Memory

This poem has been forged again. With a different meaning, based on the faint feelings that I saw there. For all the great poets that no one will ever know.

Why does it not come?

 

Umbrellas envelope under melted dreams of cellos and velvet mandalas of eldritch bellowing melodies

 

The amp of my trampled lantern hippocampus

 

The avalanche of dandelions a rambling piano a candelabra’s auburn vibrato

 

The beating drumsticks breaking in the morning, an old chair, or (infinity’s) instrument

 

Why does the strumming of my heartstrings no longer sound like music?

 

Why does it not bleed?

 

The heart of the silent city streets

 

The nightlamp of a smothered middle finger of flame

 

Ghouls that blink tears from the gutters and the eavestrough in the rain

 

The colour bleeds from the faces down the drains

 

In the downward spiral of live-wire civilizations

 

Are the stars cogs in the rusted machine called the sky?

 

Are the clouds a ballerina’s spiralling dialect that we can listen to?

 

Vortex porcelain violins of riddling obsidian Icarus a skyline’s labyrinthine hieroglyphs

 

My renegade everglade mind is hallucinogenic spaghetti

 

I’m pumped like a shotgun wedding

 

Mashing meteors against the anvil of existence

 

Vorpal cornucopia orchard orchestras of phantasmagorical incorporeal quartz

 

Metamorphic rigour mortis discord enforcing metamorphosis the discourse

 

Electroconvulsive altocumulus blooming aluminum translucent congruent crucifixion

 

Of my bible of spinal vinyl lilacs that cry in the ivory silence

 

The spoken fulcrum woken of pandemonium is a scarecrow within my chromosomes

 

The sun beating the terpsichorean earth into submission

 

And the people into the dirt

 

Like a memory

 

Growing saplings sprawling bent Everest in a clairvoyant voyage

 

Dilapidated ecclesiastical tapestries cardiovascular choreographers mapping pachydermia

 

Spurred in the slurring pugilist of a hurricane

 

Murmuring burgundy serene serpentine curtains of a daydream

 

I

 

Am a gnashing castaway plastered splayed arteries and veins to take the first step of the play

 

I

 

Am nirvana’s discombobulated choreography kaleidoscopic in diabolical gobbledegook

 

Came from the bottom of the barrel of the gun just to shoot my mouth off and trigger you

 

Like the shell of a nutcracker decapitated basket cases by an acrid vaccination

 

I

 

Am rambling January brambles burnt candlewicks amaranthine damnation spanning

 

Bandersnatch of evacuated polymerization’s flame

 

Glassy gastric acid trips over my tied shoes

 

Laced with daydreams summersaulting volcanos malt vinegar

 

Diabolical cinnamon electroconvulsive millennia’s

 

Hickeys kissed by the sun

 

Slit wrists twisted tongues

 

Rippling hieroglyphs on the rungs

 

Drying leviathan campfire livewire’s, I strum

 

Breathe the smoke on the water into my gauzy

 

Cobblestone Molotov semiauto lobotomy solitary sodomy’s lungs

 

Unload my emotional baggage

 

Metamorphosis anguish

 

I’m a blank slate no gun

 

Make a neanderthal taking Tylenol with cholera hollering bowel movements incongruous look savage  

 

Abortion struck by an unborn language

 

Born orchestras young

 

Tears run dry

 

Endorphins kept anchored

 

Agony entangled brambles of animal cannibals

 

Nook and cranny samples of the sticky-mix-tapes of chopped salad bowl

 

Sprouted from the weeded-outcasts that craft your tempo’s instrumental

 

I try to buy time, another sentence’s rental

 

Airhead full of clouds, my ventilation

 

Riverbeds through my body

 

Bread from the crumbs

 

Swivelling guillotines chiselled rhythm’s ventriloquist

 

Between perpendicular curriculum the wicker of my fingertips

 

Gouge my eyes out with the thumbs

 

Climbing cliffs while spouting arrhythmic

 

Of hideous biblical gibberish visualizing kaleidoscope maestros vocalized grace notes

 

Of asylumless civilizations vying for rhinestone alliances in the grime of cytoplasm

 

Valves inside the quiet bells

 

Violet hell to hang from clouds

 

Like the devil’s open mouth

 

My main squeeze is the fruit of the womb

 

Birthname for these words that I chew

 

My spiked ichor a crystal-clear glass of wine

 

Juiced up on orange peel back by the skin of my tooth

 

To reveal the meat-grinder of my smile

 

Fed up of my own tongue stuck in the back of my throat like a clenched fist

 

Derailing Salem’s wailing cat’s cradle ukulele

 

Walk on water, jump the gun, fly, like two birds with one skipping stone

 

(Y)our sentence is a bullet-point, just a dot jot, doing (y)our time for a period

 

Patterned fabric of my radio-static attic of megalomanic cataracts

 

Stanzas miasma splatter babbling cannabis avalanche branches of amaranthine majesty

 

Magenta entrails derail the halo of the maelstrom’s painted Galileo

 

Loaded dice in the chamber like Russian roulette

 

Smoke a bone in the skeleton frame by frame

 

Deadbeats in a quartet

 

Threaded dreams metallurgy embedded in the dishevelled memories

 

That don’t fear death

 

Haunted by the terpsichorean debris on the wheezing Elysian breeze

 

In the depths of every bottomless breath

 

At the beck and call the fallen mic’s blessed

 

The sound of madness that comes schism’d from the shadow-man imprisoned

 

Who screams without rest in a silent religion

 

The decomposing composer of holy osteoporosis solely lonely tolling metaphorically

 

The one who wrote me

 

In the ribcage of my chest

 

Gives me a beat for my rhythm

 

Lathered in cataclysms of psychosis’s overture of lazulite poltergeists of bygone horizons

 

Live in my own crepuscular Bethlehem reckoning escapades

 

Pay the rent in the shell of a body long spent

 

Had nowhere to go

 

So inward I went

 

Had no one to listen

 

So in silence,

 

I said

 

Distorted accordions’ contortionist’s inglorious portraits orifice

 

 Hydrochloric Expurgatorius aurora borealis rambling candlewick gander of salamander’s ritardando

 

The disembowelling halogens apology called hallelujah

 

Waterboarding corneas immortalized vorpal primordialism in an orgy of tornadoes

 

Creation fornicating with glaciers of aether glazed over mayhem’s sagacious Salem

 

I am not an orchestra

 

But a broken instrument with only one voice

 

I have only one heart

 

A small garden of verses

 

Only one smile

 

Nothing to share with you

 

Clinging to memories that long lost their warmth

 

My emptiness and unfulfilling words

 

A burnt match

 

The ashes of whatever remains

 

After the forest of thoughts became stumped by long twisted limbs reaching for Elysium

 

Grasping at the coattails of God

 

Do you see me now?

 

Trailing sentences fading

 

Patterned fabric of my twisted history ripped and worn

 

Becoming bite sized pieces of a shattered puzzle

 

That people built new homes out of

 

And dreams out of nightmares

 

A mosaic of scars sewn together into a quilt of amaryllis and priscillas

 

And although so much is missing, the flowers continue to bloom

 

I was afraid you’d never answer me

 

Who will we be in the dust?

 

When steel hearts rust redder than the setting sun

 

Eclipsing the abyss

 

I was afraid they wouldn’t remember

 

If you were a stain on the frayed edges of my poems

 

We crumple together in the fists of God

 

Do you not have a voice?

 

I cannot hear the wind

 

My spirit sours like spilt milk

 

Drunk on stupid things that will never be a memory

Author's Note

I promise I read every single review, and I generally will reply to them. I look forward to my next review, because it helps me learn. Even if it's just one word, I promise, I will be happy to hear anything you feel needs sharing. Whenever you write on my shortcomings or breakthroughs, or the themes of my poems, or share ideas and friendly criticism, it decides my next poem to an extent. I will listen, learn and be thankful. And 99% of the time, you'll get a reply unless you're trolling me.