20 Nov 2011

Post-Incredible

Incredible as it may seem
Strings grow, wrap arms around my neck
Following aspiring orgasms,
Rising like waves in a placid sea
Belching expletive doctrines of lust
Falling, breaking into fathomless specks
Of forgotten longing
Of forsaken lovers
Of forbidden losses.
Murder. Morality makes mothers monsters.
Surrender. Surreal surpasses subliminal.
Dictate. Dispatch dichotomy dreamless.
Watch over the shackles that entwine
A life bound into submission
Expectations expect me to render results
Forlorn and dying
Emitting glory
In the carnival of loneliness.

24 Mar 2011

Swan Song

Destitutes of tomorrow!

Hiding in your ivory domes,

Look outside that window of shame,

What do you see?



Oceans, seas and vast heartbreaks,

Mothers soothing blue veins,

Coaxing avatars of bygone bards,

And men kissing men in electric pink.



Destitutes of tomorrow!

Shatter that pantheon of masked hypocrites,

Step outside your red coat -

What do you feel?



Do you feel that shiver of pain?

Or the crusty skin of lusty copulation?

Or the cigarette butt relationships?

You must feel, at least, the need to sleep?



Destitutes of tomorrow!

Weigh your fantasy boots,

Murder those names that call you son -

What are you still afraid of?



Governments, nations and citizens,

Lie in their pornographic embrace,

Waiting, waiting, always waiting -

For the last revolution to wither and die.



Destitutes of tomorrow!

Find your fifteen minutes in this godless race,

Make amends with history -

Raise your hand if you are to blame.



Rise from your feminist graves,

Captain cadaver's tale is ripe,

Slaves, slaves, slaves of the past -

Walk the line, or we're through.



Destitutes of the world, unite!

At the Hiroshima of philosophy.

Elegies of the retired are being rewritten,

Slow down or burn out.



Sunsets and dawns,

Carnations and violets,

Corporations of filth and despair,

Front-row seats await cosmic communism.



Whores of Mother Nature!

Return to your lair - the neighbours are ready,

Fight till freedom murders your free will -

Maybe they'll write a song about you.



Black and white and yellow and brown,

The stench of democracy engulfs all,

Walk while you stilll can,

But you better not run.



Hail all, the last man standing!

Debate creation with recreation,

Cathedrals of fiction will fall -

Faeries will be men again.

23 Jan 2011

Coming Home



I have always wandered the cobbled streets of my mind, clucking inwardly at all the things that sadden me, skipping a step with joy at every wonder. Its a happy moment, a particularly confusing happiness, when I think of walking home through these streets.

I have spent a good few years away. Away as I feel from all things homey. My cats, my dog, the shelves stacked up lined with books I have grown with. My room, my room. My little sister calls it "my room" now. She looks intense as she bites into her nails, wondering if 'that' guy wonders about her as she does about him, worried about the small things that become mundane as you grow older. My front-room, my father, the atheist, sitting relaxed, barely watching as he flips through channels on the TV, worry lines creep across his face, retired from his humble-paying humble-job, thanking some divine source for all its humility, all of his life and of our's. My mother, smiling, cheerfully etching between love and love-lost, slowly dying inside as the cancer caresses her boisterous strings, of life. Of love. Of memories just like this one.

I have wandered 'these' streets. Always coming back. Always taking that last look at the disappearing faces, as my train pulls out of the station I call home. I always turn around and wonder if I really remember my lover's face, or is it the idea of him that keeps me wondering if its really him, when its really him. I remember the last touch, the last time I looked at those eyes and saw these memories stare back, surprised. The pupils dilate, and then they become mirrors. Mirrors I avoid. Mirrors we all avoid. We avoid to look at the realities we make such great sacrifices to keep away.

My home is my mirror. A place I want to go back to. To keep going back to. To keep wanting to return to. And so I must run. Run, not hide. I run away, so that I can come back someday. I run so that the memories remain. So that I can live off the romance. I always come back, I do. That's why its home.