It has been 3 months or more since my last post.
My affair with words seems to have been abruptly cut off. The melody that forms in my ears no longer flows through the channels they used to; a dry spell, temporal or in permanence it is what it is.
I have yet be invigorated by the lights of life; but the the clammy breaths of the darker nights send me towards the washes of death, bleaching my brittle bones white and dry. The cries of agony and those locked in shambles, prisoners of my mind. Yearning and straining against these bars of intangible restraint, they occasionally tumble through.
The wanderers of my mind losing themselves over themselves, the poetry of lies and deceit; crimes paid in full price.
Children, mighty and beloved. Slow corrupting poison embalms them, teleporting them from their childhood innocence to the realities of the universe. Hand in hands, they admire the stars in the galaxies, wondering about gods and their heroes.
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| "Wondering about gods and their heroes" |
The thundering hail and raining spells certain death for some mortal fiends, but caresses these green shoots from their earthy hearths. Squeezing and prodding away with every drop, the dandelions glean the stony porch through cracks, whilst the hard blowing winds shake every last berry from its cradle. A war beyond you and I, hence we wait.
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| "Through the cracks and from its cradles, patiently we wait" |
Reminiscing past lives, reviewing achievements and the sort. Every effort is a success, every success comes failure. It's as if it were a pinnacle, climbing through granite faced crags; thrusting hands and feet into strangers' crevices. Hands outstretched for the taking, all good deeds have been done.
As you were, as you and I were.
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| "Thrusting hands and feet into strangers' crevices" |
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| "The pinnacle of successfully failed achievements" |
Most people picture children adorable, preferably not crying, and largely alive. This isn't the case here. Call it as you may, I'd rather them otherwise.
This system. The system we reside in, it manipulates us just as we think we manipulate the system. The higher you climb, the further you see. The further you see, the closer you are; closer to the edge.
Retaliate.
Look where we are at.
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| "I see mountains" |
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| "On the top of the hill" |
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| "I see dead kids hanging from the tree" |
Mama hands me the keys to the caravan. Inside lies a bed and a suitcase filled with air. This is where you stay.
Today you are a boy, but tomorrow you emerge as a man.
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| "Boy-Man, Man-Boy" |
So I begin to put my mind on paper, drawing a crest with ink made from the sap of a cephalopod. It begun as the ring around the telescope. Extending while it zooms, the rings contract and expand; opening up its aperture, letting in the light.
The lack of light is evident.
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| "Evidently so" |
Good, bad, evil, dead.
Passersbys' with their bystander effects. I can see you, but can you see me too?
A storm is brewing outside beyond the proclaimed safety of these four walls and an overhanging roof. Not just any regular run of the mill storm, but the storm. Beneath the folds of the turbulent winds and whirling roof coverings is the eye, the eye of the storm.
"But papa, it's so windy outside. I want to fly my kite!"
"I. Want. To. Fly. My. Kite."
A storm brewing outside, a tantrum boiling inside.
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| "The all seeing eye" |
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"Hold steadfast child, this is it"
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| "Inside. Outside. You. Me; He, She, it" |
Soldiers return from the war, weathered by their own demons; back into the arms of those who sent them away.
A pilgrim dutifully sacrifices a lamb each morning, marking the shifting hours and days. He draws a pentagram with the fresh blood on his chest and lights five candles. As he bustles away to the other room muttering incantations under his breath, his parallel form awakens.
The dangling lights attract life forms like veela. Mesmerizing and hypnotizing. Like a moth flying too close to the open flame, we burst into flames as well.
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| "Schick, schlack. Schick, schlack. The cleaver calls out to the little lamb" |
The root of all evil.
Root beer,
The cloying medicinal taste lingers.
Intoxication, allergens, powdered tiger claws.
Sleep like a baby, the developed foetus.
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| "Hush hush... Hush hush..." |
As it simmers down towards the end, and all else fails; here's what to do.
Live a life, save a life; give your life.
As Sybill once prophecised, "Neither can live, while the other survives".
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| "Neither can live, while the other survives" |
Erratic Behaviour,
as The Bathroom Poet
