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

People living in 1809.

A world without 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.

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!