Poetic

Fast past

Why does past hurt so much.
Random glimpses here and there.
To me, too much to bear.

Future thougths are wont to promise.
But none too soon, even those
Pass me and, in past, repose.

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Poetic

For what

Can you not grasp between these lines
The gross desperation with which I strive
To pen a thing of value.
To all. For all. To win them all

Impetuous really.
My words were first whisky-soaked, and second, submerged in the deep blue.
But at least I inked for you then, who now do I write to.

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Poetic

Colour me true

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

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Poetic

Such conviction

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.

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Poetic

Lord, we served

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.

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Poetic

Infinite Fatality 

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.

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Poetic

Dearth of grace

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.

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