Stark. Raven. Mad.

Stark. Raven. Mad.

 

 

 

to live inside of a non-stop explosive scream,

to dream, open eyed, of orange-flavored flames

dripping from a milk-faced siren

with spinning drill bit teeth

and a voice like a Civil War cannon.

 

to make love to darkness.

to be engulfed in the black asphalt

wings of a monstrous soaring thought.

wet tongue on marble talons,

hollow songs replacing marrow,

yellow stares dancing on stained walls.

life running dry, and a riverbed

strewn with bent-finned dead memories

who will never swim again.

 

soul scratched by the shadow cat,

Orphean venom courses dry twig veins,

ghost trains collide, head on, in the crawlspace

between red Twizzler-legged demons,

and green M&M eyed piglets;

grinding, churning, chewing beneath

the floorboards and wallboards

of a condemned mental structure. 

 

overly dramatized feelings of doom

crawling dry skin like ants.

 

but, all of those stabs can be healed.

it’s the lonesome gut-spasms in mob-scene moments;

tied to a spinning wheel of self-doubt,

with rotten vegetable words raining down,

and fire poker gazes searing flesh to soul.

 

it’s a can of bland beans warmed over a trash fire,

a shattered glass grin in a piece of mirror found in an alley,

it’s the feeling that this road is a one-way track

to fucked, with no U-turn redemption,

no mysteries unraveling,

no hope for any improvement.

 

so, I spit cryptic crabs from a grimy bus bench,

and slap my blue verbal pincers down

on the jugular of your Disney existence,

and you feel my ache for a tiny moment.

I get another sweat-soaked dollar

to feed to my eternal abyss,

and a taste of chemical Zen.

 

the blackbirds circle in wait,

to prey on my corpse the instant

I step from the safety of my numbness,

and the re-run freak-fest never begins or ends.

it just is. as I am. as you will never be.

 

lost inside of my own loss.

broken beneath my own mass.

devoured in a swarm of pitch-winged implosion.

shrinking. trembling. always falling.

stark. raven. mad.

Reviews

[roarke]

um.... yer not related to Hieronymus Bosch by any chance are you?

One of the amazing things about your style is that you make creating and combining these flights of gothic surrealism look easy, like you shake up a boggle cube and just write what shows up on the bone white letter cubes..... hardly.

Not only that, but that as schizophrenically mercurial as these word castings are, they have a symmetry, a natural poetic quality that most mortals can't begin to cut and paste together. Yet, a blind man can see the pictures you render.

Just don't fly too close to the sun....

[Jūdan FyreHeart]

Something you can never understand until you're right there with them, sunk down into the hellish nightmare re-running constantly. You got it spot on in my mind.