Friday, February 25, 2011

052: Untitled

ring the wake.
Methods to the chaos,
ideation in red,
beneath the ground,
like Mishima's Mustang.
The people.
The noise.
Inhale deeply,
to the end of the earth;
across nails and needles.
gentle violence.
Heart of the world,
the word,
hanging, descending;
let it land.
Heroes of isolation
crowd together,
the last sweeter self.
Never was I
more alive.

Thursday, February 17, 2011

051: Februarie jalnic

The day the sentient beast discerns
the polar desert of its loneliness,
the day volcanoes of revolutions erupt
in the obsidian silence of love,
drugged for an everlasting presence
attainable like the surface of the sun,
lost in treasure maps to the grail of the high
that makes all the lows seem breadcrumbs in a trail
in the obsessional ravines of pale concrete
and seasonal affective crucifixions,
raging, frothing, spitting, pineal bathed in venom,
straining the unlengthy chain.
A day, a trip through empty glacier halls,
where footsteps count the years
along meanders decaying gently like snowfall,
observe - the colors of the rainbow are all black,
divine symphony played on chords of leaflike lives,
trying to break the code of an error syntax.
The day today is every yesterday and every tomorrow,
serpent godfather at the head of the table,
his own tail on a silver platter as main course,
all the while Cronus keeps gnawing on his children,
building a shrine of strength on pearly bones,
a bleak February in the microscope of solar winds,
today is just another day.

Tuesday, February 8, 2011

050: Lines in empty spaces

I see the world whirl by
in the glow of lonely streetlights,
tallying seconds in swarms of smoke,
stretched along plastic firmaments,
until a bright consummate day
will blow wide the windows
of my solitude cocoon.
The breeze hints of her footsteps,
as I revel in the barren distances of crowds;
come visit, image traced in sullen red,
from an electric alcove -
shielding meager ties,
while I remember years of eternities,
countdown to an apocalypse of sleep,
the gray comfort of being a master
of a cold, nothing night,
seconds tallied in swarms of smoke
and the glow of lonely streetlights
in which the world whirls by.