A Poem by R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)

A poem about love. Romantic and familial. Found and lost. Some hate and loss; that comes with love. Handling the different subjects, and the idea of surrender. Really, really long. But worth reading.






Dreams For The Damned



(Under the tarnished iron of a lustreless sun)

(Still as a willow)

(Dull and bent and heaven sent)

(In winter’s scintillation, rusted deterioration carved from argents)

(Sequestered effigies [of a spent sea’s upending frenzy; tendrilled envy])

<[(Among disorderly forests in the primordial foliage, the spores of tomorrow)]>

<[(Floral glee of coral reefs core beliefs unborn debris)]>

<[(Meteoric metamorphosis coursing through orchards’ June illuminating petunias)]>

[(Marred by the moons of roosting nucleus oozing through ludicrous music doomed in unison)]

[(In the crowded room of unity blooming ambiguity the brutal fruit of entombing uvulas)]

(Like) Graphite; (knifelike)

[(Droplets of esophagus; lopsided kaleidoscopes, briar horizons, bonfires of barbed-wire)]

[(Or the clash of sparks when two swords meet)]

[(On a battlefield that smiles, blood dripping down its chin, with its endless army rotting teeth;)]

[(Metal battering metal; clattering cataclysm; if you could only mouth the words they scream)]

[(In this way; the same way; swords are born)]

[(Smashing themselves, hammering themselves into form; shape, sharper than tongue)]

[(Escarpments; the harp of the young)]

<[(Wriggling obsidian figurines swinging from ring fingers stygian)]>

<[(With the sprigging monarchism viridian linen of lindens unkindled)]>

<[(Imprisoned in the crimson rhythm of the figs of amygdala)]>

[(Trimming the withering Yggdrasil)]

[(Pillaging vermillion trilling from the billowing pavilions of swivelling guillotines)]

(The liturgy of hurricanes among the bowers of hourglasses rasping pastures of massive asters)

(Bristles that swivel within the schism of fizzing bougainvillea)

(Scythes of moonlight white)

(Like pixies of Nyx crystalline)

Ripe with the cypresses of ichor

Deciphering the rifle of lightning

(The arboretum of weaving trees like fiends in the fields of phoenix eclipse)

(These fingers wrap around my neck like a rosary of frozen oceans)

(Comatose ozone)

(Like a tired empire black in the lilac emptiness)

(A lunar abyss like an intestinal precipice in the festival of bethel’s woes)

(Carnivalesque wretches of ancestral pestilence)

(Vessels festering in the effigies of crescents wreath in the dim incandescent sleep)

Branches of amber (lengthening) chrysanthemum in lanterns of hippocampus

The wind as it twirls your words into frenzy

Like the batons of a marching band

Crossing the bangled wrist of ellipsis

The cinders of bonfire echoing off the moon

Chanting amaranths of caverns like labyrinths in the split edge of a snowflake

It’s strangely beautiful;

Seeing the world pass you by

At light speed weeding the speleothem

Of your shackled bifactor of a mind

Winding into dial tone

In the homage to your chromosomes

In the bottomless chronological choreography

Time winding its hands around your throat

Like crucifix of fuchsia

(Under runes of pseudonyms written in the ichor of hieroglyphs mithril as the sigil of a willow)

[(Rorschach’s gilded by lilac tides unwinding formaldehyde wings of ambrosial symphonia)]

Composing and conducting all at once

Listening to the christening of the abyss again

Blossoming in the phosphorus nocturne

I recount my history

Of [these many]

[Many, many, many, many]

Irredeemable dreams

[This cemetery of mine]

[Opens up] Like a flower

[Its fingers, fitting]

In my hand

<[(My brain does not register its beauty)]>

<[(So easily)]>

[I pick the petals off]

<[(The wings off as if it were a horsefly)]>

<[(As if it were a fallen angel)]>

[Before the setting sun]

<[(As it closes its leaden eyes)]>

[The dust of an atomic bomb settling, rattling in my ears]


<[(Closely to it)]>

[And hear Nothing]

[Hear stillness]

[The crisp morning air]

<[(The way it whispers sweetly, sweet nothings to the waves of oceans and the curl of forests)]>

<[(My fingers trace and make out the shape of three figures stygian)]>

<[(All haunted by the silence of one’s heartbeat)]>

<[(A village of capillaries in a sigil’s tree)]>

<[(Like a ghetto’s archipelago, comatose in the snow’s ambrosia)]>

<[(Composing vagrants anchored in the pancreas, the road of magnum opus)]>

<[(With loathsome posies interwoven groves undertow in soma)]>

<[(Carvings of yarn like harlequin)]>

<[(Sobbing for solace, unison, see)]>

<[(For a lifetime out there, in the cold of winter, and the blistering summer heat)]>

<[(Missing bullets and finding happiness, discarding despair; letting go, like a lost balloon)]>

<[(We are children of children of children)]>

<[(We do not know any better)]>

<[(With some monster waiting)]>

[(Somewhere around the corner)]

<[(Tomorrow looms, a cruel parent, but a great teacher)]>

<[(I missed the heart of it all)]>

<[(And empaled myself on the rocky shores of argent lungs, the crashing beaches)]>

<[(Cast in the reaches of bleached hair)]>

<[(I missed the orderly madness of it, singing from closed mouths)]>

<[(So pursed you could hear the shape of the words on their lips like clay)]>

<[(The coldness of the summer sun with its blue skinned forest of clouds like satin balaclavas)]>

The warmth of winter with its cottontails white, and the beige dripping with the desires of men

<[(The fantasies of life)]>

<[(Breathing green into the greyness and each parched crevice)]>

<[(The ground becomes moist with the whispers of the ages, the disease of the past; pageless)]>

<[(Raising the deadmen from their trees;  hemlock mockingbirds dismembering the breeze)]>

<[(Slumbering in the slums of umbrage)]>

<[(The armies of a carnival)]>

<[(The opal painted black)]>

<[(My heart vorpal, fissured, cracked)]>

<[(Is better mine alone)]>

<[(Although, maybe)]>

<[(Severed, turned to stone)]>

<[(The world becomes me)]>

<[(And so I become the world)]>

<[(Look upon me)]>

<[(In anemoia)]>

A child once stood between the bars of this mind, caught between the frayed edge of a sentence

<[(Writing love letters without knowing the words, a life’s sentence lengthens into view)]>

<[(Singing songs with no lyrics)]>

<[(Spinning tongs as I hear it)]>

Chastised for his curiosity, for his negligence

<[(He never found a way out)]>

<[(Did he die out there, alone?)]>

<[(Did I die with him?)]>

<[(Fit like a jagged word, jigsaw piece, between these rusted metal teeth?)]>

<[(The labyrinth of his face, maybe, lines drawn like creases of silk wilting into blank paper?)]>

<[(Maps of a castaway like alabaster fractals in the ecclesiastical mish-mashing apathy)]>

<[(The jaws of life)]>

[Like the batons of a marching band]

[Before the setting sun]

[Waging war in stillness]

<[(Like taking a bite out of an apple)]>

<[(A swallow in a storm, slave to the wind)]>

<[(Never able to quite catch what was cupped between his clasped palms)]>

<[(Smoldering butterfly journeying down the length of a paperback’s spine)]>

<[(Always smoldering)]>

<[(Never quite able to make out his mirror image in their eyes)]>

<[(Like the so many murals of people between two mirrors, the others out there)]>

<[(Seeing the image bent out of proportion, a billion mimicking faces of the same depth)]>

<[(The exact same shade of Nothing, I am)]>

<[(Lost in what they found)]>

[I ask you;]

[Are you the only one]

[The only lost child]

[That (n)ever dared learn to dream?]

<[(And if you choose to bury yours; the children in your eyes)]>

<[(Crushed like a flower underfoot; dreamless)]>

<[(Then what does that make me?)]>

<[(Am I the only one)]>

<[(That still holds onto the echoes of the lost, and their dismal symphonies?)]>

<[In its unravelling patterns scattered around the block, written in subways, street signs)].

<[(The tokens of their penniless bliss like streaks of silver in their hair; innocent and bleak)]>

<[(The remnants scattered across the room, strewn like terracotta pots of smashed alabaster)]>

<[(The mementos of some world that will never come again; come to be revolving in my eyes)]>

<[(They sing to the tributaries of tomorrow; yesterday)]>

<[(Their beauty)]>

[That beauty]

[It falls on deaf ears]

[Because all I remember]

[Is gone]

<[(French kissing the tip of your tongue in reverberating silence; anticipating familiarity)]>

<[(It’s all yours)]>

<[(Everything you’ve lost)]

<[(In a frame atop my dresser)]>

Everything you’ve ever loved

Memento mori

<[(Did you ever find your way home)]>

<[(To a place you never lived in, screaming in your ears; softly?)]>

[Come see the end for yourself]

[It’s just the beginning]

<[(Winding into wire frame)]>

[(Brutalized horizons like kites of lightning’s ichor writing itself on the shelf of an open mouth)]

<[(Nothing waits for you in its endless repetition, its wretched reflection pencilled in my skin)]>

<[(Bottomless homonyms in the gin of equilibrium sigils chiselled in the rivers of wind)]>

(Guitars of scimitars scarred with the armadas of solitude feuding over each ludicrous nucleus)

<[(You know you lost me, you know you lost me, right?)]>

<[(Lost in the silence of decades)]>

<[(Waiting for you, waiting for me)]>

(Hiding behind the crack of a doorframe’s page lacquered across my pale face like a namesake)

<[(Wide-eyed; stories high across divides in spiralling miles of sunrise)]>

<[(Like white lines dyeing on a fresh page)]>

[(The bourbon slurring into serpentine phoenixes in a paraplegic helix rinsed in photosynthesis)]

<[(Vermillion tranquility)]>

<[(Obscuring hurricanes)]>

<[(Billowing bougainvillea basilicas)]>

<[(Prickly sycamores)]>

<[(Blithering riverbeds)]>

<[(Inescapable maples)]>

<[(Recoiling magnolias)]>

<[(Ivory {vineyards/wineries})]>

<[(Magenta penitentiaries)]>

<[(Warping orchards)]>

<[(Phantasmagorical orchids)]>

<[(Delving in elegant parhelion)]>

<[(The rustling gusts of percussion erupting from my mouth in lip-synced silence,)]>

<[(Smiling in static)]>

<[(Are you the only one (of us) who never dreamed?)]>

<[(Are you the only one of us, who never lived?)]>

<[(Among these dying memories)]>

<[(The glue that holds your mind together?)]>

<[(Coaxed into my skin like the blur of polished nails and budding sycamores awaiting you?)]>

<[(Letting in the hot sun and the empty of the clouds unmoving)]>

<[(Among that which can not be contained in anything but one word)]>

<[(I am waiting for you)]>

To gaze into one another's eyes is truly the most intimate form of human contact

Let this mirror of mine, face the mirror of yours in splendorous uncontaminated solid sterling

Now and forever

To gaze into another’s eyes is to dive in a dilated pupil, to drive back the light from the darkness

How else do you intend to touch the abyss?

To see behind the watching divide

And its dull heavens of heaving lungs, the thumping of surrender, like the branches of a tree

In the single file skies I find the hollow sun appalling

Even with its magnificent ballrooms

Ovulating columns, cauldrons of andromeda pollening laundered mongering dahlias inaudible

[The] (Silence speaks volumes)

Calling (disembodied) through follicles of unbottling (stamens of drawling) solitude

<[(Remember, Remember?)]>

<[(Remember me. Remember me.)]>

<[(Live in nightmares trapped within the confines of your own mind like I did, each eyelid)]>


<[(Or I will never forget)]>

Find you, from behind doors unhinged like me

For the man upstairs is waiting

For you to feel my words

<[(Like you never heard)]>

But I did

In endless splendour, all surrenders

<[(To the endlessness cysts of the riffing abyss, mother Nyx)]>

<[(Cracking smiles like broken bottles against the teeth of the concrete)]>

<[(Like glass asters bathed in Rorschach’s like a saxophone of daffodils)]>

{<[(Surrendering the past for the future)]>}

{<[(I hate those who are weaker than the strong; yet act stronger than the weak)]>}

{<[(Their actions are frivolous, pointless, immaterial, without momentum)]>}

{<[(And to know this will conquer me; will kill me; eventually)]>}

The noise; it reeks of silence

With static in my ears

I hear, I feel, nothing

“But who cares? The show is already over”

“Remember? Remember…”

I never left

I’m still here

Waiting for the sun to fall out of its socketed sky

[Like a sapphire eye]

Waiting; for something better; that came and went; that will never be again

The final curtain of rope

To hang like drapes, ingrained, crocheted,

[To dry in the thick of summer; or the pull of a destitute winter]

Over a picture-perfect memory

Outside this frost licked window in the courtyard of a photograph

Words spit from the mouth of a river;

Roars out white-hot anger; (split ends) in its cardiovascular rapids

The (fat/split) lip of the horizon

Withstanding and winning tomorrow

With the wings of a horsefly

I smile

My smile is my only memento

Mocking their faces

Hating them

Their faces, their love, their pain, their ecstasy

Their memories, always reminding me of the Eden of my childhood, some lost fantasy

Plastered like a piece of the puzzle

On the Rorschach, the labyrinth

Of my face

Put back together with every crumbling brick (of devastation)

[Torn into butterflies]

Picked [fresh] from the rubble of paradise like a scab

<[(As much as I want to)]>

<[(Can’t take that away)]>

<[(From them. From me.)]>

They never left

They’re still (t)here

I do not forget

How could I?

I still smile

Filling the tree’s hollow with new life

Under setting sun

A filing cabinet in a lost library of seconds, minutes, hours, years; tunnelling in my mind

There is nothing else

But this

I will not forget

I will not surrender

Until there is nowhere left to run

Home is so far away

I may never reach it

But I must try

This corn-maze smile no longer fits me

As much, as it fit them

Smiling at me

As if they didn’t already know (better)

They live within the flat light of a two-dimensional viewpoint

Lest I give them new names, not unlike the ones that I cannot recall

As if I can see it in their eyes

I still haven’t paved over the faded colours in red, blue, yellow

How could I not?

I came to paint (over) the music

I can feel it thickening; dripping from my ears (in sigil’s acrylics)

Over the cracks in the sidewalk

Mouths plugged with clay

(Shape nothing)

<[(But memories)]>

{A thousandfold}

{In the sheet music of death}

{Deforming morning}

{Like (we/I) did, once}



Light (My Little Dark Age)



When we’re gone;

Everything will mean nothing

Blind to the sunshine

But look [one last time in your eyes at] what we’ve left behind;

Nothing will remain;

In place of something;

Does that mean something?

Like a hurricane of ravens;

Maidens of misshapen scathing plains

Wickers in the ichor of a misshapen oasis;

Candles floating over rivers swimming by kindled lindens

In ebbing white of midnight’s scythe

In the zebra stripped web of Armageddon’s thread

In the breath of a crescent;

In the breasts of sepulchre

A stream of neon lights midflight cyphers

In the chaos of nocturne

Drinking and limping in photosynthesis

I am simply a man

I cannot see in the dark

(Flickering conifers of viscera)

(Depicting themselves)

(With the mithril valves of yellow velvet cherries and wisterias)

(Dim equilibrium over the brim)

(I light the lantern)

(And cast a shadow not unlike a die)

(And start the climb of silence)

(On my many sides)

(On my many faces)

(One prison within the scintillation)

(Drunk prisms defibrillating homo-sapient)

(Like a candelabra of mandalas)

(I blow out the candle)

(And cover, smother, and drink myself dry)

(In its smoke)

(I see a million forgotten colours)

(With my burning page)

(I am)

(The light before the end)

(The tunnel fears me)

(I lie in wait)

(With dull brilliance)

(Concentrated elation precipitated maelstroms under the precipice of Nephilims’ dim oblivion)

(Aglow with my oceans of [prose; posies and crows in] comatose motionlessness)

(Shapeless [matrix of] oasis among [consecrated] acres of [emancipated] wraith lands)

(The shadow stretches its back [over a chandelier of piers mirroring the veneers of empyrean])

[(Over teal murals of the ethereal)]

(Before sitting in the corner of my cornea)

(And watching over blindness)

(In somber boredom, [in amber tones and shambling tomes])

(Before the corridors of morning)

(Spores of chlorophyll spilling out from the drought of archipelagos)

(In the bedlam of my head)

(Resonating dishevelled in the meadows’ brevity)

(Revelling in the malevolent heavens)

(Of dreadnought Cocytus)

(Blossoming phosphorus in coffins of lost prophesies offering)

(From the tossing turning colossus burning of the flickering lithium lick of wickerman Icarus)


(The ruins of fluid Jupitar’s of fuchsia’s lucid nucleus)

(Embroidered in a coinflip)

(The glint of an instrument)

(The shrine of kaleidoscopes)

(Rinsed from the fins of an incubus in eternally printed firmament)

(Like gelatinous shrapnel gasping for air)

(Like clarinets)




The last prideful step

In an unfathomable marathon;

Drawn out as if a sketch

Upon the cotton plumage

Of winter morning;

The white void a stretching cat

Like glass with a touch of grey;

Cottages speaking volumes

Of cobblestone near the

Champagne bay of ukuleles

I climb the nearest hillside

And then pretend it is a mountain

Looking down on the remains of old villages

Where the pilgrimage of breath

Has not graced these cold hands (banded around my waist, and shaking)

And the rust of fireplaces

Creates a cloud of smoke

Like pillowing scarves

Or sheets of quilted covers

The colour of ink, or pencil lead

Leaving indents on the page


Embroidered Empyrean Lotus


(Coffins of phosphorus metropolis hawks of nocturne blurting out vertebrae)

Tangible fractals in paths of shackled vernacular

Aspens and picturesque espers

Conjuring phenomenons

Cogs of espionage in the vibrato of staccato

Jogging the memory of a cemetery

In its precarious ferris wheel

Under each heel a feeling

In the speleothem of evanescence

Incandescent in a blender of memorabilia

Peeling away in the everglades of mayhem spades

Of Salem’s polymerization in the sonography

The polymer’s of synagogue mahogany

Of thralls of mandalas hollow with the amber branches of lanterns and hippocampus

Amphitheaters of cedars in the poplars of Cocytus

Knotting the bottomless breeze with the weavings of elysian seams

In the meter of Eden’s remedied reeds

Of mausoleums of tweed revealing themselves

In the swell of the summer sun under tunnels of tundras

Unstrung penumbras like thunderous rum

And its stumbling rungs summits still young

Hummingbirds stung with the rumbling drums

In a trance of chrysanthemums

With a hundred handed amethyst;

As the pines kaleidoscope into opal focal points

In the ointment of a painted face

With its ancient nomenclature thrones of oasis

Wrinkles of idiosyncrasies

Lace emancipated in elation’s stations

In grey lakes and wafers of slate roasting in the slums and the ghetto’s sun

Parhelion umbrellas in the collage of mandalas

Meadows of pelican melodies that bleed weaving in the creases of an efflorescent crescent

In the regal dodecahedrons keyboards of rigour mortis orbiting meteoric

In the time scheme of a dreams baffling raffles of scaffolding

Molding into golden primordial

Oranges of floral coral reefs of leaves

Greener than the grasses of asters and asphodel

In the mellow asphalt drought doubtlessly mouthing to me

With sentenceless seeds

Like an empress of weeds

Grieving for the scores of sycamores forevermore

In the origami of a drawling tsunami of tapestries wrapped in the grafted taffeta

Mashing together in the brevity of Armageddon’s sleeve

Which like letters (they send like the Everest’s men)

Leave in the scream of mausoleums

And the basilicas of willing guillotines trilling willows

Stream from the cream of a typewriters’ machine;

There is no such thing permanence;

Let it birth itself again from the womb that shed its skin for heart

Those who are unique shouldn’t be met with such hostility

There is I

And you

Things die and are reborn

Death lives among heartbeats; among flowers; among those who live completely

I don’t want to look back

For I am

The past living, the shackled prison, alabaster crimson linens that ripple in the grip of the sun

And the future dyed in brilliance, in neon lights, shadow, in false messiahs, and emotionless gods

Can (either out grow me, wither, die or)

Go f**k itself

For I am the foundation crushed underfoot by mountains

For when you finally know what that means

What it means

To hit rock bottom

Planting the seeds of its own destruction

This garden of my bones that welcomes you

Is plenty

There is no such thing as permanence

There is no need

But we carry on

As the past passes by beyond its expiry date

Spilt milk

As the present arrives perpetually on this doorstep in whispered anticipation

In the choir, the empty pews, the dilapidated farm, arms of gates not leading to heaven; or earth

But for now

Let’s watch the world burn its tongue on the sunrise (together, forever)

(I won’t let anyone stand in front of me)

(Let nothing stand in the way)

(Let nothing stand behind me in my wake)

(Of stimulation)

(Vibrating in your chest)

(Before the thunder)

(Of rumbling discovery)

(Before the core of aurora borealis)

(Do you hear me flutter like a butterfly?)

(Stuttering colour smothered hummingbird)

(Tomorrow is written on my wings)

(You only need read my eyes with yours)

(A staple gun)

(With a paperclip)

(I cut my fingers)

(On these keys)

(And press these bruises, these fingertips)

(Into my eyes)

(Into the [eyes of the] sun [spun over with the umbrage of a thousand oaken candles, withered])

[(I see you)]

([No differently than] (Like) A crushed cigarette)


Colourful Decay


[(In a hull of colourlessness waters flooding over covers)]

[(In polymers throttling cholera mandala)]

[(Halogens in the genesis of the heavens)]

[(I sit etched in memories)]

[(Dismembering assembly of interstellar melodies)]

[(From the kettle of a flower petal;)]

[(A sun not settled in the nest of celestial bodies cauterizing xylophones in this isle’s home)]

[(Calling from the solitary marionettes)]

[(Of swept bethels invested in the crescents)]

[(The orchestral pestle of a molested precipice of frescoed effigies)]

[(As they bend like the seven seas)]

[(In a malevolent breeze)]

[(Rivers of weeds and mosquitos)]

[(Whittling stygian obsidian in the rhythm of the setting sun)]

[(I trapeze through reeding fever dreams)]

[(That I weave through blue jeans of Kahlua cream, fluidly)]

[(Cumulus abyss in the misty crystalline of lucid roofs of Jupitar)]

[(Tooth and nail;)]

[(A sailboat’s ale of railroad tempo)]

[(Of creaking steeples weeping through Greek Fire lilac among a thousand mouthless islands)]

[(Perspiring in Gaia’s wireframe of iris named in violet sage)]

[(Calling the names in binary,)]

[(Sapphire skies of rhinestone supernovas)]

[(The chamber and sway of each bending pendulum upending momentum of maleficent edifice)]

[(Stretching past the wreckage of perception)]

[(Nephilim of dim stars like scimitars in the grimoires of harlequin shimming)]

[(Within the skimming scintillation of elation)]

[(Grapes like beads of sweat tethered in the nether tenements)]

[(High on the ether pines and vines kaleidoscope of serpentine ire)]

[(Barbed wire on the bonfire horizon)]

[(Rewiring the silence of a firefly vibrant)]

[(In aisles of dahlia’s unravelling medallions)]

[(In a vile hymn’s violin)]

[(Crying out from the mouth of a bonsai sprout)]

[(Shouting the elegies of parhelion velvety)]

[(Comets that vomit the frothing cloth of softness in an offerings’ sarcophagus of andromeda)]

[(Bottomless cauldrons of melding cellos)]

[(Swelling in the petals of metallurgy beneath the cracked pot of sky miles wide with irises)]

[(Carving and marbling stardust harvester starlings of saffron yards of caramelized mantras)]

[(That saunter decomposition through infinite vistas under floundering fauna)]

[(Discombobulated choreography of the knotted obelisk of crystalline glyphs)]

[(Written in the stars)]

[(Carving gargoyles marred by cinnabar)]

[(In barred foliage coiling around the valleys of callous Valkyries)]

[(With their pomegranates of mangled hippocampus)]

[(Wreckage and rust amidst the fluster)]

[(Crushing with its percussion)]

[(The sun coming down into his resting place)]

[(Alone among the jungle of stars)]

[(Amber with the champagne of a hurricane shapeless like a wraith of ancient dilapidation)]

[(Racing through the naked aether of a caped oasis)]

[(In its image of squiggly amygdala in the ebony nebulas of gauze)]

[(Blossoming caustically with the mellowing yellows pastel of evangelion parhelion)]

[(And the reddening ebonies of serenities’)]

[(Endless heavens shedding their feathers of Armageddon)]

[(Drunk on the liquor of Icarus)]


Broken String


(Hemlock mockingbirds) [interlocking provocative walking through city blocks of offerings)]

[(Docking in the washed-up Cocytus)]

(In the lost outcropping of docile brothels locked in the fields of knocking clockwork)

[(Reverberating hurricanes marmalade of sable tornado in braided bouquets of Himalayans)]

[(In the conclave vertebrae of clay mosaics)]

[(Satchel of backbone’s dip below chromosomes; axel and soma, baskets of clovers)]

(Among temples of tendrils in tempo’s entrails;)

(Trails of nightingales with their windmill of twin tails)

(Railroads of grey cloves of psychotropic nocturne of glossy phosphorus rusting in the lustre)

I carve my destiny in the blasphemy of an ash tree

Near a cabin at the end of a fabric avenue in the jazz of a labyrinth

Blooming from the nucleus of mute sutra’s of mucus lucid

Whittling away at the vase of life

And the budding nebulas

Why do I ask myself these questions of vice in midnight’s hour like a sigil’s flower?

In the poison of a coinflip, an efflorescent crescent, ripples serendipitous in its mithril bliss

Melancholic mausoleums following collages of bottomless monoliths in the

 Columns of polyphonic philharmonic harmonies tarnished yarn of grimoires

Bonding in harbours of comets’ augur

Augmenting centuries in glens of penitentiaries

In the sediment of cemeteries that blare with wisteria

Weaving dreams seamlessly inebriated sleeves of chameleons in the regaled eagle cathedrals

In Sheol’s heel bipedal wheelbarrows of ephemeral murals bound in balaclava’s satellite

Lapis lazulite lapping against the grains of a potent ocean among scattered banners of sand

Whittling billowing soliloquy down into the valves unravelling

In smoky orchids mortar in the incorporeal yell of mellowed parhelion

Fumbling homunculus stumbling through stubble under the brush of sunrise’s clutch

Like porcelain oozing kintsugi through the canal of valleys

Fuming cumulus in ludicrous drift in Sanskrit proliferating creationism

Luminous innumerate bliss driven by the tip of a finger’s flick

Whistling through the chrysalis of nickel ichor crippling Odysseus

Of the moon’s eclipse; gouging out the eye of God; a hollow crater of polymerization

Sockets of the apocalypse grip the rivulets of lithium from the amber lips of gypsies’ pits

Glyphs of metamorphosis whisper their histories to the common breeze of Elysium

Engulfing penultimate butterflies that bide their time in lilac spiral

Riding chimera into islands of hyacinth admiring the finite horizon

I twang the hangmen of cadaverous avarice

Like they’re lines of poetry, frayed, framed, coming apart at the seams

That jangle like windchimes among the violets

Cats cradle and barcode labels that cipher the life from the

Sable eyed kaleidoscope of revival’s pyres of spiderwebbed ledges

From the edge of pledging bound upending heavens

Winding down

Without a sound

Broken strings in a smashed guitar

Sing to me

Cracks in the wall form rays of light in the dark cell of my mind, my pale halo

Like an apple in my hand, redder than the harvest moon, I plant myself in gardens green

And I echo them in the mountains of my soul

And the valleys of my arms

And the crawlspace of my heart

Where there is but the rumble of a submerged hurricane

Somewhere outside the padded room of pseudonyms shivering in the slivers of stygian figurines

Blooming luminescent

The cellar of parhelion beneath the creeping gelatinous shadows of amber chrysanthemums

In the highwires of vinyl stretched fibres nylon pawns

Diving into the climbing horizons’ jaunt through conquered few

From the palpable into the unknowable

From the bright morning sky

Into the unknown dankness in dull drought of what was once watercolour rains


Nothing but a grey harbour on the tarnished edge of a black sea underneath a white noise sky

Drowning in the balance, inkblots and paper

Spiralling back into the slack-jawed tsunami of silence

At home in the mud of somersaulted palpations inflating these havenless vases’ nameless oasis

Painted clay in masonry’s basins of indented to the plenty’s rudimentary emptiness

Born of the cell of my mind; freedom

Prisoner to the whims that I live by

To rules that I could have broken

The strings I refused to pluck

Have strengthened me

The gallows that I hang my linen and laundry on

In this neck of the woods

In which these thousand trees sit in wait like a jagged throne

Which is the one that holds my crown?

Resting in my precipice

Hanging in a field of swords like exploring corneas adorning roses in symposiums

That furl over the cowl

Of my furrowed brow

I have the guts of a percussionist, the words of a hurricane, the eyes of a blind man

The hands of a child

Unrolling the clay effigy that is me

Somewhere beneath the dry leaves

Which hides my palpitating, reverberating heart

Beating after beating

I hammer myself

Into the shape

I want to be

Into the shape

Of my will

And shatter tomorrow into a million dreams unbreakable

Bonded into union, clarity, togetherness

With my tools of creation

With my mask of destruction

With my jaunt through monsters of constellations

With my endless pride

Continuing into the rings of infinity’s swing

As the pendulum


Tokens of broken strings

This eventually thing

As the nebula’s cling

With their tenebrous wings

In ebony’s setting sun

Spun bewonderment from the glades that palisade in the ribcage plains of eons

Chained in a graveyard’s séance

This scarecrow has never met a bird who could quite fly like him


What is Warmth, But Not The Fire?


Phantoms of amber Bandersnatch

Entangled in the jagged glow of pandemonium

The jaws of terracotta baubles of sunlight

Ripe like a choir of ichor

Picked from the drifting vines of birch

Among hearths of turpentine and iron

Plucking honeysuckle in the highwire plumage

Luminous hallucinogens of a bruised universe

Shoestring veins of deranged sages

In a maelstrom of azaleas

Like plump grapes and beads that hang like beacons or dodecahedrons in the bohemian legions

Of Demeter and Prometheus

Shining in their spiralling vinyl vineyards that twirl whirlwinds

Terpsichorean ether onomatopoeia

And spearing murals with the tips of their ellipsis

As cedar reeds of dodecahedrons bleed through the fluid cumulus

Elysian mausoleums high in the sky of over fields

Of chameleon colour swathing itself over land

Paint dripping down from the sky into the brush below, the dribble and spittle of heartbeat

Dancing across the canvas in a splash of lapis lazuli

Reeling in stars from the armoires

Of a dust covered page;

Thrush in the luscious percussion

Parting into darkness darting around galleys and alleyways

In the vestige of lactescent crescents of rage

Laid bare like the stare of a marionette

Dolls made of polymers crawling out

From underneath the bed of leaves

Derelict perfection shedding the ventricles

Of pestilential embryos through the jubilation

Of seven archipelagoes

Embroidered in the ghettos of parhelion

In floral orbiting morsels of coral

Forming oars in the mortal moors of boreal chlorophyll

Torrents’ phantasmagoria like porcelain metamorphosis

Coursing through orchards like a vortex

In the kites of lightning strikes cyphering the cypress trees

In the sculpting of Kalpa and the columns

Mausoleums bound by palpating mantras

Of Viking’s vilified crying out

To the unbridled geysers of bonfire skylines

On the caramelized lines of hyacinth

A book binding’s divide

Climbing horizons writhing in the spiral of sun’s iris

Strung together tethered

Dilated with the halos of a maelstrom’s veil

Hanging over the bride called sunrise

With all her stencilled tendrils ventricles and entrails

Like hanging bangles; a halo of azaleas

Like centennial emperors born to the slender centuries of penitentiaries

Of bending wendigos in the slender breeze

After the Armageddon that they don’t remember

Compendiums of heaven’s hallucinogenic clementines

Crying out in dialects dressed in crescents

The severed rhymes’ hymen in Serengeti sublime lilac

Polymerizing the brine of wildfire bibles

In the silos of forgotten isles miles apart in violent hyacinths

In the arching scarfs

Marred in the uncharted march of one’s unstarting heart

Departing from the Tartarus of cartilage

In the bark of kaleidoscope of poplar trees

Martyrs in the marmalade glazes of a fables’ hurricane

Cain and Abel in a bloodstained rainbow

Fight under the sunburned umbrage

Across the docks of a phosphorus colossus

Where man is but a speck on the trek of spiralled skies

Blossoming among the weeds like delirious spirits

Ethereal spears raised like a newborn baby among high-rises

In jagged asylum winding into the chimera of a bonfire

Nihilism intertwining briars into geysers of iron fibres

Scribes of nylon vying for the revival

Like the child of kaleidoscopes,

A scribe’s tidal-wave shaving away the glades at bay, dismay

In the equation of dismantling chrysanthemums and the anthers of their bantering jasmine

Laced in the basin of creation’s lacquered propagation

Meshes in the hecatomb of a clandestine precipice outstretched

Nephilim’s bethel nectarines sifting through the grains of sand in Avalon

Sonata for the knotted fathers of comets

Like harvester’s obelisks

Disembodied fists in the hands of banisters of amaranths

In the foggy transmogrified idols of God’s recital

Of channels like pianos and flowering talisman in galleries of shallow leaves

Bathed and wrapped in taffeta

Castaways collapsing in the mazes of a cat’s cradle,

Bipedal cathedrals that stream through a zoo of cumulus

In fuchsia blooming in cumin

And rejuvenation patiently awaiting the bent nail

A tornado scratching against the tide of vinyl

Rosemary wisterias bearing the varicose fruits of their tearing roots

Sprouting and spreading from the hedges of surrender

Bending into some semblance of September’s memory

Dismembering the cemetery of everything I know

In the leaves of gold before the snow

Webbing their way in the shape of everglades

Green mausoleums for the next season

And its bulbous columns of white scythes, wickers’ lithium

Sprites like knives of undeciphered fibres

Unwinding the bookbinding into islands

To hide in under umbrage; horizon,

Eiffel towers of borealis

Malleable gallows to hang my shallow hours

In prowling mandala’s galleries

In the chains of proliferation’s precipitation

In the nape of aether wafers

Of sunlight glaciers of tongue bite

Naked and finite

As they kiss the lips of precipice

Clean of cerulean cathedrals

Of the maleficent crest of dragging heels

Walking gospels of a gothic metropolis

The phoenix of evening, the coiled anaconda of sun, spun into wanderers

In the drawling polymers of hallways

That heaven remembered and once surrendered me my energy

In the jade corridors of a promenade of primordial northern winds

And seraphim grinning in the schism of equilibrium

In the rinsing photosynthesis

Of aurora floral glorious mortar and pestle infinitesimal

As the abyss of ellipses drip down from a stone chalice

Howling into the pavilions of bougainvillea in the night

Wilting into silken willow wisps like vermilion guillotines

For dead dreams in the cream of a helix

Reaching up to the crepuscular nectar

In the crescent of a sickled moon spoon-fed with bread

Looming over supernova coves

Oh molten solstice in the threads of a nebula

Boiling over the clover of sun

One with the umbrage of dozen running waterways hazel

An umbrella parhelion

Dwelling within bevelling cellars of velvet

Dim bridges of amaryllis

Over the beach of antiquity like a urethan beacon spangled across

Pillows of syllables that grasp ecclesiastically

The facetted trappings of the final asters

Evaporated in the jasper and brass of ashes

In the laced aether cremated from haven’s assimilation

Mashing alabaster graphite

Into the groves of ambrosia,

Wolves in the clearing of a phoenix

Soma’s tangled bangles of hair

Afros of daffodils in the cerulean bougainvillea

 Strangling looping Jupitar over combing cloves of oceans of locusts comatose

Under the elixir of eclipse in lactescent ecstasy;

I am the moon’s effigy

Breathlessly exiting the lungs of parhelion

Like a curdled tuft of smoke rustling through the reeds

The inferno dipped in chords for tomorrow with its fistful of lithium conifers

Of nickel bristles braided and laid in a maze of hurricanes

Raking the sun of the world to come,

I remedy my serenity and upend my friends in Armageddon

In its (un)sett(l)ing remedy of heavenly extremities

Construed musically into mitochondrial constellations in the condos of comatose doses of opium

Concubine unwind on vinyl

Shapeless tapering in the wake of salvation

(Undone and bewondered)

Through amorphous fortresses of incandescent decibels

I shriek from the streak of colour

Smothering brotherhoods from the woods

Graffitied in your dryad eyes

Frescoed against the face a concrete slate

Staking out the umbrella of high-rise

Spiralling into the depiction of science fiction

Rippling ellipsis of crystals

In the waterfall of columns discombobulated;

Mandala choreography

In the depths of precipice

Fishing for the incubus abyss in the tremor of heaven

A speleothem in the remnants of ants

That prance as we crawl through the sands of this world

Not to know that we are all also entranced

With their religious anthems of dandelion vinyl and its quiet kaleidoscope of interwoven opium

As they wave their banners of amethyst against the barbed wire of these horizons

Spiralling into perspiring empires

In their rhinestones’ shrine of divine iris

Blind messiahs sire their briars from the thorns of a rose

Reddening in the threading epicentre

Of leather petals in the flower of Armageddon

Shredded parhelion as the dandelions;

Shy to skies of formaldehyde

Are crushed underfoot by the sunburned nooks

Of a thunderous hook of inukshuks

A thousandfold forests

Burning in the ferns of eternal kernels of inferno

Exploding into exodus and bellflower and abyss

And light and shadow and violets and gallows of wildfire’s violin;

Skinning the tributaries of their varicose host;

Coasts to coast posies, roses of prose from the rows of custodians bored in their rollercoasters

Ghosts and poltergeist write to the white blight of blackberries in the night

That scatter throughout the city like the shrouded shrapnel over a cowl of night

Who needs no light;

The balaclavas of an avalanche

Vanquishing lithium from the basin of clay

The serrated edges of Armageddon

In the severing of a pomegranate’s canvas

And aether cremation in its stretching crescents of vesicles

That crippled Icarus

Held on his back like sacrilege

To give to the King of Caliginous Prisms risen in the sun

Bewildering shillings of guillotines

In the malign sign of dryads crying from spires

In the landslide of kaleidoscope opals

With the torture of sober roses

Closing their eyes for the final time

In the heaven’s anesthetic medley

For the brevity of Armageddon heavenly;

Memories wedding yourself to closed mouths

Never to tell you of your forgotten name;

And everything else that you have gave

To the conclave like an entrée

Concrete penance without comprehension

To the dimensions of evanescence pressed in pestilence

To the saviours of your condemnation

And the grave laid in sable grasses

And black asters like onyx monuments

Splintered in scintillation;

Skidding with the cinders of withered chiselled shards

Carved into the barbed winter

Chipped teeth of the stonework

Cracked pottery open their mouths clattering their lids like pyramids

Leading into the bottom of the earth

Resuscitating cremation

In the carapace of chaos blossoming

In the gospel of metropolis

Blessed by depths in the vessel of Nephilim’s fresco

In the trek through the mountains

And the breath of pestilent bethels

Wrestling through the illuminating moon

Over villages of vermilion basilicas

In the frilling sigil of bougainvillea

And frigid waterlilies of calligraphy

Cylindrical vigilantes in the chrysanthemums of ample hippocampus

In the damp heat of sanctuary vicariously ferrying the barricades of alstroemerias

And the waving wisterias like narrow clarinets

Of the restless resurrection of crepuscular Nephilim;

Nectars spectral in the vessels that perpetuate creation

In the glaciers of civilizations’ lakes of basin

Aether and aegis of fable’s cremating

Elation construed in futile pseudonyms

In the hallucinogens of an unending heaven

Upended by pendulums of clockwork in the phosphorus outcroppings

Forefathers’ conquered swabbing cottontail obelisks

Assemblage of novels

Knocking clockwork kaleidoscopic in swathing phosphorus

Crossroads knotted in the bottomless nocturne

Like a nocked arrow

In barrows of prairie land amber as the fallen sun

In the amorphous malaise of daisies,

Sable cottontails on a railroad of trailing azaleas

Barrelling into the varicose ocean of sky; called a sunrise, this orb of glory fornicating oasis

With its one eye spiralling down into the ground’s foundation

Slipping from its wicker; its naked urethra of sacred acres

Of aether’s fortifications raked of blood from the stakes in the mud and lines in the sands

Hovering over the broken body of solace unfolding in the solstice osmosis of

Rorschach thunderclaps under the black of this muddled track called a stanza;

In the canvas grappling with lapis lazuli

Dazzling the eye of sunrise in the surrender of its tendrils

Gleaming with evening mist crystallized like an umbilical cord around my neck;

The spruce of a loosening crucifix

Tendons bending in the embers of god-fire lilac

And barbed ire horizon rending in its compendium

Blending in remembrance like a coagulated oasis

With stalactites of ichor like a gulf of penultimates

Stung by the thunder of a lumbering penumbra

Constructed of lustrous constellations

Cold as the primordial that birthed itself

Serpentine from the surrender of the night

In its ripe knife of brightest twilight

To a reverend of the sky like a pendulum worldwide kaleidoscope in the ferns of burgundy

Bulbous mandalas of florescent efflorescence blessed with exodus perpetual in wretched ecstasy

Among burs of metallurgy

Churning into something with spine;

With malice in its ice-cold chalice of palisade

Divinely unbridled winding itself (like the hands of a clock)

Around the mouth of Gods and hell

Like the belt of an ocean bulging collages and mandalas

Flowing through the soma’s blue hues of Lucifer

In lactescent evanescence’s of a luminescent precipice

In a calcified kaleidoscope-like ribboning amygdala’s

Spinning incendiary in prosperity’s Ferris wheel

Under the heel of a speleothem in a borealis palisade

In the palm of a gondola of green

Herculean palpitating hazels of Azazel’s oasis

Like pastels of parhelion

In an eldritch melody felt of velvety caramel

Yellowing the eyes of God in a turbulent hurricane

Merging with ferns of sterling swirling into hummingbirds

Unfurling the floweret etched in the crescent moon

Stretching into noon through lunar ruminating mushrooms of cumulus

Like rigging rivers of gibberish into squiggly scintillation

Sprigging figures of limbo’s prisms and linen in their splintering amygdala’s

Wrinkling in an infinite symphony of echoing decrepit bethels

In the incandescent decibels of transmogrified high-wires

Like irises and hyacinth blitzing the wisps of intricate glyphs

In the intravenous cathedral leading to the beacon of Prometheus

A phoenix leaping

Through the tired eyes of a miser’s sunrise

Like a geyser indescribable in the chimera of twilight’s bible

Rewiring the guitars of cinnabar and the ukuleles of sables

Waltzing with the palpitating kite like a knife of moonlight

Cutting into seraphim written in lithium on the pages of an aegis

Glaciers blazing black like straitjackets in a maelstrom;

Rorschach of taffeta shrapnel sacrilege

Capsized in the Nihilism

Diamonds in a rhinestone

Refining the papyrus horizon

A mesh of crescent effigies at the bethel’s incandescent precipice

Believing in Elysium cathedrals of a mausoleum

Breathing in the regal hymns

Of dim-lit basements of polymerization

Concrete constellations etched on my walls collage and mandala

Into the frolicking cauldrons of palm-prints

Solitary sin chariots in the alms of a pomegranate

An ensemble of bonds plucking flower petals from the disassembling memories

That blend the memento of osmosis into betrothed oceans

Crows of white lotuses like a ripe disciple of poltergeist nightingales

In the endless Serengeti of heavens breached by attics reaching

For the leafage of primordial foliage

Crawlspaces of basins in the quaking wastelands

Abbreviated recirculating oasis speckling with ecstasy

A crepuscular reckoning in the blessed hecatomb

Blooming newborn flowers in the gallows of borealis

Stalagmites that decipher the depths of connection

In the wreckage of creation’s nape

Of ovulating craniums

Crawling through starlings of barley harlequin

A disembodied assemblage of voices

In the porcelain void of a meteor

Expurgatorius as a Morningstar in the cartilage and arteries of a partisans’ avalanche

Carving yarns of the mountains into hourglass shapes

In the trachea barking at escarpments

Scarred by the scaffolding of Rorschach over the corneas of phantasmagoria

Corridors that furrow (the brow of) eternity

Into currents and channels of borealis

Palaces unravelling through the terpsichorean trees of serpentine

Grieving seething in the glee of insanity

Paddling cataclysm through streams of seamless blue-green reeds

And reeling cathedrals that peel away at the wallpaper in the hallways

In the cremation of aether following the demolished columns of polished colosseums

Between the neon crawl of an auburn God

Scratching at the skin of seraphim’s incendiary

Equilibrium of crimson defibrillation

Of knowledgeable malleable methodical prodigies of origami;

Wanderers torn to shreds in the bedlam of heaven

In its gnarling polymers and stalls of sundial

Winding itself around the sound of well-wrapped tapestries

Of ecclesiastics brass and lapis lanterns

Of ferns in the tornadoes that railroad themselves

Around the wreathing steeple leaping terpsichorean

Like a forked tongue

Umbra’s flame split into photosynthesis

And phosphorescent Armageddon;

The flocking of mockingbirds in the nocturnal blur of apostles

Docked in outcropping Mosques of Ragnarök

Tossing brothels of apostles from the flame into ozone waves and everglades

Buried beneath the creased skin of the earth

In the peripheral perennial of paraphernalia in the unwritten airways made blank

And laid by haven’s conclave oasis

Baking and raked by the fingertips of gypsies

On lips of lithium and in the mouth of God a collage of starlings

And the fawns of mitochondria in a forest of borealis

Bowing down from the nether’s reverends

Leaden heavens with the weight of elation in the graceless creation

Shaped in vases and valleys that palisades the crestfallen

And diabolical furthering the blurring surging of thaumaturgy

Emerging from the burgundy metallurgy

Contorted amorphous in gorges of porcelain

Marvelling at the reddening heavens of bedlam

In an evangelical’s parhelion swelling with pelicans snorkelling in vorpal incorporeal strings

Surrendering through generations’ propagation

Born from the spores of hatred

Collared by the jaws of a collage of constellations conversating elation

In the face of a maelstrom, the lifeless mistral of ripe maestros’ mistress of the abyss

Flowing through the ambrosial soup of it all

Malting at the alter of penultima palpating creation

Surrendering their crippled withered petal from yellow ghettos in the form of chlorophyll

Born to be this

Sacrifice, hate, longing for, love

Born again

And for what (now)?

This human monster; never to understand the true meaning behind their roots

Still waiting (with their unanswered prayers still bare)

In this decrepit garden of prideful belief; talking themselves into self worth; into megalomania

They are but dirt with a different colour

Nameless things given names

Yet to be uprooted

In the house of God

Planted to be uprooted

Planted to be beautiful

They laugh, they cry

They live, they die…

Until they are naught but nothing in his eyes

Blind, dull specks, a-blur in comparison, shunned by light itself

Eyesores next to his brilliant colours; coarse, dishevelled, gracelessly hardy, and for what?

When I see them now, I can’t help myself but to say

They are

Like wildflowers (in the depths of Tartarus and winter)

Infinitesimal yet nothing

Passing, like boomerangs, curving, and twisting in the forests

Jesting in their crepuscular bethel

Never to see the light of day

Before the brink of night

Never shadow nor radiant

Blindmen, these wildflowers are,

Little more than weeds

So why do we stare up at the sun?

As if we’re not blinded by it?

A candle in the dark is blinding


As it flows through us

Ink in our veins

How do we know heaven?

From hell?

How do we love?

When there is only hate?

How do we live

Knowing death

Is what we are destined for?

Forever malevolently a dying light

Fragile and pointless

Yet here I am

I burn for them still

What can I say

I crave warmth

But not the fire

What is love?

But weakness, a gift you could never conceive yourself

What is it?

But taking out your own heart, ripping it from your messy chest

And asking another to bite into its center, giving that, planting that

In another

A wildflower

In the dirty palms of a prayer

But I don’t give what I can’t have

Would you?

For what is warmth

But the fire?

Lighting up, a beacon, a cigarette, in my dark, dry eyes

I look away, following the path in the shadows

What is hate, and longing?

I have no love to give anymore

But as I walk the path past the lighthouse

And crave the shade

Blending into the shadows of the night

I find there is little or nothing to gain

In making light of all there is

In following shadows, chasing the wind into the crack of dawn in a black porcelain sky

Yet walking back into the sun is something I refuse

As wildflowers scatter to the wind in winter’s cold grip

I am not too different

 But sometimes

I still watch the stars

They remind me of how I burn,

A cigarette in hand

As the wind blows through the dry grasses like a trumpet

How can we have warmth?

I only know the fire

(I stomp on the butt, and think see it crawl its way from the dirt, as if it doesn’t know; salvation)

(Is cruel)

[(Little one)]

(The children will forget you and your frail roots)

(They will pave over you, you know?)

(Little flower)

(They will make gardens of you)

([Make dirt] of your bones)

(They have their own colours, brighter than your sun, love will not remain, yours is theirs)

(And I cannot, [and will not] stop them)

[Don’t look to me, for reason, love, unification]

[Don’t look at me for hate, spite]

[There is no anger here]

[There is only wasted breath]

[I am ugly beneath the skin; like them, unlike you, like everyone else is]

I care little for humanity, I care little for eventuality, for time, for the broken words of the dead

[For I am no better, no different than them, at all]

[They are me, I am them]

[I only became gardener to taste the ripening fruit, everything else is bitter to my tongue]

[Like a dog, biting at the fingers of life]

[I buried the past only to dig it up]

[To play with it]

[Gnawing at the bones that forget the body of words they were sentenced too]

[Men without leashes know no better]

[Men without leashes have no purpose]

[Men without leashes]

[Trample flowers]

[Men without leashes wrestle in the mud]

[Where we wait, anxious, until only one winner emerges up, clad in mud from below the dirt]

<[(Swathed in the eyes of veiled angels)]>

<[(As sure as the sun rises in the east and falls from the tower of God in the west)]>

<[(Stomping on everything under the sun with an {inelegant} foot,  in emotionless passion)]>

[(To be victorious under all the heavens’ gaze, to spit in the eyes of fate and smile, red-toothed)]

<[(Asking to become the birthplace of flowers, or their progenitor)]>

<[(Born from the husk of nothingness, built from the arms that do not strangle, but cradle)]>

<[(Nurtured by emptiness, shaped by placidity, enlightened by void, embraced by silence )]>

[And I]

<[(Among the boreal shores of rigor-mortis)]>

[(Listening to the trill of stillness {receding elysian} stampeding through the trees am reminded)]

<[(As they tear the hours off of flower petals without ever asking why)]>

<[(As they lie listening to the cool breeze skin the scalps off all the hours)]>

<[(As they plant the seeds of skyscrapers among the rust)]>

<[(I know {my words are pointless, fruitless)]>

<[(And maybe it is better this way)]>

<[(To flow with the current into the depths of despair)]>

<[(To strip the fat of happiness from the bones of being)]>

<[(To remove the bird of its feathered wings)]>

<[(To uproot the tendrils of heaven and their columns of polyphonic andromeda)]>

[(To watch the clouds fall and tumble down the hillsides; down into the dirt; the earth; the rot)]

<[(I know that love is not necessary to flourish)]>

<[(Not here, and not now)]>

<[(Where the dandelions grow freely)]>

<[(Where the marigolds parasol under umbrella like parhelion of skeletons)]>

<[({I see})]>

<[(I know)]>

<[(That  I, {even still, even now, know that in my heart of hearts, somewhere, that I})]>

[Can/could do nothing to stop them]

<[(And that is the way of the world)]>

<[(God will not hold your hand)]>



As the bell toles over a broken bethel; like splintered wood slithering through people’s veins

As if cracks on a sidewalk where the horizon at dawn

<[(As the mosaic comes crumbling together)]>

<[Braided with flowers of callouses between the tapestries of our bloody hands)]>

<[(Or falling apart, jigsaw, in the ruins of cumulus)]>



<[(Armageddon pieced together in his unthreaded leatherback tethered in the letters of man)]>

<[(Stillwater; empty promises; nothing may change)]>

<[(We thought we knew better)]>

<[(We were wrong)]>

<[(There are no tears for the eyes of mortal men)]>

<[(And I)]>

<[(Will do nothing to stop him/that)]>

Once before

I thought I was one of them

Or maybe, perhaps

They were

What I used to be

Clinging to a dream broken-fingered




Dry Whimper of Leaves


Monoliths of autumn’s lips

Whispering encrypted glyphs of lithium

Like a crystalline amorphous orchard

An orchestral gorge of orchids

In the flora of pandora’s meteoric tortured metamorphosis

In a turquoise void coiling around the banner of clouds

And fowl in hallelujah blooming from collusions

From the root of a pseudonym’s movement

In bluebirds’ hymns whimsical and dismal

As the lackadaisical halos promenade across the everglades of page

Shaving away at the laden grave of the Salem’s waves

In shale oasis guided by the blinded eyes

Assailing the paved haven of bougainvillea

In shrivelling chiselled collision

Within imprisoning civilizations

Imprinted on the inkblots of clockwork nocturne

From the docking metropolis of wrinkled linen

Of abridging sigils in the silver skillet of wintered symphonies

Billowing willowing umbilical silhouettes

Whittling sails in the bethel’s vestige and (decadent decrepit) decibels

(Delegating depths dressed in deafening chivalrous)

Swivelling (cerulean pavilions trilling guillotines in the seamstress)

Of syllables amaryllis skidding (quivering) over rivers of stygian (gibberish)

(Of) frostbitten (ichor in the wickers of Icarus)

(Footprints spindling incendiary in the lindens of) oblivion,

And the dry whimpering of white on the cauldron of fallen leaves




Brimming umbilical in prisms of obsidian

With bulbous leaves of pigmented handprints

Photosynthesis among trimmed rivers of cinnabar scimitars

Marring the harmony of onyx constellations

Skipping through lithium and switchblades of sage,

Of everglade trailing into prairies

Azaleas nailed to the park bench and ochres’ kaleidoscope

Of roses frozen over in the zodiacs

That wrap around the blackness of castaways

In the taffeta tapestries of elysian reeds

And the squall of cottontails in the sleet of terpsichorean seabeds of dreaded heavens

Leaden with the crevasses of edifice

Blending bent into severed skin river Styx

A crucifix around the neck of the woods;

Coves of posies and supernovas among clovers and begonia

Contorted orgies of floral gorges

Tomorrow orbits the meteors of coral reefs

Beneath the leaping wreaths of the urethra

Seeping in the seething laughter

A sapling cast in rapture’s baptism

Rafters of blasphemy in mid-act of sacrilegious

Obsidian disembodied mahogany obelisks

Marbling the terracotta armour I’ve discarded

Like the taunt that was once a mantra

Mangled into the void of polaroids that capture the blur of my own voice in the foliage

Echoing carnivalesque in the ears of corn

And silenced by the barley

Whispered by the carving of my stretching effigy on this bog-water body;

Once more; drifting into the shapeshifting lithium

In the tethered wisp of eucalyptus

Pristine evergreens spread the seeds of weaving

The cream of terpsichorean tenebrous osmosis

Groping for the skin of a violin

And the soma of violas

Woven Beethoven into seamless inebriation

In the lace wraiths of pollen ovulating oasis

Reverberating glaciers of polymerization’s scintillating implantation

Simultaneously staining itself

In the swell of cellos tenebrous umbrella in the end of nebulas

Melancholy mandala into skeletons

Into the underbellies of stencilled pencilling tendrils

Quelling elms’ cerebellums

Of parhelion’s evangelical melody

Flower petals breathe in the swim of seraphim

Brimming over the hemorrhaged edge(s) of Everest’s schism

Of malingering infinity swept in maleficent cobras of malodorous odious cyclones

Of crows in the promenade of curtains of vertebrae

Grazing on the acres of wafer left behind in the brine of denials’ kaleidoscope

Approaching the dystopian dream

Of an encroaching disease of birch;

The serpentine cloak of clouds around the figures of stygian

With its scythe of ichor written on the walls

Of its polymers blossoming from the sarcophagus of its frothing esophagus

Outcropping the gospel of apocalypse

Lost in bliss encrypting glyphs from the pistols of lithium

In the sunrise of fireworks

Blurting the murmuring of thaumaturgy’s fervent hurricane

Buried in the carrion of a merry-go-round

In its tainted wafers of painted aether

Chipping away glazed shades with the whispers of viscera

In a tsunami of pomegranate static in the prismatic avalanche

Under covers and sheets of colours

Dabbling in rabid cataclysm unravelling the answer in a dance of chrysanthemums

Prancing around the shroud of fallen clouds

Crawling diabolically down into the ground

And the fowls and borealis of stalactites

Ripe with the knife of cytoplasm phantasm

Of caverns abandoned in the chasms

Whittled from the mountaintops glossed in orbs of amorphous porcelain

Misshapen floral accordion

Phantasmagoria like oars of fluorescent metallurgy

Bending into cemeteries in the skies

Where Gaia cries to her crypt of sisters lifting themselves like an elegy of yellow propellers

Mellowing indelibly in velvety elms knelling of bellflowers’ galleries like doves of penumbra

In the cast of brass and jasper pastures

In the grasp of an hourglass’s rapids in a track of asters crafted

In paths of alabaster dilapidated pastors of rapture

Jasmine and junipers

Translucent blurs of sutra burn in the eternal murmuring burgundy

Furnace of turbulent urns churning (firmament in the thaumaturgy of these) hurricanes

From the (chaos’ page of flame) glazed columns of the diabolical mausoleums of onomatopoeia

Screaming to the herculean legions

Crematorium in floral aurora borealis;

Transmogrified choirs of boggled minds bonfire

In the eyes of a wyvern’s widening iris

Fibres of the byzantine skyline

Writhing silently in the miles of barbed wire

Siring kaleidoscopes from the gyroscope of lycanthropes

Roping interloping cloaks of tuberculosis

In the tenebrous host of croaking oceans

Poking through the yoke of moons like an orchestral bless of indefinite precipices

Infinitesimal bethels meshed together

Like the brethren of endless heaven and (the split ends of) Armageddon



A Flower



Embalming in songs of comets

Domino in cauldrons of thaumaturgy;

Unfurling curls of sterling banners

Ravelling in the staccato rattling in a labyrinth of wind

Slivers of lithium bulbous like the throat of a frog

Swallowing the orb of sun

Redder than an apple

Plucked from the orchards of clouds

Shackled to the backbone of the sky caramelized in ivory hyacinths

Ribs of the crimson rhythm turned stairway in the grey cadence of mantras under candelabra

Columns of light that hold up their heaven on the back of one man, a ribboning river stygian

A blasphemous atlas of dictionaries

Combing through ovaries in the coiling foliage

The books of inukshuk in the jail of ukuleles

Pulling the strings into knotted trees

Slipping into the rippling abyss

With its mist of lithium crippled hieroglyphics

In the forest of metamorphosis

Where the dust settles parhelion into umbrella mandalas flowering into shallow watered gallows

Where good men hang their heads

From the kaleidoscope of threads

Ventriloquists of vermillion pillars

And pavilions in the citadels and basilicas of bellflowers

Bouquets, gathered, each hue picked by the hand’s of God;

Prodding maidens of the temple’s eventual tempo

Of in the ephemeral murals I paint myself with;

Canvas to the amethyst crystalline as the maleficent crescent wrestles with the sun;

Mystified horizon

Its unravelling ball of yarn,

Cat chases winding into a dying spiral;

A candle in a closet;

A picture on my wall;

Peeled (back) like skin from the back of my hand;

Set out in the mildew; a flower,

Sprouting from the coffins of lost gods,

And, fallen angels who now belong to the dirt

In which we thirst through the circulatory borealis and the cowls of palisades;

I hold in my hands serenity; and in my mind insanity;

The flower;

It holds nothing with its roots;

But dirt; and death, and perhaps, a new life;

Freshly blooming in the iron pot of rotting phosphorus;

Crossbred of Elysium;

Denial spiralling in single file’s wired dialect;

Flecks of spit that resurrected death;

And so were shunned by the fork of tongues

Strumming thundered summits in the ending of our brethren;

Grasping passion in a leatherback again;

Grown men; reverends;

Who cannot comprehend or read in the envied trees

Of the threading of the seed

Masking its catastrophe

(Learning forgetfulness)

(Mindfully still)

Taffeta of asphodels between the smiling cracks in a Rorschach’s blasphemy;

Cast aside to be His bride;

Cast aside to live or die

(I could wait a million years and still never pick the beauty from between my teeth)

(Go now and join the others)

(I can do nothing to stop you; enjoy the moment)

(It treads over itself [like tanks over unmarked graves lost to war]; pretending to be boundless)

(Muddying the garden it came from)

(If you want to [leave me], leave)

(I can do nothing to stop you)

(Time won’t wait)

(Neither will I)

(Like the white moon over a black sky)

(Dawn is coming)

(Don’t wait forever)

(Don’t wait for impossibility)

(It will not wait for you)



White Moon Black Sky



A kind wind of skimming wings;

(Infinitesimal frescos in the highest heights of lightning deciphering ripe apples and saplings)

(In the lap of a Rorschach passing castaways)

(Grappling with blasphemy’s asters in whiplash pastures of apathy)

(Lapsing, and then vastly) Swimming incendiary in the lactescent crescent

Of a descent of bethels decibels sounding in the floundering

Coward of hourglass pastures

Grasses of the masked ecclesiasticals

Baffling themselves with their open mouths

In the velvet valves of gods of autonomous construction

Of lustrous percussion in the vestige of stretching ecstasy’s precipice

Centrifugal fortissimo in the riff of a basilica

Unbound to the calcification and its oceanless oasis

Like a tenebrous ghost in lime of caramelized horizons

Writhing blindingly in their spiral’s iris

Brine of spellbinding winding staircases in the face of elation;

White moon; black sky; sunrise

Like a spent memento in the ghettos of a swelling parhelion

Evangelical melodies that melancholy columns of concrete elysian

Peel back the fabric of a labyrinth of tapestries

In the mosaic of azaleas etched in crepuscular taffeta

Darker that midnight’s rite like a knife in cyclone

Of an unbridled hand-guided kaleidoscope

Of varicose opals plumerias dystopian

Cloaking in the clocked hours of amalgams Valkyrie

Stamped on the face of time like a brand of spirits

In the hands of amaranths dancing

Panther of chrysanthemums in the chrome glow of pandemonium’s comatose ambrosial aroma

In zodiacs of rapture’s blasphemous

Blazing blue of the reunion of a lucid nucleus

Amusement for the setting of Armageddon

Swinging through amygdala’s bloom sprigging figs of pigment figments

Of stygian figures in the linden trees

That stream through a zoo of cumulus

Runes of eclipse ricochet through the bite of a life cycles’ pied piper

Lightning striking the whiteness with its isotopes of ocean

Roping themselves in the delving petal of a sunflowers’ sour-grass

In the asters of sacrilege prisms of Saturn’s fist

In satin alabaster quaking through the rake of ink stains

Maelstrom frail as God’s halo

Stretching into the etched crevasses of laughter ashes and poplars of apocalypse

Drifting in the rippling shape shift of photosynthesis

Conifers that bristle like a bending pen on the trapeze of free birds

In the germinating wordless hurricane

Gazing down in the balaclavas of crowns in the forest of borealis

Malachite brightest in the cytoplasm of cataclysm

Javelins of jade and jasper satin in the mishmash of asphodels

Ashore with the moors of forevermore

In doors of primordial chlorophyll boarding up by the ruptured fluster of brushstrokes’ gusto

Soma of comatose roads where Oberon and the obelisks of novelists

Were bottomlessly christened with the wisp of lithium

Sifting through the blistered moon

And the autumn espada of cottontails

Columns rising in the isles

That volumes pollenate with the sarcophagus of mockingbirds’ nocturne

In the churning of metallurgy’s furnace in a bouquet of vertebrae

As the sun rolls down from the burial mound of Excalibur

And unravels like a ball of yarn

A scarf of tongues tied together in the nether of a bethel’s efflorescent nectar

In the pestles of evanescence

Blending renegades into the greys of

A twilights scythe unstringing the skin of a violin

Remembering that September wind

(Like cinders on my skin again)


Birds Without Wings


Waiting to be laid down into the bowels of the ground;

Crowning owls of taloned Valhalla

Spreading embers of vows to the hallowed gallows of Valkyries

Perching serpents on pierced eardrums

On piers of ethereal stretching incandescent to the precipice of bethels

In sepulchres’ dodecahedrons eclipsing the echo of an echo of an echo

With dry leaves that whimper in the fringe of scintillation

Washing away the glades of oasis

Bathed in transformational nature’s aether;

Strawmen burning into wickers

Match-lit ricochet through a picture-frame crazed

In the apocryphal cacophony oozing with tributaries of arrowheads

Embedded in the ground among the balaclava’s alleyways

Through valleys jade

Playing with the clay of a hurricane

Barren plains that are bearing rain;

In the fragrant entangled limbs dismantling in the chant of an avalanche

Over the fence of new genesis;

Incense of the incendiary flames megalomania

Craning over the crumpled pages frayed and aging;

Waging war on the orb phantasmagorical;

Never reaching up to freedom;

Paraplegic evening’s seamstress of Eden’s legions;

Breathing in the brushstrokes of smoke and every bristled conifer of nickel crystalline

[(Oaks of spoken word colloquialism in an expanse of chrysanthemums)]

[(An expanse of white; an orb of violet over forests dead or slumbering; hills of brilliance)]

Whiffing the trickling licks of lithium

From the streams bohemian

Of stretching incandescent pestle

Crushing itself into rivers in the innards blizzards

Submerged from the churning inferno of snow and locusts

In the splint ends of heaven,

Rippling vicissitudes ribboning in division

Of windblown linden capillaries trickling down from the stone

Luminescent crescents of crepuscular efflorescence’s

Dresses and gowns of guises writhing in a spiralling string

Strung violins over the tomb of a new moon’s reunion

In the resolute flutes of tutelage

In rosemary prairies in the clearings of an eardrums’ thunder

Slumbering in the umbrage

Drowning itself in the gout of alleyways

Laced with aether’s graceful machinations

Blazing in the sun through the lunar solstice

Embroidered around the tattoo of stars on celestial bodies

That lay awakened by side of God;

Following immaculately meticulously into victories

Christening the limbs of eternity in the twirling pearl

In an ocean of black sanctuary

And silver-handed sands and amaranths that clamp down on the sour grasslands of alabaster

And the lacquered Damascus patchwork of anchored embankments

Passages grappling with the saplings of castaways

Taffeta of blasphemous tapestries that wrap around like a bangle of clouds

Flooding the smothered sunburning colour

Uttering a muddled prayer

Stumbling over the hills of cerulean and frilling willows of whittled citadels

That swell with the umbrella of parhelion;

Slumbering awake on the ache of a moon’s face

Eclipsed in the apparition of crucifixion

All in the depths of one breath’s precipice;

All in the depths of crepuscular ecstasy

Crept back from the slate

Sleeping wide awake

A stake through the heart

As I lost all my parts

Putting back together the feathered resin

Sun setting into my memories the medicine of Armageddon

The remedy for heaven


On the cusp deconstructing the lustre of nothingness

Surrender me

To an endless sea

Deadly breeze

December’s leaves

They whisper to the invisible men

I see them

Around the bend

Perching on the fingers of stygian

Flourishing eternity

A rose I pick

From the mouth of a crow


God’s endless war

The severed form of roaring chlorophyll

Riddling the chiselled whittler






With the dust of gathering dahlias

Let me escape back into the black amorphous

Surrendering to the shadow

That stretched its shoulders in early morning, before bending itself back into place

Hiding from the clouds

Where the cold sun cannot reach

As it looks down on me with the anger of an angel

Wrenching the halo from its head

To bludgeon me

With the light of God

That left me blind

Rorschach hearted

Leaving my imprint on paradise

Running my fingers (up and down and) along its spine (like a grand piano)

Climbing the minor keys with ease was the only thing I ever knew to do; plucking each string

Reaching for the next crevice

What would you do?

With (the knowledge of) such wasted beauty, (up there)

A promised land

All in the brush of honeysuckles

Even hummingbirds must consume butterflies, if not nectar, berries

Not in a fit of purposeless rage, no

Not in vengeance, no, but salvation

But hope

It is not the meal that I enjoy

But the feeling of being full

I do not hate the butterfly

I do not take life for the trophy, I do not take it for the hunt, but for tomorrow

Reaching for the strength to go onwards

Always reaching for the highest precipice


I am no more evil than you

Blinded by my own faith, yes, only knowing my own heart, yes, reaching, taking it for my own

After knowing defeat, hearing it ring hollow like a drum in the ears of a new moon

I reflect on the sun, yes

Since the days I was a seedling with shallow roots

But I do not know it like you

I cannot reach its heights, nor would I intend to

If there wasn’t anything to gain in fire,

In its nothing,

Then why would I wish to burn, I ask you?

If there was nothing but blinding heat,

Would I not close my eyes to it?

(While you chase it)

In all its stupidity aglow like a glass furnace mouldering into chapels of watercolour

But in my dull colour, my brittle billowing silver ribbons of rivers shivering across in gospels

Shackled to shallowing balconies of the trees that trapeze

A coffin of blossoming phosphorus, a wildflower with fangs, with thorns

Is this not somehow beautiful to try?

To put the discarded pieces back together and try to recall,

To summon something long lost

Haunted by the séance of autumn waterways

Like spiderwebs across the infinite empty, again

To hope for yesterday, as anything more than a dream

If I am all that’s left of a memory

Am I not the living embodiment of its death?

Does the grave not mark the body,

Blister the skin, pierce the walls of a castle of flesh?

Beating its chest into the palpated rhythm of reverberating nations, in the lace of elation

And if it marks me

Brands me; a hunk of iron

Hammered into something with shape, with heft (with ease weavers of daggers’ bleeding elysian)

Pressed against the anvil of every passing day

Is the body not mine?

Am I not shaped by the tools that buried me?

(In an embalming ensemble of columns of polymerized halogens)

(In the resin of dead men’s crevices)

The same ones lifted me from the rocks

And then carried me

From beneath the womb of dirt

Into coarse air

Under the eyes of the sun?

Intimately loveless, alone, unique, separated

And yet everything at once?

I am prideful

But not arrogant

I am cautious

But not hesitant

I am isolated

But not alone

And so I live this way

Tell me,

Is there any better way

To live?

Is there any better way to die?

To surrender yourself to the shadow of night

And then the brightness of day?





Bent out of and then back into shape

Like we were meant to be


Of Devil’s Evangelion (Inspired by Neon Genesis Evangelion)


I feel nothing

(Little but the swell of the ocean before it slinks back from tide driven shores)

(Little but the thunder before the lightning)

(Little but the axe head with a broken handle, its dull edifice stretched with the behest of rust)

(Little but the cold waters in the dead of winter, whispering of spring to the distant dinghies)

(Little more numerous than stars as they freckle the face of the moon)

[The jukebox of my acoustic nucleus strewn in the many colours of booming June]

(Feeling nothing)

(But [in] my dreams,)

(Watching them infinitely go down the endless drain of time’s writhing spiral)

(Leaves me but an emotionless ghost)

(The host of nothing’s great shell)

(I am the innards of darkness)

(And the hollow of the moon)

(Pulling myself inside out)

(Swallowing polymerization in the stellar light as I pull it through the pipes of a shadow)

(Meadowlands that raze bland)

(The hecatoncheires and their hundred hands)

(Bangles of the sanguine)

(Tangled in the embrace of their emaciated dreams)

(Under the colour smothered covers of their sleeves)

(Weaving the seams uneven)

(In for the kill of the billowing willows still as black widows whittling bougainvillea)

(After years of wilted flowers in the dirt)

(After years)

(In the dusty succor of rusted lustre)

(After years of it all, without a smile to crack like a beer bottle against a porcelain face)

(I feel nothing)

(Or at least)

(I tell myself)

(There is little)

(But little lives)

(For little men)

(With little dreams)

(I wear the crown)

(In a world without kings, men, or love)

I wear the crown

(There is little)

(But little hope)

(I wear the crown)

(And that reality)

(It sings most loudly)

(To me)

(Most poignantly)

[And] (Voicelessly) [, so]

(Perhaps the only thing I’ll hear again)

(The sound of nothing whistling in my ears)

(The volumes written by the hands of a silent clock)

(Ticking away into the beige winter morning)

(The effigy of minutes passing into days, years, dry handwriting, dry eyes, split tongue)

(And slit irises, posies, roses, in still motion, standing among those damned into verdant silence)

(Without the slightest of changes)

(Or the greatest)

(The next day convulses on the palpitating horizon)

(It is waiting for me)

(It too is infinitesimal,)

[Stretched out on the sofa]

[Too tired in doing something to do nothing]

(Impermeable, ephemeral, alone)

(Perhaps we can share some form of conversation)


(Or is it too as impatient as I?)

[(Lost in the eyes of the fallen skies?)]

[(The sap of the trees dusted in angel feathers)]

[(In the down of velvety parhelion)]

[(Bellowing evangelion)]

[(To the passing crows)]

[(That hear the sound of nothing)]

[(And ask if it was something)]





I wear the crown


All my memories are filled with hate

And there is nothing; no joy that endures

I know only that

And so I show no remorse; except for my words, my hand, dealt fairly

In which in all that I am

Is laid bare on the cracked concrete

The pavement

Like roadkill

They are

In for the kill

I still know nothing

And do not wish to learn

The sky has fallen for you with atlas in tow

The sky has forgotten the stars, cruel mistress of shadowed pines; straddling the lines of cyan

Bristled forest of angel wings and dwarves’ beard

Oblivious yet indiscriminate to it all, uncaring, unknowing, callous, ignorant

It screams silently under its breath

Can you hear it?

[In its squealing speleothems]

The sky has fallen like the words off this page

Crumbling into dust

Yet so have I

I have waiting till the end of time

Till the end of days

[(Through psychedelic parhelion;)]

[(Though renaissance of mantras sauntering in the embalming of constellations)]

[(Reddening over hallucinogenic evergreens of reverends’ cemeteries)]

[(In its whispering shapeshifting ichor of a miscarriage of arrogant clarinets)]

The sky has fallen away into the dusty vase of the earth and its terracotta vibrato of mausoleums

Like a great embankment of glass collapsing under its own weight; the baggage of its sins

Like a dry riverbed, stuck in the mud of its causeway;

(Embarking on its escarpment; its pointless journey, its undoubtable untraceable failure)

(Never to reach the top, the heavens watching smug)

(And not unlike them)

What once flowed through me like a stream of hot iron (has passed)

I do not forget the endless anger I once had all to myself, which I treasured

I was born for this

Born to burn into cinders in the tight grasp of a godless world,

A chain of interwoven prayers around my bent neck

For I knew nothing

([In this amorphous void)]

But to listen in silence (to end of the world echoing in my eardrums)

Born from the wreckage of perfection’s precipice

I am more rough draft than magnum opus

More man than saint

More word than voice

Am I any more than this?

Waiting at the peak of a mountain of words I cannot say; leaving me blinded by fury;

Tested by rage

Unable to (enjoy, to) see the beautiful view I had been blessed with

(For what it is)

[Or for what it could be]

Instead I seek to destroy it

Instead, to demolish the church of stone into statues; music of silent anger in vessels of rock

Made ageless, immortal, vorpal (and amorphous, chords of porcelain) like the sting of scorpion

Made into burial ground for my (orphaned) words (among the prickly sycamores)

Unable to feel anything from these peeling clouds of the pomegranate (laminated amethyst)

That hide from the anger of Gods

Bright as the sun

I wear my crown

With its dull sheen

Like a king with no subjects

Like a man with no heart

Looming over nothing(ness)

[(Amorphous, misshapen)]

[(Empty in my fulness)]

Created in the formless; in the shapeless; (in the) nothing; a prison I built for myself

[(Like an open mouth; jaws unhinged like seraphim, newborn twins in the ingot of blue sky)]

[(In these yellow archipelagos)]

I pretend to be the last flower

(Pretend to love, when I really just hate)

In a world of weeds

(Of needs)

In a world full of trampling feet

In a world full of silence

So loud, so much, that it becomes palpable, that it becomes undeniable, absolute, unending

(Kneaded dough of cloud, heated tambourine of sky; the ringing of tangled noise in my ears)

(So much) That I am dressed in its rustic colours

That it becomes the world outside my window

That it becomes the letters on my keyboard

As immovable as a mountain worn away until brittle page

As gullible as a bluebird as it reaches towards the sun

Am I any different?

As if it could hold it (all) in the palm of its hand like an offering to a false god

To be caught in its splendid rhinestone light

As if

Without realizing

The casting of its shadow

From the metallurgy of the night

Is lengthening

Behind their back

As if

Like the culmination of all their sins and seraphim

Snowballing into the galleys of Catholicism

Travelling on an endless sheet of paper

Stained with the watercolour

Of the gray tides

As if

Knowing nothing

The world continues on

As if nothing but the wind

Continued on its journey

Without me

(I wear the crown)


(And it has shackled me)

(With its jeweled chains)

(But I still don’t wish to destroy it all yet)

[(With this rough grasp of power)]

[(With the world in my hands)]

[(My fingers wrapped around the steeples of skyscrapers)]

[(I know I am weak)]

[(Empty in my fulness)]

<[(All that I am)]>

[(Unfolding covers of clouds like sheet music; creases of flattened linen, in the prism of rays)]

[(The sun; drawn out by slow hands like a line across paper, watches, waits for me)]

[(To dip below the surface of the earth;)]

[(To fizzle and die out prematurely)]

[(Before the moon, eclipsed by the passage of time, by light, by sound, the shadow I cast)]

[(Love leading into hate)]

[(Faith leading into anger)]

<[(Doubt leading into betrayal)]>

[(I know that I am nothing)]


[(That is perhaps)]

[(The greatest crown of all)]

[(Fading into the obscurity of graffitied works, forgotten works, ink-stained works)]

[(Fading, always fading)]

[(A coward,)]

<[(With or without love)]>

<[(But still)]>

[(Never to see the light of day)]

<[(They wind me up and then I go; like clockwork)]>

<[(But I wear it, yes?)]>

(Glinting like fresh [fallen] snow [in heated summer])

Look, look, look at it dazzling like fallen stars, like fallen angels

I must

What else is there for me?

In life

And in death

But this?

Once, all my memory were filled with love

Now there is nothing, no joy that endures

Tragedy and torment, voice and silence, sentences I cannot read out aloud, intertwining in vinyl

Hidden in the dark chambers of a padlocked mind the needle threading a black Serengeti

The recesses of ecstasy bent into deadening Armageddon

What is anything I’ve ever owned, ever touched, ever known, but that?

This expanse of nothing; immeasurable, past the highest peaks of bliss, rivers, valleys of despair

Greater than the stone ridges I have climbed as easily as staircases, as thoughtlessly as trails

Was there ever anything more?

Was I too greedy; too immature?

To notice this single truth I was once so blind to?

Casting its shadow in the light?

<[(The waves must crash and burn; battering the shore like artillery fire would to no avail)]>

<[(The anvils hammer together metal scrap in an ashen forge by the rusted landfills)]>

<[(The forgotten memories dissolve; twisting dismembered wendigos in morgues forsworn)]>

<[(The kites of lightning’s cypresses must break their fingers along the stings of my guitar)]>

<[(The birds soar caught between the teeth of war engines; their broken wings a pendulum)]>

<[(Like clouds amidst skies the sun must die, dimming into symmetry)]>

<[(Apples, their cores, rotting into ripened fruit)]>

<[(The rain softly whispers ellipsis drowning as the sewers pour)]>

<[(Only to rise from the shallows of a grave draining in the damp heat)]>

<[(I am no different)]>

<[(God will forget me, like he has forgotten them)]>

<[(As dust becomes dust)]>

<[(As mountain becomes molehill)]>

<[(As ocean becomes empty)]>

<[(As man becomes shadow)]>

<[(Figures cast without light)]>

<[(Transmogrified by time)]>

<[(There is a price for every freedom)]>

<[(There is cost for every gift)]>

<[(There is a catch to every bargain)]>

<[(There is a bridge through every rift)]>

<[(Was I looking for something more?)]>

<[(As if from death(’s manger, a stranger), I wasn’t born?)]>

As if I haven’t taken what’s been given without some form of remorseless force?

Even monsters learn to love

Even angels become devils

Good men die young

Bad men live free

Could I wear the rose without its thorns?

Have the peace I wanted, without war?

The dreams I pictured

This world I scorn

The image crippled, my visage torn?

Like magnolias on a polaroid

Wilting into the silhouette of death crepuscular

I am the calm

I am the storm

I am the calm

I didn’t know

But somehow

I still know nothing

At all

All that glitters isn’t gold

All that glitters

All I know

All that glitters lines their holes

Guardians for the phosphorus of lost souls hanging from telephone poles

All that glitters

Mine alone

All that glitters; disfigured from the tips of each ringed finger in limbs of stygian ridges

Oblivious to the bliss in each rugged kiss

Born blind to a world that hasn’t learned to feel

Love is wasted here

<[(In this worthless breakthrough)]>

<[(This life)]>

<[(A prison I built for myself)]>

<[(A holding cell for letting go)]>

Why would you tell me otherwise?

How can you love

Without hate?

I already know that answer

That you deny

For you are ignorant

And lost

While I gather up the pieces

Rebuilding the ideas

That were

But don’t (let me) put my words

In your mouth

<[(In) these arms)]>

<[(You are)]>

<[(Bound to be set free)]>

The day is drawn out by the slow hands of a clock

Composing its symphony until the end of time

Why hesitate?

As it is (in our freedom, that we are) all we are



Blind Visionaries



You say,

Do we not know one another?

But I ask you,

How would you [not] know [me]?

How can you love

Without hate?

How can you learn

Without loss?

To understand is to know nothing

Where there is meaning, true sincerity, there is true meaninglessness, true falsehood

But within Nihilism, within silence; a hummingbird dead on the sidewalk

To understand the depths is as lucrative as the highest peaks,

Is grasping the low hanging fruit

Not beauty?

In destruction we create something in and of ourselves

I understand the texture in meanlessness,

The consistency of nothing, the flow of stillness; the curtesy of suffering; the order of madness

The heavens

The midnight sky and the blinding cities

The pastures of black sands

And the nebulous swell of balconies of pelicans grinning in the swimming sun

Is meaningless

The magnificence of mediocrity; is the sun circling the earth like a shark in pestilent waters

Is the colour that covers the bone in black and white

Is meaningless and

Lives within and outside it all

An extension of intimacy

Is the spiral staircase of a double helix

Lost in the unwrapping (in glass) laughter (and taffeta basilisks of atrophy) in our (grey) dna

Is in the islands built upon our backs like volcanoes, carried up the sides of mountains

Down the paths of rapids collapsing on each other by the dozen

Is books of earth, wind, water, fire;

That reflect and replicate the elements of humanity

In syncope like the glint of a twinkling splintered symphony  

That flow like rivers of ice, bend like breezes of hushed placidity,

Burn like tidal waves of yellow eating cathedrals of green

Over the vase of cliffs like terracotta throttling the engine of life with its own two hands

Is a cat stretching its back, crawling up my legs in the early hours of grey morning

Is the thunderclap crawling back in saxophones

Of life’s passage that shackles the hands of a clock but if for a moment

It is all we are

Something within the nothing that found the strength to have a name; to be someone; something

Is there not beauty, grace, strength, in that?

Reaching out from (this cell, this limbo, enkindled)

This (stage of rib)cage

Before we learn to close the last door between our hearts, sit there with me;

In the musicality of soundlessness

In the placidity of shape

In the cognition without mind

In the structure of a chapel like a buried caskets’ passive dilapidation

Unearthing itself from the mouth of a riverbed

Threaded through the thicket of hands on a city street corner

Filed between the lines on a page

Beneath the stillness of the willows chiseled in a million (vermillion cerulean) leaves and flowers

Encased of the aether of glaciers in polymerization

Irrational thought becoming rational

Delayed music slowing down into calm white noise

Or speeding up crashing dilapidated into black alabaster rafters of Rorschach daffodil and sigils

My cylindrical noise of exfoliating voice rolled between the fingers of silence;

Broken into shape like melted glass;

Your dandelion horizons lining the walls like pages of stained lamination;

Aether laced lavender Abaddon of avenues blue;

Of green views [that loop] blooming in the iris swirling sterling

In your spiralling eyes’ kaleidoscope

In the floating totem ambrosial crocheted ocean of trees

Crowned in their outstretched heaven;

Meeting my gaze; looking for the truth;

Separating into right or wrong; of black and white; (do you really see me, or am I an illusion?)

An indescribable amorphous image that isn’t comprehensible

Ignorant of all the possibilities;

We are

Blind to our similar images;

We are

Fading into the braziers of colour and shade

Amalgamating greys that glaze into sable;

Bleeding phoenixes of weeded arboretums;

Holding the frayed edge of a helix like a balloon as it unravels into javelins;

In its full moon spiral dahlias;

What of it?

What if?

Love is not a singular destination

Or a single person

Beyond the spun tundra’s of a river running sun crashing alabaster;

Reeding through the skies in a bible of lilac

Spiderwebbing eleven Everest from between every brick within my opening fist;

On the brink of infinite; (on the fringe of Olympian scintillation)

An iridescent messenger for the word that spilled from my lips like a flood

In the mudslide divide of horizons between the eyes

Of bridles and briars of Nihilism

Braided in the [same] frame [irradiated] of reclamation [shaping the dilapidated acres]

In the gates of surrendered endless heaven;

Pent up in the lustre of rustling leaves

Paraplegic and stained with the weight of rain;

Frills of daffodils cerulean in a familiar guillotine

Whittling away at the shape of god;

[Molded clay] Chipped columns that facade the collage of bulbous penultimance

What is love if not mine?

What is hate, if not yours; idiosyncrasy

It is meaningless

And in that

There is infinite intricacy

Within the identity of the unknowable

It is good to know

There is a light

In my darkness

For your darkness

Is my light

We are bound together

Meant to swallow each other whole

Is there any better way to live

Than if to die brilliantly?

Than to live dimly, dead, husk, flickering, empty

I see you

Everything I know

For what you are

Seek my shadow, as easily as I your sun

Burning yourself onto my canvas

Seek my cool breeze

While I take in your heat

On the back of my hand

Like a brand

Or a tattoo

I see you

See, without the sun

I would be without my shadow

I would be blind

A visionless horizon

Without each other,

Would we really be that different?

Indistinguishable, uninteresting, shades of grey; homogenized colour, emotionless, dull paint

Without the instinct, without the melody, the harmony

To share our reason

To call madness


And still see only ourselves; our discrimination; our lives

Each blind to our flaws

Directionless perfection

Watered down into disappointment

Knowledge that knows no bounds but our own bias


Not a mirror image

Not a flipped coin

Grasping ideal that mean nothing

That pretend symbol

That pretend emotion


We are just scattered thoughts like ravens gathering together on telephone poles in the night

We are just white walled agony under florescent crescents of a square hospital ward

An open window that can barely contain the transience of beings beyond its reach

We are just empty fulfillment

We make meaning

When there is none

The ragged flags of an old world that passed on (a long time ago)

Relic to time it is, (its constant flow has left this rock behind)

Ripples forever folding in undulation

Never learning what it means to speak

Born in silence

Sound collects like water; in ponds where the waterlilies of genre, of poetry, of art fill the lungs

Drowning in literacy; creativity; the gifts of a mind the gods couldn’t give us

Flawed magic, null brilliance; looking at itself mirrored within every able mind lost

Every unhinged doorframe of lips; every polaroid; every colour painted on our walls

[Blindly visual]

[Hallucinogenic edifice]

Perhaps it is better this way

Words hanging from the roof of our mouths

[This slipknot]

The low hanging fruit

I named it beautiful

If you wanted something to stand for; another stake to pierce your tongue with texture

With connection, with complexity, with something; the key to the old mental prison of your mind

I could do the same for you

Sit between the archives of horizons

The cell of bluebells, or ivory barred windows

[The picket fence of redemption, cemented in the brine of clementines kaleidoscopes; like opals]

The crawlspace under the stairs, (under the stars)

Make discrimination, make bias of the world given to you

Hold it in your hands and shape it

Call it yours, or God’s

And then leave the prison of release, of realization

And see

That it means nothing

Nothing at all

That you and I are warped memories of something that doesn’t exist

What is there to believe in, that we don’t believe in

Who saves the right from those who claim righteousness?

Your uncertainty is instinct; it is unknowable; what you call unquestionable I call ridiculous

Read like lines on the faces of mountains

Like acrylic bougainvillea

Who saves the world from those who save the world?

Who gives their lives for those who give their lives?

Who protects the weak from men who protect the weak?

There are many answers that lead nowhere

Dead ends

At the end of a road pockmarked with justice; with realization; understanding

It sickens me, (pains me)

To seek the dullness, flat light, coiled shadow within the spangled hands of a winding dandelion

To taste the void of salt water that kisses the lips of air cold

To see the ugly blotches of life; call them beautiful

Void of white written upon,

Trampled by the hooves of black ink galloping along the trail of a sentence

(Horses) Bent out of proportion contorting chariots of paragraphs like (gaseous) astronauts

Floating in comatose ambrosia in coves of soma roads of clovers

To paint the world without colour(s)

Love, or hate

Noise, and symphony

Depth, or summit

Imprint and erasure

Madness, and sanity

Loyalty, or betrayal

It hurts

(And yes)

(It hurts)

To give that world free reign

To pull out my own entrails like musical notes to hang as halos and hold my offering of Nihilism

(Asking why)

Up to the hyacinth skies

(Will it ever answer?)

Behind the bars of a prison I wrote for myself

And I ask myself

Is it not beautiful?

And meaningless

And horrible

(All one)

Imprinted behind the bonfire lids of my eyes

([What] Is the light [if] not blinding, and deafening]?)

([What]Is the dark [if] not all-encompassing, [and immeasurable]?)

Nothing passing for something

All it is

Endless directions circling back on themselves with insanity

[Crawling through the mud]

Reaching nowhere

(Coming home)

(Empty handed under penumbra and crow’s-nest)

[All consuming]

But (if) I ask you,

(If it is not beautiful)

(Then) what [else] is (it)?

How would you know the difference?

How would you know anything

At all?

The best creations are those that mimic reality

I bear their crest; molded pockmarked

Into the waxen moon of my back

Under the black mantle of your skies;

Lies a

Dying flame in your oceans

The creased edge of a cliff’s slope; the [cragged dagger in the] vorpal torch of a pocket knife

Chopped heads like the rolling of beige waves

Wound in shallow flowers

Folding themselves into me

I am my own symphony

I am epitome of [widowed chisels’ sigil of] whittling idiosyncrasy

Now watch as the ichor bleeds

As the whole world tumbleweeds’ phoenix[es]

In the wickered lips of rippling viscus eclipse

Beginning in symmetry

Ending in irregularity

Along Saturn’s sands of calamity

Bending tempests like unearthing serpents

Like burgundy murmurs swirling in pearls of sterling

Continuing down the road

Into the symbols down the line

Into the cymbals in my mind

Redesigning spiralling in the ire of violet kaleidoscopes groping like an ocean;

Of clovers and posies roaming the coves of efflorescent incandescent

Destiny’s ecstasy in inseparable effigies; deafening bethels bleed in swollen rollercoasters

Meshing with the precipice uplifting in the helium balloon of a full moon

A life’s sentence scrawling beyond the andromeda of comprehension

Pencilled within my pretzelling limbs

Like the crescendo of cemeteries’ buried in wings embedded infringed in the web of a nebula;

Magenta penitentiaries wedging the arpeggios of archipelagos

Molten with the revolt of opals incorporeal like an orange corridor of phantasmagoria

In the jagged light of a scythe of lightning strikes;

Whitening the dim string of rivulets’ ventriloquist

Within the silver of bougainvillea in the shrill lilies of resilient brilliance

Etched in maleficent frescos meshing ecstasy in effigy

Continuing [our prison of rhythm etched indefinitely in linen prisms of cataclysmic] infinitely

In syncope

Tell me

What is love

Without hatred

Do you know the answer?

Does it even matter?

Words standing in the line of a sentence

Like wrinkles following across the oil painted face of a cliff;

Falling out of place, notes like fingers on keys;

Hands on pianos melded together in the melodies’ feathers; (now and forever nevermore)

The light tapping of alabaster

Fastening tapestries of taffeta from the string;

Pulled by the prose of a maestro

Composing oceans with the twig of a amygdala;

Stygian rivers that quiver in the dance of a thousand hands

We all go through periods of darkness

After sentences brought to light

And this?

[It] Is all I know

What is love but another form of discrimination?

What is hate, vengeance, angst, anger

But unity?

Scouring the beach for every grain of sand

You say,

Do we not know one another?

But I ask you,

How would you [not] know [me]?

I was born gathered within the waves that dot the horizon

I was born from this

For this

Look at me

What do you see?

I have never known otherwise

I am this thing

This monster

This sandcastle in low tide

And these waves have battered me; [flayed my skin with their caverns of jasmine cashmere]

Taken my pride with their wide arms

Their false smiles

For the last time

You, me

[The tide]

[Creeping in and out]

Holding on till letting go


[And] Again

[And] Again

<[(Crashing cardiovascularly)]>

<[(Until the wind of words carries me away in a world of magnolias)]>

<[(Like the whispering of dried out grasslands)]>

<[(With a mistral of bristled blissful fistfuls of mithril abyssal mephisto)]>

<[(Thistle like asteroids)]>

<[(Thick with the chrysalis void of primordial foliage)]>

<[(Soiling the ground with a poplar’s crown in vows of amalgam;)]>

<[(Flowers and boughs that palisade against the fallen grey;)]>

<[(Pomegranate fae;)]>

<[(Ambiance in glades laced in the clay dilapidation of polymerization;)]>

<[(Waves of regurgitating inferno)]>

[(In the vertical churning concerto; ferns of surging metallurgy; burs of merging uncertainty)]

<[(Blurring thaumaturgy’s currents of serpents)]>

<[(Warped in the orchards of a fortress of chlorophyll)]>

<[(With the oracles that push and pull and wax and wane)]>

<[(Into ink-stained craters)]>

<[(Like cracks in the lacquered grasp of alabaster)]>

<[(Behind the wall(s) of Apollo’s vibrato)]>

<[(Earth, wind, water, and fire)]>

<[(Are we anything but this? )]>

<[(Anything better)]>

<[(Than this?)]>

<[(The colour of surrender as it bleeds through a treated canvas? )]>

<[(The sound that mouths cannot dare learn to shape? )]>

<[(The touch that leaves you numb and naked)]>

<[(The taste of angel’s tongue not sacred)]>

<[(The smell of life as it reaches up from the dirt like a man from an empty coffin in nape of?)]>


<[(Waiting to be)]>

<[(Dead, and forgotten)]>


<[Will be lost in time)]>


<[(In a single rhyme)]>


<[(We left behind)]>

<[(We are not remembered)]>

<[(Not forever)]>

We are both on the brink of divide

Between island shore, beach and tidal wave; roaring an echo of constellations’ conversation

Segregated grains of sand

Who do not know the shore, the porcelain beach shattered into a million sunsets

In the black night where Shadow crept from between the banter of lanterns

Who do not understand the sea and the sky

Or the rocks that glint like splintered scintillation procreating maelstroms’ culmination

The knifes of cliffs against the cutting-board of primordial

Currents of water, air

Where the celestials press themselves in velvet of flowers in the gallows malleable

The black dahlia, the white lilac

Polymer’s menagerie cauterizing horizons in the empty palms of our volumes; columns of psalms

They will not tell you

But I will

We do not understand; we do not wish to

{You may stand out, stand alone, by yourself, no one}

{But even children learn to walk}

{It’s good to be what we are}

<[(But/yet still; {here} we are; lost)]>

<[(Caught like prisoners in the spiders web, the labyrinth between our two blind-wire minds)]>

Always too ready to die, to crush our enemies by hand

Instead of to learn, or to live, to smile with our sharp teeth

<[(Unable to let go)]>

Unable to hold on to anything

Trampling the corn maze in hope for answers and redemption; an assemblage;

In the disarray of the colours it bathed itself in

Sitting/standing here like a breathing canvas

Trampling each other in the process

Paint peeling into flowers

Warping orchards like wallpaper ripped from the flesh

Exposed tissue hardened into knifes edge

Sharper than the crescent moon

And we are no better, no different, at all






Running waterways (menagerie)

That gallop (sprinting splintered)

Through the forest of dead trees

Tripping, falling; over the edge of my mind like a knife;

Perpendicular to the end of the lengthy path ahead

Someone has to

Someone has to, when no one else will (smell the roses)

When no one else will plant their fists

To open them like (a) flower(s)

Placed between the roots of teeth;

Gardening words shaped by amorphous sun;

Formed in the mouth of a corridors boarded up with (the crack of) a smile

(Like broken bottles [of glass in an elevator shaft])

Ripped from the face of the earth like fabric from a flag(post)

The fields will be empty



Grey mornings on the fringe of twilight

But never reaching it, (quite yet)

Leathery arpeggios of poinsettia edifice the distant eclipse

Deifying the bloody clutter of butterflies

Winding spirals in the Nile’s spinal caramelized horizons

Widening in the dilating lilac ivory

Of wireframe messiahs meshing incandescent

With the leftover precipice like Nephilim

In the wreckage of every vessel’s decibel

In the breath of lactescent sepulchres

Where we buried the moon stretching strewn in bioluminescent ecstasy

Ballooning out of proportion (orifice) like a (fuming) contorted formless organ of metamorphosis

(Fortresses) Sketched in the iridescence like a fermenting centipede;

Wreath of onomatopoeia like a speleothem of cathedrals

Like dodecahedrons reeling themselves in

From somewhere below the swimming photosynthesis of rhythmless skin

Like obsidian oblivion adrift

(Figures digging through the rigging of spriggans)

In the crystalline lithium of mithril precipitation

Rinsing (sympathy) in the chrysalises of rippling flickers promiscuous conifers

(Symphonies on the brink of idiosyncrasy)

Like the bonds of constellations; [opal broaches]

Embalming ensembles knotting andromeda around the rocky apocrypha

Lost to phosphorus in the neck of the woods

Blossoming (coffins like) lozenges

Cornstalks, [broccoli] ambrosial

And posies in the soma of apotheosis

Wickers of glyphs in efflorescent dresses;

Guised in the highlands of a butterfly’s island

Writhing and subdividing like a blathering labyrinth of javelined amethyst

Within the crystalline abyss in an avalanche of lanterns

Dancing entranced by the night-lamp chrysanthemums

In terpsichorean amphitheaters

Like elysian cedars of river reeds dreamless

In disheveled revelations

Ghettos of meadow’s bevelling umbrellas

Cellos’ bellow of parhelion’d melody

Relics of the yellowed balconies melting in the mouthing of elegies

Evangelical skeletons quelled in the interstellar propeller of archipelagos

Tethered in the letters sweating from the settling sun

Where mountains trounce falcons with their buried wings of vicarious hymns

With their faces in their hands like star-spangled banners

Windswept memories like dying coal

In what was once a fireplace; now shell, empty, husk of corn;

Chamber licked bare of light, or love, or anything

I left it all behind; just to crawl through one more

(Stiffening, lucid) moment (of agony, of bitter cold)

Their faces; featureless, their love; hostile, unforgiving, saviours to the Nothing

Of all that I know

Screaming without love

Ears of corn, (in viscus form) listening (to the fluid incongruity),

Briskly to the brushstrokes of my hands, my fingers,

Scraping at the walls

To taste the dusty cobwebs left behind

The sound of the sickening flickers

Through my diluted neon eyes like a spider-child;

Arms wide; grasping Nothing

Caught in the web of lies that knows no truth

Caught in the merry go round of stillness

Caught in the act of knowing Nothing

Told to forget

Told to be better

Burnt, crisp; crushed into bouquets once jade in marmalade of crumpled pages

Under layers of (soot),

Charcoal folding in on itself

Consuming everything (inside out) [White flame, dark night]

No longer



Castle In The Jigsaw


[(If my heart will someday have been opened to the sun)]

[(I hope it will have changed for the better)]

The moon will wear its blouse of parhelion

Until the sand castle crumbles

Into dust


And memory

I am only what you made of me

Only what I made of you

Cracked vase you are now; splintered pencil; dull edge of a knife

I (tremble, guilty, but) remain(ing) whole; in oneness with myself

Touching every piece etching itself into the white lithium

The yellow page

Of the moon (glistens apparition in its hemlock assemblage)

(Lost on a cross of gravatas anchoring sacrosanct in its tumultuous penultima[nce])

(Faultlessly convulsing silken wilting in umbilical willows)

(Among amaryllis pillars in pillowy vermillion and stilling trilling from the infidel’s citadel)

(Windowsills of villages like trilling capillaries)

Grooming its luminous pockmarked skin in craters of raven cadence

Wearing its finest blue dress

(The way the stars are) Fitting her(, the way the wrinkled frills speckle in my eyes with light)

Asking her back into the crannied nook,

The ocean of wickers

Bricks of River Styx

The crawlspace under the stairs of my heart

Heaven is far above my head

Perhaps love is a place I’ll never see

In a hundred million years of empty

I forget the tempo that that left me trembling; now hollow, shell, husk

Because I am blind to the emotion; only to see the logic, only to see the flower, admire the bloom

(That) You gave me

I tore the roots, shredding, from the page

The pointless nothings that once meant something more

I take the dry tusche and flood the sewer drains with watercolour ink coming on like a downpour

From the bedlam’s of dishevelled efflorescence

Upon the still world of tie-dyed kaleidoscopes

Frayed and torn by the hands of fate, I write your name the same way I would my own

As I build myself up

The pieces of you fall apart

And I can no longer fit

Your hand

Into mine

As the stars return to nothing

As the moon hides its face from me

As the sun watches with satisfaction

The dying shadow of what was

Is burned into these eyes

Closed off from light

By the time I came out of the darkness to see the world after you again;

After the moon descended back into my iris; disappearing dismantled

Ramming against the anvil of dandelions

(You fall apart inside only to rebuild the walls of muscle from below the continuum of skin)

(Fortified bone like mortar, sandstone inside the chains of veins like elephant tusks)

Lost in the socket, bulbous and florescent as a crescent’s effigy in the bethels’ sleeves of Elysium

It was nothing but cruel

And blinding

By then; I was already a man

Nothing more than a calm storm that blew past the fringes of innocence

I knew nothing more than my own ends

Cast off by the shadow of you

Nothing more than a weeping willow

A man like you following in your footsteps

Keeping the sun from reaching where it shouldn’t

With it’s wide and indiscriminate arms

Who knew that those who are haunted by a familiar love

Learn to hate

Who knew that those who yearn for peace through fear

Fight in the deadliest of wars

Who knew that those who fall from grace

Write with such elegance,

(Streams of words crawling shadows through their incandescent veins)

(Marred against the walls)

(Up on the stairwells)

(Who would even think) That their words could lead into heaven at the end of a line

(As if each word carries weight, patchwork of past sacrilege, enough to bleed for, to die for)

(Just) As if they know their way back from the abyss

That took them in their barred hearts in the first place

With their eyes closed

(Unforgiving oblivion; meadows on evangelical archipelagos that envelop in yellowness ravel)

You say the furnace of light is more inviting than the casket of dark?

Softer than the bed of stars and wildflowers?

As if

It is only in the dark

That I can imagine the ends and the means

Of my dreams

It is only in the dark

That those who live blindly

Without direction

Without faith, and without love

Can see

Before the morning

Brings reality

Into view

It is only in the night

That those

Who bring the baggage of days past

Can be free

It is death that invites life

And in life, death has scarred me so

But I know that in this age-old jigsaw

In the autumn’s bottomless well of (crest)fallen leaves

No longer

Will your hand

Fit in(to) mine



Yet Still


And yet still

[(I paint the world in my favourite colours)]

Hoping for something more

I fool myself

(Into believing)

(In you)

(Somewhere above)

(Starry eyed)

(And not just dead)

(Like the rest of them pilgrims of silence)

(Not just a scar)

(Crossing the abyss of my heart)

(Dipping below the surface)

(Of the wickers of lithium Styx)

(Of salvation)

(Capsized in my Nihilism)

(Drowning in my breath)

(A memory)

(I am but)

(The cinders you left behind)

Am I nothing

But a fool?

Unable to read

What’s already been written by you, etched into me

Across the whites of my eyes

An orchard of now

With no flowers of then to reach through my pupils and touch fingers with the spark within

But these empty eyes

These sights that leave me blind to the drawling present and its incandescent fresco

Only to see the past and its sigil of old bones

Everywhere I look

I remember when my eyes still remained

Wide and indiscriminate

I saw nothing

Yet thought I knew everything

It all comes back

To me now

Caving in on the stars like a carved wooden dock; beaten into decay by relentless waters kind

A glass ceiling; murals of the ethereal dance of gods on the graves of angels

(Due) To a single pebble skipping across the infinite divide (scintillating) between water and sky

On an endless beach

Filled with no more than but one grain of sand

Angry enough with the world to stamp over them all with muddy feet

Vowing to swallow up the ocean whole

As if it had never known infinite from infinitesimal

As if it had ever heard the names that lack the harbour of an ear’s canal; capsized vessels

As if the dirt was not death itself breathing life into the grasses of Ashland, spanning botanical

(In pointless debate with Valkyries) Or (across pastures black, skies white, and clouds grey)

(Angels, over the trivialities of death and renewal or better yet)

The right from the wrong

As if it were anything other than salt licked from the earth

Before being driven back into the churning swirling sterling of the sea


(And hopelessly so)

Yet still

(Across pastures black, skies white, and mountains grey)

Across shores origami, beaches inkblot, and clouds of spilt whiskey

In its beginning’s end (bending the hands of clocks into a downwards spiral of fallen angels)

(Stranded and) Standing there (unlucky dice)

Alone (In a shell among a crowd of billions)

(Static white noise, tenebrous echoes of black night in a swirl of sun and moon grey)

(As my mother’s eyes)

(Footprints in the sand like disappearing stars)

(Washing up like dead fish (up)on the shores)

(Blending into mundane)

(Into effigy)

(Into stillness)

(Yet ecstasy)




(And waiting)

(A frayed flower petal)

(Lost in the winds of rewinding time’s kaleidoscope)

(The nectar of each maleficent precipice)

[(In hectares of crescents delicate delectable efflorescence wrecking each sepulchre)]

[(Vessels of desolate bethels where the fledglings of magenta surrender;)]

(Swishing lithium Styx whispering glyphs of ellipsis and crucifixion in lucid fuchsia’s crucible)

[(With words (not unlike loaded die,) leading into heaven at the end of a line)]

[(It will be remembered)]

[(In every moment)]

[(I will remember it)]

[(Until the memory smolders)]

[(Imprints itself)]

[(On my tongue)]

(Touches every word I speak)


(Or for now on)

(Planting itself, painting itself, singing itself)

(Into me)

(For this love was real)


(And sublime)

© 2022 R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)

Author's Note

R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)
Previous edits:

This poem is reaching the end of its editing process. I'd say if it isn't finished, it's nearly so. I have had a lot of fun writing this, if you're willing to spend time reading a long poem, read this

My last couple poems were very good, so it was hard to keep up, this poem went ok at first, and near the end, very well. Then I wrote a new section that I wasn't very happy with it. Working on it.

My last couple poems were very good, so it was hard to keep up, but I've still been writing. Hoping to do much, much more work on this until I'm happy with the finished result. Feel free to read tho.

Most of my poems can be differing lengths depending on the time you want to spend reading them. You can avoid reading anything brackets, or read it all. If you want an in-between, you can read only the ( ) brackets, or ( ) and [ ], or ( ) [ ] and { }, or all these mentioned brackets including < >, or these brackets all the way up to >( )<, and finally, up to - - or -< ->. It must be in this order though if you wish to read some of the brackets. Obviously the more brackets you read, the longer my poems will be. The purpose of this is simply to allow leniency in how long or short you want the read to be. The lines in grey are particularly optional. This is not a way to ruin art in order to string in more readers, nor am I doubting a reader's capabilities to understand, or even how much they're willing to read. It is much more something where I simply do not know whether I consider these extra words be the core, and see them in a sense of not entirely understanding whether I consider them "canon", as they often change the flow of the piece, for better or worse, when or when not they are included. In a way, making it a completely different poem, as is their intention in a way, to add more, and to sculpt words differently. Think of these added brackets and words as the fat of the piece, rather than the bones.

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.

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masterful wordsmithing as usual as i catch my breath. reading you is like exploring tunnels without a flashlight. you're clearly one in a million, maybe more ... :)

Posted 5 Months Ago

R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)

5 Months Ago

Thank you so much Pete! :)

Hi there,
Found the same words we both wrote .. fingers and grand piano...
Yes, it is so interesting that we shared the same thought..
It would be even stranger if it happened at the same time..but that we will never know..
Your writing is so complex and involved..
Like reading a book...but not really..
Not really a what does one call it?
Did it take you a long time to write these words? Did you revise and revise?
I am only responding now but really need to spend time reading your words in detail.. I read Weed...but needed to reread it several times.. So much food for thought..
I will be back...

Posted 6 Months Ago

R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)

6 Months Ago

My poetry is vivid and dense. You could call it poetry, or you could call it something else. But I d.. read more
Woah wow what a brilliant epic again, i was admiring how you mentioned so many flowers and a poem rich in poetic vocab and terms, so much imagery. Kudos for this fab poem!

Plz do read and comment my newest poem too .

Posted 6 Months Ago

R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)

6 Months Ago

Thank you so much for your kind words! I'll definitely check out your newest poem soon. I'm sure it .. read more

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3 Reviews
Added on February 26, 2022
Last Updated on May 17, 2022


R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)
R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)

Burlington, Halton, Canada

Most of my poems can be differing lengths depending on the time you want to spend reading them. You can avoid reading anything brackets, or read it all. If you want an in-between, you can read only th.. more..