054: Cave into me

Cave into me from the flowing blackness

behind subway windows, reflective of desire,

when the eye is lashed - dream trap ecstatic,

when I make up new geometries,

you're the golden ratio to my arch of dust.

Will you let me go, let me jump off the chaise,

run away with the driver, frail wings careless,

let me bloom into the egg shell man

I was meant to be, a poison seed

engulfed in turbid amnios.

We'll birdwatch and trainspot the apocalypse,

tired with a passion on Monday mornings,

a sordid mind's springs unwind so weary,

till we grow old and boring

and the universe puts us to sleep.

053: The spill

From barrens to deserts,

partaking clockwork migrations,

bacilli of a tectonic world that crumbles slowly,

back to the frozen sweat of the void.

Black hole heavy logs

intersect at right angles,

where my mind falters and my skin knows not,

rabid titans' tug of war,

the phantom of order scared by destiny's scythe.

Fugitive patterns, dismantled by the wind,

wrote the story of a new dawn

on a cold prison wall,

lavishly eroded by the nails of left hands.

A sole beacon, in the distance,

a man's seductive blind rage,

spilled and scattered

to the heart rhythm of carrion calls.

I hang on dark clouds, disseminated

at the crossroads of free fall trajectories,

scribing a single word

on antique rotting bricks

from the ruin of a golden promise;

I'll espouse dusted bones in my flea bed,

upon a mattress of tentacles,

intertwined fingers - starving grubs,

shaping what used to be a perfect body,

long before the illusion faded.

052: Untitled

Electronics

ring the wake.

Methods to the chaos,

ideation in red,

beneath the ground,

sexual,

like Mishima's Mustang.

The people.

The noise.

Inhale deeply,

to the end of the earth;

crawl

across nails and needles.

Storms,

gentle violence.

Heart of the world,

the word,

hanging, descending;

let it land.

Heroes of isolation

crowd together,

pallbearing

the last sweeter self.

Never was I

more alive.

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.

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.

049: Spring in Luzon

With a contorted mouth agape,

frothing sermons for seconds past

and myriad mistakes

that congregate in whirlpools of shame,

I'd feel the pain of a tiny, endless world

dissipating in a structured void

of silent, hydrogenic granite.

Away, pustulate words

that never healed betrayals,

raked bone chapel, mine,

in a splatter of rearranged

gaunt icons of the holy,

a haunting of perfect ghosts

in self inflicted lacerations.

My friends of misery would stand tall,

proud like lead crosses,

as I'd absorb the nails to atone

for feasts of skin and milk,

to every place solid or dreamed.

I'd picture trading blood for comfort cold

to solve the riddle of war,

for love becomes the word of flame,

of throbbing membrane

in godly, infernal delight;

but the spirit whispers forgiveness,

seeping through the seams

of walls built of question marks.

For fire and water to be wed or gone,

perhaps as life requires pain,

freedom demands a little death.

048: Together

I still see him sometimes

in splinters of volcanic glass,

standing on my right shoulder;

and sometimes I fall back

to visit the empty rooms

where he used to hide and play,

now, animated only

by a desert wind

blowing memories.

Our blood, our tears fading,

melting into the night,

clawing at the walls

of a perfect nothing;

and if my heart was heaven,

I'd build you new flesh,

brighter than pulsing stars,

and if my heart was hell,

you'd rise to steal the sorrow

from humans' brow.

As you were fire,

I will be ice;

and as you were the word,

I'll be the teeth,

as I disowned, so I do miss.

Together in the estrangement

of concrete confines,

and the tenderness

of untamed flowers,

in frailty and power,

we'll remain the same, eternally.