064: Conclusion

Gallery of mummies,

murdered parts of self,

wrote in red, the clouded life,

as exposures drag the head,

the earth drank the blood

that seeped between

the cobblestones.

In our mausoleum,

honey shrouds the corpse,

the hurting words

and the loss

of what was never there.

Absent angel,

present the echo,

in the concrete world,

pitch black solid;

I answer to -

find myself

in blank days,

terror in the night,

hold back

the rose of anger,

nude skin stripped

of denial.

Sun flare whipped,

when they speak,

every word,

the knife described,

parchment the mouth,

throwing stones

to build the cathedral

Cold dark hides,

restoration in the distant,

cupboards of my heart,

the spiders' racket;

you may feel

a little sting.

063: Teethgrinding in Heaven

A miniature coffin laid down,

without a sound

from the stonefaced crowd

steering 'round the cenotaph.

More woman than child

and less child than that

weathered avatar.

Where undirected tides go,

beneath a hungry moon,

from a soil dewed in tears,

flowers bloom of rot

in delightful creation.

Imperfect angel descent

from the stars gazing back,

we come together

and I shudder to think

I'd choke on a mouthful

of your innocence.

Human dirt still tastes sweet,

like the growing pains

of a world suspended

in the instant of our lives.

An alchemical balance frame,

which way do we go from here,

maybe the rising will tell.

Purge.

Repeat.

062: Atlas

Paint your love red on the walls of my abode,

so the thin marrow may outgrow the bone;

I've lived so long in the shadow of the sky,

my wings tucked deep beneath dead skin,

waiting for one that fits my loneliness

to kindle the rush in my innards of rust.

Chained dearly to the mountain on my back,

made in the shape of every writhing thought,

I'm building an exquisite silhouette

for you to match, but I was always there -

self-portrait of pain, ease in distant deserts,

still kicking ego on the frozen slab.

Discard all judgement when the nails go through

and I'll find you shying inside my serpent clothes.

061: Distraction

A sequel, predictable,

rug pulled by things

of so little consequence,

no news, just symptoms.

Ravel ironic, stationed in wait,

on the way to somewhere, a surface truth,

central among distant beauty -

razors the eye, shakes the bowels,

as buzzards land around the neck.

Perhaps I have no right,

just walking on the shore, in line,

but furthest away,

shielded by night.

Uncomfort reaped, a bestowed memento,

cutis contained, to cast a shadow

and give birth to nothing

but words and shades

of deep monochrome,

to a logic dire, beyond Champollion's reach.

Natured/nurtured, readily lost,

thought clouded, to strip naked in the wind,

could the ink used to write the guidelines

be drying still.

060: Death and the Antiquaries

Island within

a scattered archipelago,

low tides still expose you,

winds erode

and waves grind,

while a random snapshot

mimics serenity.

Leaden beams

carrying the wounded,

so fascinating

from afar,

the reduced bodies

of the once mighty,

a fleeting relief,

away from the fall.

The bridge behind your back,

only floods will reveal

its final pulse

and its absence will mirror

the screaming void.

Time is no friend

in the echoing caves

of this freakshow,

so I hoped blindly,

come spring anew,

they would clone me

using DNA from littered

cigarette butts.

059: Trip to the treehouse

Eggshells rise and roll

the crowded dining hall

and fingers freeze pointing away;

on the jungle's rim, a foxhole,

leak through the pipe

and sandbox the mirage,

with a twitch of fear,

between sudden trenches

of the outside.

Freed to the vasts of self,

still quaked back in Cretan mirrors,

intimacy - desert well,

nurtured by the mute fading,

then dive it for a moment

to the berserk sound of life;

and before leaving here,

dust the patchwork

seeking a lifeline

all undividing.

058: Sleep of the ants

Gasp self, formed by matter against absence,

calloused knuckles and radio songs intimate,

forcing the outside world in,

figures deluge beyond the Cartesian.

This here is condemned,

run-down house atop a restless tomb,

wherein the blind tornado sleepwalks,

cradled by the deepest roots,

lonely seeded from Adam's skull.

Step in, needle cushion, collection of comedowns,

polar north spells only nowhere,

the dead, never dead enough to bring out,

when the tremors of raging weakness

keep them awake through the sanguine dawn.

Crutched eyelids howl to fall,

but thoughts, twitching, carry on,

as ego bursts and blasts in anti-Zen,

a display nurtured to extract cheers and tears.

Always lost in stargaze from knee-dug glens of salt,

with nerves exposed to autumn's gnaw;

just let lie motionless.