Acutely unfurled
To be all but crumpled
All monumental here
Then combustion. You’re a million debris
Courtesy of a million degrees
Of frictional white-hot head
Seeing in and reading red
Cursed contradictor
Rasping against your innerspeaker.
My love is a dying breed
For better or worse
Though probably best
For there are not many like me.
Where once I bloomed
I now pale in solitude
Broody thoughts, no end
Mind is a blood whirlpool, red raw
Ravenous slurping of my existence, a mere shadow now
Colour me in
Colour my sins
A dreadful dark blue
That I can know them to be wicked
Paint black my world
with charcoal
From the weighty lump that burns in my chest
That I can choke on my slander
But paint me happy
When I’m with you
Golden brown like the autumn leaves
Scattering our path
Where we took our first steps to brighter days
Wish I could turn you into a stranger
And know only your good grace
Consider your beauty at arms length
Try and put myself in your place.
The dead know no more than us
Not regret, nor relish, no safer haven
No less, every stranger takes us in
Whilst we play timid, every bit craven.
Learnt the hard way
Just how much I detest a strong character
And the haste with which I completely relinquish any semblance
of me, myself and I
In one’s company,
Say goodbye.
Congruence befalls me
The booming enthrals me
I’m the dutiful whore, see?
Plain, confounded
Can’t be ambivalent to this divinely conviction,
Come strip off what’s left then of my dignity.
This spewing is utterly painful to hear
And I’ve lent the extent of my haemorrhaging ear,
To what do I owe this most jarring displeasure.
That boyish charm he will in all his better days possess,
Meanwhile this weary state permits my mind to now regress.
We longed to sell ourselves short
Flung our good grace down the well
Seldom claimed our daily bread.
Came through like a bat out of hell
To deify you sons of bitches
Satiate your every whim boys.
We’re God’s little odd jobs, never mind
All I have gathered in this life
Is how not to be.
One day I’d like to meet myself
Let her knows whose boss
I’m sure I would not even shake her hand.
You may think that time can wait
For your surly suicide state.
But what is that if not rot,
Festered foul and come to dot
That once 360 degree psyche
Now battered blue and lost at sea.
Now welcome your forebears’ faces
Ghostlike. Blame these sepulchral spaces.
Space is a bottomless well, free fall hope.
Time is the length of a noosed rope.
Routine isn’t most people’s favorite word. Many try to escape it any way they can. But can quality be achieved without the repetition and regularity that characterize routine?
However tedious a routine may be, sometimes it’s often preferable to the stress and disabling tension of not knowing what to do or how to do it. With routine usually comes familiarity, constancy, and security. When you have a routine, it’s easier to have a plan. And when you have a plan, it’s easier to set objectives and track.
Routine is deeply integrated in the human mind. The mind needs structure and familiarity to function well. It sees patterns everywhere, it creates repetitions, it generates habits. Take the master of routine Himself, the Sun. What would happen if the Sun relinquished its routine and showed up on different days at different hours? Would we still exist?
Routine becomes tedious when it’s not…
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Daydreams swirl, dwell viciously on every sick-fuck crude desire
The heart has ever fired, the delirium for which the brain is wired.
Wending thick through fly-ridden cadaver rot to unstir
the vulgar crossbred melting pot. The upper crust, it is their unsavoury lot.
Lot in life and dotage in death.
Beauty found only in bane of late. Duty calls now, in cold blood to maim
the ill-fated motley ingrate, lying in wait.
Our good priests and zealots come crawling out of their rocks from every corner of the earth.
Dragging their whores by the hair, for sacrifice, to bring to bear, a cleansing of this damnable air.
Orphaned, bastard children exhaling this damnable air.
Fire-born witches and thirsty beasts ceased long ago, to grace us nightly with their presence for fear of a kindness done, a retreat won by sycophantic human error.
Marching on fresh births, praying our souls wont get in the way
Orderly queues to have our hearts cut out grow longer day by day.
Fear is crippling
This isn’t living
Do a kindness
Choose life
Or choose death
Don’t be a walking corpse amongst the living
Go with grace, own your demise
And you won’t be a tortured soul amongst the dead
Stuck in purgatory
Bouncing off the same four walls that shut you out of the universe
Restive for all eternity.
