A Deafening Sorrow

In the dead forests where dreams have taste and silence, the rain falls happily against the warm and wondrous bark at night. And nobody is there to see it, only imagination.

The elation in death of a seemless wading into deeper waters, memories become compact, elusive and mesmerising, enthralling and relentless, overpowering the blind lens of a catalyst examined before our eyes through thoughtless entertainment.

The floods of sweeping sorrow are reminders to a crown of creatures built, evaporate and eviscerate the raptures in departure, human remains burned for the waking, laying in mud like strangers crept up on their inner selves in shadows. And before forgiveness comes.

A nation wilting, torn wood awoken, then destroyed. Bridges are collapsing, roads running home to you, insects laughing at comedy i barely understand, humanity sad as skeptics, clear eyes drilled with tears of skeletons entrapped in soul crushing insanity. Teardrops waving at mugshots, forests of heaven, together under one horizon. And dead forever.

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Killers Under Starlight

Whistle by the rocky way, walk then run by the thistle cracked and seemless into din, murky as it begged and battered, shelves seated into sheds and bodies everywhere for pleasure, play against the rising of temptation, trail between the blank spaces and the sheets of blood stained rancour.

Two girls, bound and gagged, tied to a cross and tortured for centuries, divide their body parts into jigsaw pieces, eventually. Hollow as their cries sound, electricity flowing into his mind like a rush of heat and sanity, rapists shuffle off with the knowing of every minute being their cemetary. They make tombs and left in wasteland by the beaches, bristled and loveless, spread out on rocks and pathways, every ripped out vein, worshipped.

In the park, children play for hours for the warmth and joys and grass creeping into view, no signs of death, no abandoning or lesser heaven leaves this way for days. The sky a wander and a wish, the waking eyelids awoken by the sound of shattered life, invoking and invalidating, reverence on the outside, they are back before sundown for more, the children up and down on highs of a life eternal.

Before the sad escapes, Mister Average Everyman, comes back around. Drill in sharp and safer hands, monuments to fashion, exemplary and wholesome, a man so in demand and so refined. Taught not what to wear but who to kill, the neighbours walk without a trace of dark internal brooding weak damnations. Always bubbling underneath, colossal meandering of a mind sailing to the darkness undermanned. Never a trace of teardrops reaching a home on land, forever seeking the torture tears beneath the palm trees deserted like the families left without a chance.

Amidst the gloom of the dim light Summer fading into Autumn, there returns the pacifying pleasure in a moment, both girls bruised and anguished laughter still controlled, amusing. The butterflies flickering dead weight images seering over the sky at night, the windows fogged up, hard to breathe inside hell, impossible to love so well. The buttercups plain as day, growing outside then wasting as the seasons change. These girls somehow more alive than human flesh that savages the streets, for now between the noose and before the body rots, they whisper all their sins to the dusky stars that time so soon forgot.

We Give Them Refuge

A horde of huddled sadness, gathering at the gates, chains rattling over the crest and to the symphony the tilt flies out, away and breeze blew it but there they stand, unwavering and faithful, feet meddled mess and children crying, oh how desolation comes.

To see an eyelash softly scream, feather slips aside its edge deep in sleep and prayers hopeful, a new day now, a day much colder than yesterday, a week much older than a week last year, it all comes around, our patience will soon run out, to the moon or let us back, we push them out and away from love, over to where the beggars rut.

These families have fortunes lost amongst the throng of dying souls, exercising demons, demanding, high on hope, exhilaration want not willing, bleed into the background, vacancies at all time highs, no place for prisoners, no regret for a child’s eyes weeping into a glass bottle, empty but for tears and the small drops of rain washing their skin, the only way of cleansing pain and battle bruises, that hope broken and entombed.

A caste of a thousand handfuls here, a man at the mountain checking them for signs of life, more body degradation, assault of the vanities, deep torture, wept remorseless, breathing hoarse and coarse and sickness ever reaching. Struck by the faint whiff of foreverness, held together by the cloth and fury of their future families. Aside the pouring never stops, the ache and twist and blindness felt in disarray.

We gave them refuge and lost nothing in this defeat. As our demise, seen through the eyes of those who walk with side glances and so much spite, flattered the generous masses coming forward to hold the century out for censure, walk and talk and play and run, backwards do the evil go, back into the basements and down below, to where the lurking reeks of misery and melancholy flow, shadows flirt between reality and the darkening undertow. Where they belong.

The light of new dawns lapping on the skyline with delight, the weight of thrill and conquer and oceans swept apart, bringing into focus the changing landscape mapped out in a future made of fantasy. Culture wars won by thought and educated minds, and beauty brought to life, sucking out the sad fashion from the reeks who bore society to its knees. Away with the last lap of anger, begone the fancy of miserable majesty, wake up the kings and queens of yesterdays nowadays. The irrelevance of nothingness, never again pray on insecurities of vacancy. Today and everyday, the new light lasting is our revolution.

Life Over Love

Life is not in vain. The little things, the moments of epic misadventure and the personal passages of restraint and forfeiture, the rush and wild and hopeful heaven, the days and nights and sometimes morning, swimming as naked and silently as waves lap against the light upon the shore of seventeen.

Life is everything in death. Well lived as often as it whispered in your ear, would oft become the ways in which you beg to differ, beg to be reproached as solemn swines poling fine upon the ledge on which thunder rumbles and rolling hills merge into place, moving manuscripts and off before the smash and grab and out until the dawn broke into dances.

Love in love forever free, the roaming out before brutal and unfashionable demands, penetrate and passionately played, remains and portraits, plagarised unsatisfied, undignified, sheltering and safe, between the sheets and blankets comfort over heavy hearts untangled, intertwined and made up by design, pacified and bled in cultures, there leaves the slow ticking hands of time.

Around the world and in your hands, the love of life and death commands, a lull of false and fancy lakes, a kind of anarchy beneath the roaring strides, before the footsteps taking sand as dust to sweep it into print and hold its aching by its hand, chill over chill, weight of water washing quickly to the edge of all that lands, life over love approaching eagerly to outstretch forever into a universe delirious and warm.

Take Me To Where The Kites Fly

In the cool midwinter, a gleeful glistening look of many faces I have loved in dark and lonely places and all the suddeness of emblems stretching out before the skyline, soon emerge to hang the haunting of my growing years above my head like willows whispering and travels travelling quicker than sight and sound, blessed in its venture and docile in its treasured nature.

To the foothills, when the banks and brooks return over the flat fields by the streams filing out into modern life as merely soiled recourse, the swept away of fashion curling up into the foliage of Autumn’s bare excess, these bringers of repent, the turning tables of fragrancy or scent. A kind of blatant madness, peeping out beneath the eyes of leary lashed victims, their remorse, the torture aching, into a disappearance, go.

Many sane men have crammed along this way, touting and tooting in high pitched appraisal of their own performance or lack thereof. A lustre upon a greying of their minds, a stroke of satisfaction willing itself into almost adulthood, its economy of surprise, on a bed of lavishness, brooding smiles and politeness. The men who walk this way are calm, devoured in the waves that quiver over them like roads of ravishing remark. Born of a blessing, silver tongued and swallowing into a nothingness that deeper consciousness reveals newer nothings.

I join them on a twisting journey and wait out these final days, shivering and skeptical, in a midst of lonlieness and travesty, all of a deeper understanding, playing itself on pianos and in parks and upon the mounds and mountains high up on hills as higher to the clouds the twisting goes. Take me to where the kites fly, take me to where day returns its sharpness to the night, into our arms these men are more than smaller versions of themselves, wallowing and hollering, devout, devoid, strangers bleeding into the background, tragic but unbowed.