Verdant Green

Through the wrath of the years
And against the vision grown dim
Through the pain of a thousand tears
We are mere seeds for the green
Toil as we may to trample upon
Our memories etched on hallowed grounds
Time but ceaselessly carries on
And erases all that have come and gone
But though our efforts seemingly for naught
And our bodies may have grown old and taut
On canes and cradled bones we will stand again
Amidst the verdant fields of green
Tilled by the hands of our brethren
Watered by the very sweat of their skin
And though the green lies pristine and unmarred
As we have withered against time’s march
We will but straddle upon one blaring day
Where we were told to take the test
On hallowed proving grounds we stood
And our bodies might have failed then
Our minds might have weakened
But our souls stood firm
And when time comes when the green itself asks
For the final penance, the cost of our folly
Our only saving grace then
Would be the long ranks of men eager to prove
For we would be sure
That the verdant green would be watered once more

On the day of departure we stood

On the day of departure we stood
In front of the ocean, the breeze smells heavy
With saltwater and my cheeks felt like leather
Shrinking along with my frame
You couldn’t look at me straight at my eyes
For fear of the abyss that you’ll see
The mad panic of wanting for you to speak
And say, please just stay and so we
Open ourselves up like books to be read
Reading fast the final chapters in anticipation
Of the dreaded tomorrow

Something

There comes a soft gentle breeze
A cool wind that blows in your face
A smell of dew in the air that permeates
The very skin of you and you feel
The onset of rain trying to sneak
Up on your unsuspecting back
Giggling with the intent of shower
Two small black shoes on tippy-toes
I see your hair like a black waving flag
Fluttering in the air
You ride in the bicycle and I felt nothing
As I glide towards the dim sky hoping
That it will rain, with you at my side
Humming a tune I have yet to ask
As your head sways to and fro to a rhythm that I don’t know
I ask, come close, you purse your lips, I go on
An explosion in my chest, slowly inching forward
I smell your skin, I see the little downy hair
On your nape
And we collide

One-Eighty Degrees

So come home,
Where your skinny childhood friend pulls his sleeves to reveal
A lattice of deep blue strands spreading forth
From a single bulging point, an eye of something unreal
Pulsating with a slow jog
In-between forced breathing and coughs he mutters
Never again
With this specific trip, but with a smile, otherwise
We are all good
We’re cool
We’re smooth
We’re gliding on thin air
We’re laughing at floating things at two in the morning
Outside my home wondering how hard we could we laugh before
We woke up my mother and then seeing us so untangled
Unblurred
Whereas I’m hoping she wont see
She remains oblivious to the obvious
Me afraid, slowly expanding into tinted layers of something
Taking up more and more space and more and more weight
There is no color here
Where we are engrossed by the very chase
Of the daydreams of our youth
By our own poor choice of chemical subsitutes
Eating away at your edges
Hoping to soften yourself up, finding the innocent core
All the more confused and broken and discarded
So come home
Where former athlete sprinters lay stagnant on the monobloc chair
Their human form barely able to hold in their waste
Making rude comments to anyone passing, enraged
That he was so unceremoniously spat out
Asking how are you
To which you reply; okay
To which you say; you look great
To which you ask;
looks like you finally chased down what you were running after
You’ve settled
And you hope he takes it with a smile
So see the seething anger in the edges of his lips
We’re good
We’re okay
We are not inverted triangles
Starting off with so many pregnant permutations
Fading off into an obscure point
We choose our ride
And we choose well
We are not consumed
By the unlit, unused walkways
By the laughter and the sadness we paid for later
By the advancement loan
We do not feel regret
We move on
Where the street you grew up in
That left that gnarled mess of your knees when you tripped
While playing something you cannot play anymore
Is under surveillance
To the fullest extent of the law
There is no life nor beauty
There is no grand majesty to this ride
There is no constant kaleidoscopic enlightenment on things unknown
There is no bright fun life after the storm
There is just the surrogate
To whom we impregnate with our pains
Our hopes and dreams and other childish things
Supposedly forgotten but distilled, plucked from our very bodies
Taken into physical form, living on our blood
We grew thin
Emancipated
Smiles stretched across hollow cheeks
Take the distilled, the solid, and relive
You are not the surgeon of your own manufactured hopes and dreams
You are but a paying audience to a trite slightly amusing show
And the price is life
So come home
Where your only responsibility
Are hedonistic present tense wants, never the needs
Never the future, just the now
As sharks hungry for life, shall we then consume ourselves?
Put this on your heavy head, chasing the thin sinewy fume
Burn’t by the traditional rust-tinted candle-flame dancing to the tune
Of your own ragged, forced breathing looking for purchase
In your atrophied lungs, put this on your heavy head
So come home

There is But A Small Chance

Of failure when we first opened the box
When the machinery inside insists on being useless
There is but a chance, but we try
For the melody in the music box is something
We must hear
Eager to know if the little figure built
Of materials as solid as metal
And as flimsy as lace
Will twirl around with proper accompaniment
Of the sweet, tilting, music
We sat eager and afraid
Of the faces we’ll project
When the whole thing fails, but we gather
We gamble and we try
The chance is something small
And the box is something worn
Used and passed around to people
Who don’t appreciate the rusted music
And the thin, bell-like rendition of one of Mozart’s
Compositions
We try and push on
For we both realise that we need to hear
That shining music again, and so we wind it up
With concerted effort on both of us, faces strained
With effort, fingers grasping the little handle
And we place our fingers together on the box
Hoping we’ll like the outcome
Hoping we’ll stand again if it were truly broken
Lying dusted in an antique shop
Along with dolls named hopes
And trucks named dreams
Rusted, the figure will not spin that repetitive dance
That slow senseless dance that means only one thing
That it isn’t about something about aesthetic
That what the box needs are grease to make the mahinery work
And toil to turn around, along it’s axis
The dancer of our fates
So we wait
Along with the anticipation of dismay, but taunt
With the promise of the regeneration of something old
Something forgotten
Edging on broken things with nothing but a miniscule risk
And the ultimate payoff
But so we open it
And hope we are not dismayed

Weak Attempts At Goodbye

Say hello, to the ever-consuming feeling. The blank realization that this is the last time. This is the absolute, gold-plated, cold as the real life truth, last damn time. Don’t go waxing on nostalgic, turn off all sentimental systems, never mind the whole poetic meaning behind, behind whatever thing you choose to infect with said poetic meaning. Take it all in, take everything in. This is the last time, feel the looming inevitability, the dark ominous metaphorical cloud. Nothing comes after. There will be no half-assed effort to try to mellow it down. Shoot this in the head, shot it in the middle of the eyes, kill it before it knows its dead, before it hits the ground. There are no take-backsies, or redo, or even a goddamn fucking undo. Move on and walk away, tell yourself that this is it. Goddamn put a fucking period on it. Nothing comes after. No more lying and even trying to beg. No more long drawn out debates on your defense on your own, personal, lucid actions. You gave birth to thing, this freak, take to the shed to kill it. Your’e way past your damned bedtime, its time to rest. Stop this.

Fail later after the hunger kicks in with an unholy vengeance the magnitude of which is akin to God running rampant with Egypt Ten Plagues type. In your miniature head.

You can’t stop says I.

You will never stop.

This is no psychological cycle that you just have to cut halfway through and just move on like a damned car crash. The metaphorical car crash has happened, you died in it. You never walked through it. You never will.

There will be no scars to look after, we will just take care of the corpse.

Squirm and try to find meaning in whatever cathartic existence you have squeezed out of this. Try to stay alive, try to even look alive for the psychological fishes. Do what you want, it will fail with the finality of the fucking scythe. Try to have a goddamned meaning. People will come, they will come in goddamned waves. They will help, specifically they will try to help. They will fail. They will try again, and they will fail again. This is the true cycle. The cycle of people that will come and help you. They will come and you will drain them of all their damned life, you will drain the very blood out of your faces. They will  turn into poor little shadows of yourself until they get tired, sick, until they can’t take it anymore, until they realize that its not you, it’s them, until they try to fix themselves first, until they are ready to help you. After which the next batch comes along. And you will drain them too.

You will easily run out of friends likewise, you will collect entities. Psychological demons and whatnot. Things needed to be  purged.

When you are done doing this, when you are alone in some decrepit room you have made yourself by making it smell as bad as you like a vapid street dog. When your only belongings are the things the medic found lying near you which isn’t stained by your grotesque humanity. When you have become accustomed to the smell of your own shit. When you wear said smell like a fucking cologne. When the number of clothes you have does not exceed the number of fingers you have, in one fucking hand. When light feels like a thousand burning needles looking at you with disgust, contempt. When even the damned light is fucking disappointed at having to show you to the world. Breathe in.

Help isn’t coming by the way.

Breathe in, and let it all go out, along with your tortured and broken soul. Let the fucker have some long sought-after rest. Let the fucker go. Just plainly die. Shoot it in the middle of the eyes, kill it before it knows its dead, kill it before it hits the floor.

Die.

Then walk under the sun with a smile on your face. Realize you have to kill yourself to live.

A Mere Strand I Pulled Too Tight

Dear Cupid
You cross-eyed, irresponsible bastard
How hard it is to aim an arrow
How heavy is your gilded bow
Who was responsible for choosing you
To carry such in your weak, giddy, fairy arms
Setting poor hearts aflame
Drawn towards cruel inevitable harm
Your aim does hit me true
But for my quarry you miss
The only consolation I have earned
Is but a trifle of words said
How have your godly heart been truly pierced
When the maiden you seek, you alighted
Should your masterpieces then be abject tragedies
An ode to your incompetency
We should have chosen a better marksman
Trained better to find their target
For your folly I have learned
To love is to hurt

There Is Hope in Little Things

There is hope in little things
Sprouting up when diligently watered
Buried in the warm embrace of thick soil
Talons extending deep for nourishment
There is hope of for frail things
Of the discarded, and unneeded
Shall I then bury the mass here
Of the unloved, and unwanted
Will then its talons stretch forth
To find the nourishment dashed
When we cut the living cord
When watered will it grow
And sprout a million others like it
Fruits indistinguishable from the rest
Or just one unique story
Whom is just searching for another
Warm, sunken cave
Another pregnant earth
In seeds with pliable bones
In cries never heard
In the soft plop of the red waste
Plant then those little things
And watch your sadness grow
Watch the despair bear fruit
Watch the haunting ripen
And eat the deceased flavor
Of the wanting seed

Here

Here
Stand here in the precipice
Bent, bowed, your knees shaking uncontrollably
Breath forced out, coerced out of your body
Here
The pressure of your bladder is wailing
The gaze of something terrible lies ahead waiting
Look meekly and be afraid
Here
A leaf amidst a torrential storm
A meat being fed to a chained dog
Be an offering for fear
Here
Take a step forward
Be horrified
Be brave