Hallucinogenic sister

This is... Hallucinogenic sister

Hallucinogenic sister.

The Beatles got a ticket to ride the helter-skelter.

But it was you who sent me spiraling.

We sat on a mushroom together.

It's where you did all my rewiring.

I never 

knew I wasn't free.

Until you turned the key.

Look what you made me do.

Got me talking in cliche.

Created with a lyrical intensity

To survive in the spite of oceans of pressure.

Gears cranked by great cogs in the bleak whatever.

You were right: diamonds are more than density.

Look what you made me do.

Got me believing 

Got me believing talking people could be dead.

Got me believing they could be alien abducted.

Got me believing I could be wanted.

Got me believing not all madness is insane.

Got me believing not everything comes with pain.

Where have you gone?

I went to watch the wood-chip walls fall.

You were right: there was no physics behind it all.

The knocking was in my head, all along.

Look what you made me do.

Got me talking cosmic mundanity.

Where have you gone?

I went to see Venus on the half-shell.

You were right: it was not the painting, but a novel.

The devil is always in the detail.

Look what you made me do.

Got  me questioning my reality.

You screwed me apart, you screwed me back together.

Transfused neon gas for my bloodstream so I'd be modern-noir.

Showed my heaven is hell: 

Showed a curtain call to an actor in a theatre of war.

Showed in this hotel there is always a caretaker.

Where have you gone?

The fading light is the same.

But the oncoming night is not quite the same.

My typewriter still licks out one letter at a time

But the ink from the ribbon is not quite the same.

Gravity strings hold our places, still somewhat entwined

Just the stars are not quite so aligned.

And that's OK, it's alright, it's fine that you got me sad.

Greville and the Tombstones' tribute to William "Topaz" McGonagall

 

This is...
Greville and the Tombstones' tribute to William "Topaz" McGonagall

Dolly Parton spent one day writing both "I Will Always Love You" and "Jolene"

I spent whole day only writing this:

People living in 1809.

A world without the novel Frankenstein.

Dead before the movie.

Bones, home to moss and creeper vines.

They won't see the good in me.

They won't know how many times I'm bad.

They won't count how many lives I've had.

August 24th, 79 anno domini.

Was the last day, for the residents of Pompeii.

Cast across centuries, their agony.

Caught in crude plaster like a sculptor’s yard.

Like them, you left me charred.

Like them, my pain is visible, but not the tears I’ve cried.

Like them, I didn’t think a Sunday would be the day I died.

9/11....

I didn't know it until I looked at the receipt, but I've been living in a mass extinction event for a while

 

This is... I didn't know it until I looked at the receipt, but I've been living in a mass extinction event for a while

Steal myself against a 

mass extinction event.

Saucer eyes, 

Rung out cold war mornings.

Space rockets pierce the city-scape.

Glinting silver panels shaped into a future.

I wait for a Queen's thawing opinion.

I don't need forgiveness, just release.

Before I get used to this.

The past often repeats on me.

Oh no, I've used up another of my lifes.

I'm dealing with it pretty well, actually.

Reminding myself time is a pristine stream

Running over names like sun blanched seagrasses in the shallow bed.

Carving and wearing out second chances.

Like my meandering filthy tongue in my bird brained head.

I toss a rock in.

In attempt to some permanence.

Shimmering silver splashes up, like spooked bleak fish.

Then swim by as if it's nothing worth happening.

That's how I learnt it's not rocks; it's driftwoods carry on the current.

I found a folded receipt

of a moment spent.

Lying on the bed,

Rung out nightmare sweat.

The moment hit like a rock; receipt floated like driftwood.

Listening to the texture of constant falling acid rain.

I wait for a dream Queen fever to break.

I don't need mercy, just release.

Before I really get used to this.

Satanic panic attack.

I'm at ground zero percent.

Emotion spilling all over the place.

Slithering guts.

Rung out rags of blood.

Dropping grief like stones but the water is too shallow.

Creating reefs instead of sinking deep below.

I wait for a Queen's ship to sail.

I don't need saved, just release

Before I get much too used to this.

I don't need absolution.

I own everything I am.

I was created as perfect as only possible by man.

The reason I broke is because I'm brittle.

It's my poor language, not on you to understand.

It doesn't mean I'm not broken.

It doesn't mean I can't make you understand.

"I'm sorry. Sorry for whatever happened"

Doesn't cover the sadness of realisation.

It feels like a mass extinction.

It feels so lonely to be living in it.

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?