Downstairs

Two versions of one poem here, as well as another poem to follow the longer version.

Downstairs (Version 1)

 

 

Where the stains of mildew climb the walls

 

Waterfall posters of old guitar wielding chainsmokers

 

Wallflowers and billboards

 

To take a step back and take in a deep breath

 

The dark rooms of an interstellar cellar

 

The cold chill of the damp amphitheatre

 

Where sound ricochets softly on dirty carpets

 

Cushioned between dusty chairs

 

That barely have a leg to stand on

 

I used to sit in the basement

 

And play with my mind until I lost it

 

My innocence, until I lost it

 

To the labyrinth of a corn maze world

 

To the keepers of time in an orchestra of seconds

 

Everything rots eventually

 

Litters the walls like fall foliage brushing their jaws against a sidewalk

 

Combing their jagged teeth into a smile

 

Eventually I left the basement

 

And found my slanted viewpoints

 

(Graffitied on my eyelids)

 

My off-kilter morality could not find common ground

 

Could not be level again

 

I was just

 

Upside-down

 

Walking down from the stairway of heaven

 

Building glass houses in the sands of time

 

Seeing through myself

 

An empty bottle

 

That at some point

 

Must have held something valuable

 

So I poured my heart out

 

An egg yolk of questions without answers

 

Let it bleed through the cracks in (the praying palms of) my wrinkled foundation

 

And walked away from my childhood

 

Less monster than man

 

But more memory than human

 

Fading like the colour from the walls

 

Slowly

 

Peeling back my wallpaper skin

 

Until the walls were bare

 

Smoke and mirrors

 

Like a tree hollow pulling itself

 

Inside out

 

Framing pictures of my scarred insides

 

Cutting off any excess limbs

 

That stretched to feel for what was out of reach

 

Climbing towards a bottomless sky

 

The sway of a hurricane

 

Deep below, swelling

 

With only the light at the top of the stairs

 

To guide me back into nothingness

 

But not bright enough

 

To see what kind of new world

 

The broken vase of me

 

Had become

 

Settling for the dock mediocrity

 

Swimming through the pool of rejected truths

 

Not feeling, seeing, or breathing

 

In the dark debris of an unending sea of kaleidoscopic shadows

 

Simply knowing life

 

Becomes this

 

Whirlpool, this, maelstrom, a library of dead irises

 

And I am the flowerer

 

Like everything I’ve touched with my pastel eyes

 

Will rot from the inside outwards

 

Beneath its paintjob

Downstairs (Extended Version)

 

 

Revelling within the house I used to live in

 

Where the stains of mildew climb the walls

 

Waterfall posters of old guitar-wielding chainsmokers

 

Wallflowers and billboards

 

I take a step back and take in a deep breath

 

The dark rooms of an interstellar cellar

 

See how the stars dim like a flickering neon sign from God

 

The cold chill of the damp amphitheatre

 

Where sound ricochets softly on dirty carpets stained with painted faces

 

Cushioned between dusty chairs

 

That barely have a leg to stand on

 

I used to sit in the basement

 

And play with my mind until I lost it

 

My innocence, until I lost it

 

To the labyrinth of a corn maze between the fenced in sky

 

To the keepers of time in an orchestra of seconds

 

The rain swallowing everything in its cold tongue of gibberish

 

Everything rots eventually

 

Litters the walls like fall foliage brushing their jaws against a sidewalk

 

Cracked and jagged like a broken spine stretching into Bethlehem

 

Combing their jagged teeth into a smile

 

Shaving their fingernails into crescent moons

 

Every streetlamp left in the dark of an empty closet

 

Eventually I left the basement

 

And found my slanted viewpoints kissing ten story buildings

 

(Graffitied inside my eyelids)

 

My off-kilter morality could not find common ground

 

Could not be level again

 

The plot of lopsided smiles like a blind eye in my skin

 

A flesh wound that could not see its own tears of sanguine opening and closing

 

I was just

 

Upside-down

 

(Falling/Walking) down from the stairway of heaven

 

The cold streets of dark clouds

 

And newspapers spindled dolly acrobats on a traipse of wind

 

Building glasshouses in the sands of time

 

Seeing through myself

 

An empty bottle that wouldn’t shatter into a sunrise

 

That at some point

 

Must have held something valuable

 

So I poured my heart out

 

An egg yolk of questions without answers yet to hatch

 

Let it bleed through the cracks in (the praying palms of) my wrinkled foundation

 

And walked away with my childhood

 

Chalked sidewalk with a chip on its shoulder

 

Standing on the shoulders of melting wax statues

 

Holding their hands up to block out the sun of God

 

The circus of lost thoughts out of focus

 

Cast away from my childhood

 

Less monster than man

 

But more memory than human

 

Fading like the colour from the walls of an old building that once held beauty

 

Like a baby in its arms

 

Slowly

 

Peeling back my wallpaper skin

 

Until the walls were bare

 

You could see the bones of buildings

 

Their metal skeletons buried in the wind

 

Smoke and mirrors

 

Like a tree hollow pulling itself

 

Inside out

 

I was an empty jar

 

Framing pictures of my scarred insides

 

Cutting off any excess limbs

 

That stretched to feel inside for what was out of reach

 

My brown eyes

 

Climbing towards a bottomless sky

 

The sway of a hurricane waltzing with the newborn of a storm

 

Deep below, swelling

 

With only the light at the top of the stairs, in that basement

 

To guide me back into the nothingness

 

I am

 

But not bright enough

 

To see what kind of new world

 

The broken vase of me

 

Had become

 

Settling for the dock mediocrity

 

Commercial vessels like channels in my box television heart

 

Swimming through the pool of rejected truths

 

Not feeling, seeing, or breathing

 

Not living or dying

 

Here or there

 

Simply knowing life is a failure that doesn’t give in

 

That will take you hostage and make something of you

 

The scraps of your self worth

 

The swinging pendulum of grandfather clockwork hearts

 

Metronomes to the beat of the songs we grew up to

 

All of it

 

Photoshopping valleys binoculars enshrouding ballerina towers

 

In the dark debris of an unending sea of kaleidoscopic shadows

 

Behind the cowl of Valhalla

 

Becomes this

 

Whirlpool, this, maelstrom, a library of dead irises

 

And I am the flowerer

 

Like everything I’ve touched with my pastel eyes

 

Will rot from the inside outwards

 

Beneath its paint job

 

I was made to judge the deeds of a dead God

 

In a jury of eyewitnesses to crippled angels

 

With their wings tethered, weighted down by emotional luggage

 

As airplanes crash land hearts in the pavement

 

And scratch their names there with sticks or small stones

 

Like teardrops

 

Like each one was a caged bird

 

In a chapel that held the prisoners of God

 

Interrogating the heavens in their young, stupid eyes

 

So ripe

 

Grapes on a fresh vine

 

You can almost taste their sorrow fermented future

 

Like a fine wine that drunk aristocratic sadists

 

Play with on their paintbrush tongues until

 

The sabbath in them, palatable

 

Blooms into a small white flower that pales to a rose

 

Jealous of the more broken; but more beautiful

 

Sorry excuses for apologies that wouldn’t come

 

With dry paint on their wrinkling, frowning faces

 

Rubbing my eyes and crying

 

Waiting for when they come clean

 

(Feasting on the flowers and their dark necessities)

 

(In the praise and prose of shadows)

 

Behind hollow walls

 

Night skies flickering to dust

 

 

Closet

 

 

Grinding the flowers between the gears of my teeth

 

Gambling lost dreams of slot machines

 

To a heart groping the wind

 

Wandering the city homeless

 

For a bench to cradle

 

Little specks of colour with big souls stained neon

 

On imaginary megalomanic avenues

 

Landing on faceless moons

 

Expressionless little astronauts with big dreams

 

Cluttered with stars

 

Butterflies in jars

 

Stanzas that soak into the pages like rainfalls over landfill daffodils

 

Cold and grasping for air in a fickle breeze

 

Gasping out heartbeats from monotone smiles

 

Kissing empty vessels in(to) a red sea

 

Dancing amaranthine unanswered cancerous

 

Concussive muscular lustrous brushstrokes

 

Stoking colloquial altocumulus

 

On the painted faces of half angels

 

Flying home

 

On polycrystalline peninsulas

 

Crawling to their fatherlands

 

An encore again to the murals of incoherent earlobes probing tenebrous euphoria

 

Peering through the veneers of sulphuric speleothems

 

Golden omens holed in homeless agoraphobia

Author's Note

Simple poetry. A shorter poem. I wish I was writing another epic honestly. There are two versions. The first, is the shorter one. The second, the longer one. My favourite is the second. There is an extra poem that follows the second one. Make it my true choice if I had to choose between the two versions.

I think of "Feasting On The Flowers" and "Dark Necessities" By the Red Hot Chilly Peppers while reading this. Not inspired by these songs so much as it was an afterthought.

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.

Reviews

[Davidgeo]

I like the first version. There are some good lines throughout... interstellar cellar, an egg yolk of questions without answers... there's a lot of good writing here.

[R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)]

Thanks, glad you liked it.