beat like barefoot on floorboard timber.

I beat like the next sobbed movement of my heart.

I beat like a detonator counter.

I beat like a flicker of burning sienna.

We will fall to our heart-shaped knees.

We will spill over-flowing froth from coffee cups.

We will show our teeth behind full lips to those we want.

We will see God wet with rain.

We will be buried with burning sienna.

Your eyes like changing skies above me.

Your voice like May flowers in a beastly wilderness.

Your body like a river winding through this religious land.

Your lips like lights of home.

Your hair like burning sienna.

Can I squirm like a contented cat under you?

Can I share that across room eyelash glance with you?

Can I watch you dress and buckle your shoes for you?

Can I do anything for you?

Can I come to your burning sienna?

Your unrequited office love can go suck it: you don't get more unreachable love than for the dead

 This is.... Your unrequited office love can go suck it: you don't get more unreachable love than for the dead

As the servant turned by vampire,

I am turned by you.

I adore it.

As the hypodermic pierces flesh,

I am pierced by you.

I adore it.

Lash me to the yardarm, set sail at the brewing storm

And still I will not be as sick as the sickness from which the poem's born.

As the priest prostrates to any deity

I offer myself wholly prone.

My love: temple to your heart of precious, glinting, stone.

 

The only pure thing is fallibility,

It offers no respite.

I adore it.

History collapses, memories fold, rain is hard.

Everything vacant and cold.

I adore it.

My love is tactile as colour; blessed and cursed

And my love will only matter in this unmeaning, undead universe.

As the comet tears into the black star

I'll rescue you from nightmares

My love: a dream where something in this fucked place cares.

This is a straight down the line, no messing, stone cold love song (AKA: we fuck with pain)

This is....

A straight down the line, no messing, stone cold love song (AKA: we fuck with pain)

You wanted something faster.

I wanted something flashier.

But I don't crash with you.

And you could never stand second hand looks.

We've both known trauma.

We both know to be gentle with another.

We talk about starting up a funeral parlour.

I say we should call it the House of Eternal Rest.

You say it's better to name it House of the Dead.

We agree how we would decorate; 

In keeping with a deadwood town in the Midwest.

And we laugh about hiring a taxidermist.

It's a deflection; neither wants to die first.

I'm not throwing up because of my addiction, I'm throwing up because of what I'm addicted to

 

This is....

I'm not throwing up because of my addiction, I'm throwing up because of what I'm addicted to

Fear don't fail me now.

Fear be a tortured preacher.

Civility be a skeletal creature.

And I will die of complications.

Blind luck or dumb misfortune got me here.

Hanging like cat's cradle on hot tin roof.

Where I pretend like I'm not a product

of necessitations.

And I will die of complications.

 

Barely holding to the filthy midnight

sickly moonlight cobweb sail.

It just won't catch the wind on these oceans.

And I will die of complications.

Because life is about taking positions.

Putting bodies where they need to be.

The symptom not disease

Will cause me

To die of complications.

 

For someone what was will always be.

For someone what is will never be.

It's happening perfectly.

We absorb and spill out transcendence.

We caught each other's eye.

The ground beneath did not split apart,

to my surprise, I'm surprised.

I've been circling you circling myself

Bringing hindsight to a Prior Fight.

Duelling pistols drawn to our backs.

Reincarnation is something I can do without.

I study, appalled, at what once was there,

disgusted at what I now present.

I voice: "What's dead is dead, for all I care!"

But I don't really believe in it,

Nor in astrological confessions.

The stars align:

I will die of complications.

 

Sunlight shines through a petal.

The moonlight chills the bud.

Foxes aren't nocturnal

Instinctively they know the safest light to hunt.

And what is consciousness

If not a signal received from the mothership?

"So, let's get down to business

While we still can raise ourselves to the cause"

But I can't understand their insinuations

The winner doesn't change

Between philosophy and human remains

My death by complications

And what of apparitions

If not broadcasts intercepted from outer space?

Because the best of us are detuned actualisations

Never in quite the right time or place.

Just by being we distort the natural law

Resisting the inevitable,

the human conditions, the societal manipulations

Causing us to die of complications.