Thy Will Won’t Be Done.

My wrinkled face
is beginning to waste,
limp body, still hung,
on a squeaky clothesline,
that is tightly confined,
beneath a given thumb,
any part attached to me,
repeatedly gone numb,
neurons firing incorrectly,
missed the target,
subsequently,
my brain feels like,
a bowl of old pond-scum,
the day and night,
continue to come,
Hell or high water,
thy will won’t be done.

Under Each Eye.

In a trial before the stars, I stand,
the flesh and bone of all that I am,
an avatar of the eternally damned,
the burglar of all that could’ve been;

Stains of saline have eroded each cheek,
like a child to whom crying comes naturally,
my sadness infuses any vowel I speak,
tattooed under each eye permanently;

Not one of the ancient stars in the sky,
can shine brightness again on my place,
none of them seem to recognize,
beyond the shadow of my face;

Not a single beast roaming the landscape,
can bear me a sense of honest security,
no salesman on Earth has a handshake,
that can strike renewed faith into me.

Sinking Me.

Have you ever felt its slice? …
Never seen the flash of light? …
Weren’t you there –?
a winding road up –
to absolutely nowhere…
indulge me with your disguise;
who is to say
stupid or wise? –
I’d made up my weary mind,
treading circles in square boxes
has been suiting you just fine;
I got up off my knees,
walked away
no goodbye –
I haven’t the energy, or time;
My darling, it’s gotten old,
tired and spent
like a tooth filled with gold;
soft enough to give with force,
and allow its form to shape new mold,
but too hardened at the edges,
scarred deeply
by tragedy –
carved in her skin in big bold;
the slice that you refuse to see,
the load you aren’t willing to pull
in turn with me,
You’re sinking me.

Ditch the Flock.

Let’s be like herded sheep, shall we?

and stand in line for centuries,

like in mind to the dullest ancestries,

let’s evolve without changing anything…

now, we all line up without questioning,

spend money on shit that has no meaning,

nothing to show have we “sentient beings”,

besides the bombs we can blow atomically…

we watch the World News from home on TV,

bump our gums about what we’d do differently,

but at the end of the day, that logic is shifty,

coming from a cesspool of such inactivity…

Let’s line up overnight to see a premièring movie,

then trample each other with the doors’ opening,

we each do what we like without ever considering,

how the rest of the sheep want other sheep things…

and sadly things will only become more trifling,

because sheep are too stupid to know anything,

unable to think on one’s stand-alone feet,

we are all doomed ‘til we stop acting like sheep.

 

 

 

Solo.

What is it that I am always doing so wrong?

Examples aplenty on a list far too long,

the Gods were at odds on the day I was born,

there’s no rhythm at all to such a raw theme song;

Who it is that I am always trying so hard to be?

Far too many deficits to cover up cosmetically,

existence has become a painful part of reality,

while persistence has cursed and forsaken me;

Where was I expecting to eventually find myself?

Lost inside of a pressurized ideal of someone else,

a multi-faceted turnstile to open the gates of Hell,

a revolving mirrored door that doesn’t work too well;

What is it that I am always trying to prove?

A stranger to the things that the normal people do,

anger and resentment, with deep abandonment issues,

keenly aware of the fact that I epitomize The Recluse.

Sordid Queen.

All along, you’ve been,

the perfected example of,

a fair-weather friend,

a swiping white glove,

every time and again,

deprived me of your Love,

you’d reel me right in,

then forget who I was,

mistress of my chagrin,

destroyer of my trust;

Somehow, over the years,

I’ve carved a space for you,

you’ve become fully endeared,

by the darkness you bore me into,

captured in buckets of tears,

the pains I associate with you,

you’d flicker and disappear,

I just wanted you to approve,

dagger-fanged in my nightmares,

destroyer of my youth.

Bled.

I will kneel at the feet of the man or the beast,
depending on which one has his teeth sunk into me…
and when the lips peel back upwards,
to bear the double edged,
dripping red, set of razor teeth…
only then, can be determined,
which one I’m currently worshiping.
I can blend myself in with the white or red skin,
belonging to either clan through a split blood relation…
and when the day has ended,
to become the grey-scaled,
chain-mailed, cell of my own prison…
the only way that I’m able to stay,
shine light on what’s mine once again.
I can keep up still, alongside the fin or the gill,
towing my heaviest anchor and its affected blood-trail…
and when the buoy’s been rounded,
to become blinded once again,
the line of vision, breaths get exhaled…
the single-handed curse:
my belovedly bled best friend.