Book

This came up and became quite brilliant. Unsure if finished, but what good work truly is? The best works are the ones that can be improved upon, reaching a higher ideal of perfection.

The Butterfly Eaten By Flowers

 

Blond mitochondrial insomnia dawns a thousand times

In my transcendental mind (blessed in questioning iridescence)

(Intestinal crepuscular resurrections of perfections transgressions)

<The contraception’s complexion of repetition’s ecstasy stretching into effigies>

(In plastic plastered ecclesiastical tapestries)

<Of a tundra of wonderous thunderstruck penumbra of sundered runaway tongues strung>

High on the symphonica (of maleficent jesters gesturing in epitomes)

Shinigami polymers in a helix breathing phoenix of mausoleums cohesive preachers reapers

Of onyx and bronze comets like monasteries in the constellations

Barren monasteries of alstroemeria clarinets line the primal chimera of wind chimes

Blossoms of crisscrossing phosphorescent sepulchral messengers on the incline winding

Etching their crepuscular pestilence

In the stretch of a trail of ukuleles scaling railroads crusted by, and rusted by; the rain

Stained perpetual effigies, refugees,

In the depths of Nephilim’s breathe stale

And the hearts of men’s brethren tethered to Everest

Like September’s reverends

Transcendental entities of poinsettia penitentiaries

Bending extremities remedies

In the hallucinogenic memories of pestilential centuries

In Serengeti cemeteries,

Glazed incendiary chariots of paradise rise across

The blossoming Holocaustal mosques of metropolis

With Himalayan azaleas, (halos of nightingales <picking at the entrails tailwind>)

(Slender stencilled emerald tendrils, reaching for beaches of ether, yearning for eternity)

(Sketching mechanisms of imprisoned prisms linden trees in still images)

(Metallurgy’s tourniquets of sterling hurricanes)

(Sable tornadoes, churning behind serpentine curtains of earthenware)

Swaying greyly in the marmalade waves of aegis

As the once-proud clouds

Plummet from the summit of penumbras

Champagne sunset resting in the Bethlehem of requiem

Fluorescent inclandestine crescents, the ruffled feathers of Armageddon

Like an iridescent precipice of questionless deathless messengers of every crevice

As the syllables make their pilgrimage in mimicry of the symmetrical tempestuous effigies

And their devilish billowing cerulean septillion willow-o-wisps of breakneck mechanisms

Disassembling incendiary incandescent incarnation of discombobulated elation

Ukuleles that scale the trailblazing maelstroms of hazelnut strutting

Tenebrous slopes of copious roping dopamine kaleidoscopes

Lithium griffins off the cliff of the abyss

Tranquil daffodils eclipse in the picturesque

The graffitied wreaths of leaping onomatopoeia

Deceiving the bellied melody

Of cellos arpeggio terpsichorean Ursuline greenery

Spiralling in wyverns of childhood dreams like meteors

Interweaving demons seamlessly with Elysium

The intricacies within are far more beautiful than its outer parts

I take each greasy gear

And forge my own path in the sum of my parts

Disassembling my hemorrhages

Putting myself back together even if the cogs no longer turn

Churned in the bedlam of heaven, revolving starlings

The cells of their rebellious elegies in the renaissance of waltzing in revolting penultimance

The terracotta mahogany menagerie of frolicking bulbous colosseums of Elysium’s freedom

The collage of andromedas’ mirage in candelabra's mitochondrial Autumn hodgepodge

In polyphonic mantras of polymerization’s monasteries

Pollinating melodic mitochondriac of astral blasphemous Rorshach astronauts

Like astral knots in the tapestry of shackling anathema, the séance of aeons gone

In the fabric of time ravaged by rhyme

Yarn reincarnation and spectres of sepulchral resurrection

Graphic ecclesiastical tapestries of rapturous blasphemous pathogens

Blending alphabetical alabaster sacrilege into tremors of Armageddon’s remembrance

(Limericks of obsidian photosynthesis drifting in and eclipsing grim crimson rhythm schisms)

(Mithril hieroglyphics picturesque of lithium polycrystalline in the whispering visceral abyss)

(Again)

Anchored sacrosanct of handkerchief tarantula in the ballet of the clouds

Withered riverbeds of rippling lithium bottleneck with zephyrs of derelict affection

Crashing and crushing all,

Crumbling in on itself a ball of paper in the wake of endless veins of ink

Mitochondrial monasteries

Chronological andromedas of gigantomachy

Ebony memories

Swelling (in the belly of) parhelion

(On velvet melodies, welcoming alcoves, balconies, Valkyries of green)

I come down into the basement of my life

And watch the stairs empty of feet

Watch the sunrise empty of dreams

Watch the time pass in the mirror of shattered lines

A tapestry of me’s I don’t recognize

I wanted to write a book one day

But the words don’t come

Only the next hour, and the next

I no longer give a damn

Let the page remain a pristine cloud free from the ink of rain

Let god put me down and find another dog (to kick)

Let it all slowly come (grinding) to a halt

Let feeling (sorry or) sorrow for myself decide everything

In the lap(se) of a beating heart

A track left behind on a city road

I follow my own tune

Into the afternoon June

And the music only makes me hungry for words

Only makes me hungry for my own body

I have been eaten away at inside by the butterflies

Let the (ravelled) little pieces of my body travel the chessboard

And take their king

Proclaim myself sane

Wear the crown of roses

And call myself a thorn in someone’s side

Flowers picked from open eyes

Iris’s

Dreams

Love

Death

It does not matter to me

It’s all I’ve ever known

Take it

I don’t need it anymore

Let them guide you to the cliff I failed to climb

The rivers stuck between my teeth

Let my smiles give way to yours in death’s valley of shallow leaves

I don’t need them anymore

Tell your own story

And pretend someone will hear it

In the deafening silence

I was born in

Shaped by, moulded

You merely adopted pain

I wrote the book on her, (born from her ripe stomach, and God’s loins)

In the shape of a poem, on the canvas of my back

The butterflies are leaving now

The darkness is closing in, as the slow shifting clouds finally form (séance) into one grimace

The face of a stillborn baby

Ready to shed the tears of God

The devil has found me

(Has sheltered me from the rain)

(With his umbrella of lies)

I offer him a cigarette

(He offers me everything I’ve ever lost)

(But he is mistaken) I do not care

(I too have been banished from heaven)

(And must go out to meet the coming monsoon)

(The drowning city lights)

<The whole world>

(With <nothing but> my own form of warfare)

<And/Or a smile>

Although it no longer fits my face

In this masquerade funeral for the rain, faded pupils (of putrid puppets postulate)

And in the blood, and the spill, of moonlight in an overflowing glass of tears

Flowers bloom

 

Broken Gear in The God Machine

 

As the copious colours fade to black-washed white

Leaving a paper trail in the dirt-caked garden (of morning dew)

Of my fingertip roots; like poems; stumbling over themselves for the grace of a metaphor

As the two extremes, the two forces, face each other and become each other

Love each other, hate each other, immaculate

Expectation, reality, good, evil, white, black, one or another

The faces of the coin

And the edges of the horseshoe (contend)

(And) No longer matter anymore

Strung along by the composer of time, in his grand symphony, the one maestro

Tossed from head to tail

There is nothing to fight for, nothingness, is

The colour, is

Fading into clear

Drowned out by the prairies of weed-strewn city lights

And the concrete zoo of plastic trees

Where once forests grasped at the wisdom of God

Gazed blankly, unconditionally stupid,

Emotionally numb, born perpetually new, mesmerized

Lucid to the scream of silence that ran through the hollows of their ears, forever

Grinning upon the impossible empty behind and before them

The great nothingness

That was

When the endless sky was young

(Not touched by a single tongue of jagged metal French kisses)

(Soft as silk(, buttoned with clouds, its blazer) billowing in wind)

Eventually

The end will begin

Once more

I come down into the basement of my life

And watch the stars

Until the stairs are empty of feet

Until the sunrise is empty of dreams

Watching the time pass in its mirror of shattered brushstrokes, (nook and cranny canvas)

A tapestry of me’s I’ve yet to recognize

I want to understand each unread line on the pages of my face someday

Time is laughing in the face of God

Eternity is a false god

The hands continue to turn in their strange ways like the hazy parade of a grey maze

(Their combed teeth pulling at a hair’s breath)

Praying to eternity

Am I still waiting for the crescendo to end in silence,

Before the next note (forgets me)?

In the beats of a heart lies my music

Thumping at the altar of my bones, trapped within each cell, in the prison of life, free

(Smashing the guitar of my metal exoskeleton into the earth)

(Just to watch it rise like a skyscraper)

Hollow, like a tree, as it spindles into incendiary mimicry of glyphs’ dyslexic lexicon

Now feels like forever

Bent on my knees

(There is <no> beauty in this)

(There is beauty in broken guitar strings)

(In empty houses)

<In golden rings>

<In deserted weddings>

In quiet nights where I drink away at the moon or the moon (drinks) me

In the (drunkenly) endless stream of consciousness

<There is no love within the breath of mountains>

<Within the greenery of fields>

<Within the hearts of man>

<Within the depths of the universe’s grand well of stars like grains of sand through open hands>

<Sifting eclipses>

<We are but shadows of shadows, casting, and casting, upon each other>

(The shades of our ancestors bright, the early ones, the shadow of God)

<It does not matter>

<This cold echo of echoes that have rusted into silence>

<Broken pieces of me and you>

<It makes no difference anymore>

<You are>

(Drowning out the white noise with watercoloured rags)

<I am>

Disarmed by tendrils of thought that wish to grab me by the balls

By the minutes, the words, the songs

With nothing but

My own form of warfare

<With all the broken pieces of me>

<Scattered in the dusty corners of these cities>

<Across their dirty floors>

<Fighting without reason>

<Fighting for nothing>

My words; pages like crumpled honeysuckle homunculus disintegrating in photosynthesis

Discombobulated polymerization

The mouth of madness has swallowed me;

We are still a few teeth short of a smile

(Wrestling with the world)

(With gods like brass knuckles hidden in the cities, the countries of our gloves)

(Broken nose and no teeth)

(Short on smiles)

(Within my fist is the roots of a wildflower)

(I dare not hesitate to plant it between your lips, lest you mine)

(And dig, prune, tend to this garden, with my bare hands, this face of this earth)

(Knocking down the monuments of stone)

(With the fingertips of a conifer, stranded, dangling precariously, from the mountainous cliff)

(The way it finds openings between the cracks of a smile)

(No matter how tiny the gap)

(Nook and cranny between the jutting jagged grin of knives)

(Until the stone opens up like the arms of a loving mother)

(Even beauty can be ugly, these scars line my body like a blueprint of heaven)

(I build mountains from the ground up)

(Like brushstrokes of colour)

(Graffitied onto the towers of rock, <where birds dare not flock amidst greenery>)

(You cannot crush me)

(I am no flower)

(You cannot paint over me)

(I am the roots of something far greater than beauty)

(I will cling to my ledge)

(Like I do my words)

(Like I do my heart)

(Like I do my life)

(And climb)

 

Horizon Shouting from the Rooftops

 

Lustrous brushstrokes of mushroom clouds

The broken tapestries of glass seas and skies cascading wading in the halos of mayhem

And the shade of everglades paving grey in jade

Palette aurora borealis satellites

Enshrouding Valhalla’s unravelling atom bomb

Insomnia domino’ing in the crow trees

Boulevards reincarnated in halogens’ obelisk

Of bombarding harvests in the tarnished polymerization

Mosaics of veins in the unchained veils of halos floating in the sky like irises

Crocheted megalomania untamed wavelengths dance in the grasp of atmospheres

Collapsing rafters of alabaster cascade

Rorschach taffeta scaffolding in the tapestries of dilapidated rapturous masquerades

Chapels wrap steeples around castaways fading into the glades of titanium tourniquets

Of reverberating hurricanes, grains in the waves of shaving glades of craning ravens

An anarchists’ escarpment of cartilage archangels playing harps with the archivists

Disembarking into the courtyard arteries of martyrdom’s Tartarus

Intestines kaleidoscope entrenched in redemption’s dementia

The heavens move their tongues

In and out of my mouth

And scream in heavy metal like a guitar making love with saviours of pavement oasis

In shrapnel and steel-painted images’ oblivion of chiselled and splintered photosynthesis

Spitting out the sun that swallowed the tide

Presenting it as a prize to God rising like a geyser

From their guttural stomachs cluttered with the plumage of summer’s umbrage

Smothering mother tongues rummaging in the back attic of my throat

Tethered revenants of weathered rhythmic calligraphy fingerprint their lips on a page

Imprisoned in the schisms of Olympians’ rivers of didgeridoos

That hum with eternal reverberation; the spores of oracles primordial

Slew through the ruminating illumination of seven nations

The crowd of bowels catacomb balaclava labyrinth madness in the vessels’ intestinal crescendo

Half-eaten crescents crowning the scarlet sky incandescent

And bioluminescent with its sepulchre of mechanisms amputee in its canteens of dank dreams

Asphalt caldrons like terracotta swallowing molecules in a colosseum of chainsaw follicles

As lucid tsunamis trolley revolving like crawling origami rollicking bulbously ovulating

Of the bottomless vomited andromedas polymerization slurring the burgundy eternity

Of the splurging currents of hurricanes beige in the serenade of clay

(I sit in Cocytus with a rocking chairs and moccasins)

Beating the chest with a rusty tool

The heart tumbles in the wind

The lungs take in the smog

The hands turn like winding windmills of clockwork

The fat lips hide behind a splintered smile that skewers the tongue

The body is badly scarred by acid rain

Spit sputtering from the engine’s mouth

In the roar of a phantasmagorical downpour of chlorophyll

Still, the figure of Stygian photosynthesizes a spiral of twine eyes like lilac

Seeing the weeds slowly wither and die before winter

Before rising from their summer bed like dead men

Goes on a walk through the shrapnel meadows of dishevelled astronauts

And steps out of its own shadow

Unravels battalions into shadows of cataclysm like tied laces of silk ragged in a tornado

With the briarwood of chimeric alstroemerias

Fairies vicariously daring the prairies to pirouette in the thread of a sunset lighting their eyelids

Into the halo of light reflected off the surface of a faceless moon

Watching the phosphorus (Ragnarök) apocryphally

With it frayed craters of aegis

Senselessly peddling renaissance to the heavenless Armageddon

On the crossroads to apocalypse

Beating the panacea of herculean elysian

Phoenixes of onomatopoeia into the bowels of the ground

And burying their chariots of heresy

In the vicarious paradise of bright lights

Like neon (prongs embroidered branded) brushstrokes snaking smoking in the opal kaleidoscope

Of necrosis’s oceans buoyant

Mortal coiling coral chlorophyll in the cords and floorboards of incorporeal tomorrow’s origin

Like Ouroboros phantasmagorical

Nickel lithium kissing riffles of conifers as they glisten shapeshifting

Candlewick Icarus of flickering lights wight

Like liquorish pixyish in the dissonant distance

A kite in the turbulent firmament of a bourbon vertical hurricanes

Like wickermen bright in the black night writhing

With violin strings linen singing rhythmically as jigsaws of their open jaws hollow columns of

Orchids of the metamorphosis like porcelain orchestras

In the vortex of vorpal incorporeal immaterial delirium

As the sulphuric acid of alabaster

Flows through the rosemary veins of a broken chain of hurricanes

Like hecklers of Nephilim perpendicular to the riffraff of match lit basilisks

Eclipse ripping in the Big Dipper’s crippled wings

Like crepuscular ventricles in the receptacles of hecatomb

Blooming in unison through the grooves of a pituitary universe

My eyes writhing wide open

I still haven’t seen it all

Awash watching from within the bounds of my shadow

(As the tide of light rolls its tongue in and out)

Running across the walls I’ve been plastered to in the dark

They cannot hear me scream their forgotten names without a mouth

They cannot feel me as I lack the touch of poem

They cannot know

Incurably ignorant

They know nothing of it all

(Nothing at all)

I watch them set along with the sun

I spit them the stars from my toothless smile

Just to watch them extinguish, one, by one

In the dirt of God’s backyard

I know my own form of love

They are too stupid to understand the ballroom dance of their suffering

Let them wear the mask

Let them feel serenities’ tethered crevices of revered bevelling Everest

I cannot feel

There is no face, no familiarity, only these walls

The featureless abyss licks the tears from their wounded, clouded eyes

Nobody can tell them when the road ends

We pretend as if it goes on and on

They look for meaning without one

They don’t undertake the meaninglessness of it all

So proud

I give them a prayer from a nobody

A non-believer

But even I am free from the chains of God

And cannot bind my being back from everything to nothing

In the end

The sun will not rise in the morning

Without those that fall beneath the (cauterized) horizon

The threads of sunlight built this cage to hold me in their arms

Shrivelled by chiselled vermilion pillars of bougainvillea

I am a very special kind of bird

With wax and feathers between the fingers of my wings

I still roll the dice with a shackled hand

I fit my fingers through the bars

To touch temporary freedom

Who holds the key to silence?

Locked in combat with every cell in my body

I hear the jingle of my chain slinking behind the corner of my mind

Like a foolish eulogy

Chained behind the bars of sheet music

Dancing madly like one note held by God

The swing of the pendulum

It scares me

(Your bars are all one-note)

(I don’t want to hear them)

But in the end

It doesn’t really matter

Time immoral

To be (ticking)

(The remains of the heart) of man

Or nothing at all

Until the red sun drops from my mouth and ends/drowns us all

In the infinite bliss of white noise and black night

Of static motion

Of unwinding torque

Warmed by the fires of a stopped heart

Let me wind and rewire the clock(work) within your chest

And relive the empty hole in mine

Seen through the looking glass

I fear nothing but the coming kingdom

For it was built on the foundation of my bones

Building up the body of my work into this patchwork angel

This bangled scarecrow

This clockwork fox of flocking mockingbirds in nocturne’s yearning suburbia

That wears the halo of my entrails like a crown

Through the grasslands born from me

Children sing of the one true god

And forget the corpses

Sleeping under heel

There is no need to understand

Forget the shadow

Know the light

And know that it will drown in the wax (eventually, too)

Don’t hate the wicker, hate me

I was born in the darkness

You blind me so

Not everyone can die in the light

So I live in the dark

You cannot know hate; without love

 

Somewhere Past Stars

 

You cannot know hate; if you do not know love

(Defibrillating civilizations of the makeshift aether wind waker)

(Gangrene handkerchiefs of anchoring chrysanthemums like lanterns’ cantering amphitheatres)

(Tambourines in the unmanned expanse)

(Formaldehyde dandelions with blinding vinyl irises)

(Unwinding dilated wyvern chimera like bronze automatons <as andromedas discombobulate>)

Conductors of musculature

Stumbling in the umbrage of sundown’s aurora borealis

Swivelling umbilical stillborn chivalry

Under the nebulous umbrellas of parhelion revelling tenebrous

And chimneys skinny dipping in lithium

Demiurge churning in burgundy murmuring silent words again

Subterranean azaleas on chainmail trails

Think of betrayal with their halos of pale entrails and ventricles of eventual

Like braille hooking inukshuk of burned books

Through their looking glass of ashen pastures

Of afterlifes’ writings that wrap around the soundless clouds of Valhalla’s valves

As the eclipse ricochets across the dandelion horizon

And reaches past the steeple of a great church of clouds

Somewhere past the auburn jars of pickled stars like cinnabar

The stars say:

You cannot know love; if you do not hate

If only to be pinpricks of black, dreaming

In the reality of a white sky

We are all-encompassing, rich in unconformity

We are the many realms

Neither hungry ghost, hell, animal

Nor Deva

We are the gathered voices of string; one tapestry in the soma of our separate selves

Let it predict our Kalpa like a bronze bell scattering whispering amongst the heavens

Let it depict the Nirvana of jasmine amethyst lisping in the hands of a ceramic landscape

Beyond our reach

You cannot know love; without hate

We are separate halves

We are one long cord of spindling branches

We are the drop of the two-sided coin

Rejoice

We are the shadow cast by the light

And the light lucid looping luminous around the gravelly piano, these shadows of battlegrounds

Howling into the night of a full moon

Washing and wrapping the fields and everything in a grey indistinguishable twilight

We stand out amongst the clay

And shape ourselves from it; from colour; from love; from hate

You cannot know reason; if you do not know madness

Overcome your blessing; overcome your curse

Dip yourself in the dry water

And be cold to even the fires of hell

You cannot know madness; if you do not know reason

(Understanding is null)

(Ignorance is honest)

(Knowledge is accepting the curious insights of the messiah and the fool)

(The genius and the idiot)

(The madman, and the judge)

(Wash your eyes with night and day)

(And be clean of the cycle)

(Be cleaned of the tears)

(Stop, begin, carry on)

(In whatever order suits you)

 

Phantasia and Krieg (Title-piece)

 

Imagination, identity, war

Walking through the rain without getting wet;

You either feel everything;

Or nothing at all

Waltzing cults of tulpa sculpted altars

Of faltering penultimate kalpa’s scalping scalpels of volumes of umbrage plumage

Swept

Asunder from the blundering summertime bumblebees as the thunder rumbles on the tundra land

Splintered winter’s instruments rivet through the tree’s fingertips and lips

Scintillating creations wake in the crocheted lakes of aether crowns

Wastelands spanning the banners of an avalanche howl in borealis

Ethereal murals of the immaterial veneers

Of imperial miracles in the mirage of mandala candelabra

Like cardboard aurora borealis of cotton andromedas

In a collage of autumn leaves auburn in the breeze

Empyrean; come unto these yellow sands

I see the candle before the flame

The (naked light of) God

Before the man; (the shadow, cast elongating from his formless motion, his shapeless being)

Acrylic milliseconds beckon in the restless incandescence

(Of a plethora of meshing effigies)

(Of spectacular ecclesiastical glass cast in brass afterthoughts)

(In the cloth knit of knotted phosphorus sarcophagus)

(Rot of toppled offerings to the vase of clockwork)

(Stitching obituaries in the ratcheting rafters of lapis lazuli tapestries)

(And mosaics from the wrappings of collapsing alabaster in the grazing phrases of homeostasis)

(Rebellions’ elegy to the felony of an archipelago’s breeze)

Somewhere between the fingertip lines of the page;

I stand on the edge of the knife; its teeth biting;

Cut from a different clothe than the fabric of history,

I wear the flag as its wrinkled creased bloodwork of chiseled bougainvillea visage

Ripples like hieroglyphics epiphanies shapeshift in lithium

Doppelgängers of amaranthine wind through their book-like spines

Clinging to hope and the snaking river

Of billowing smoke that is me

Spindling incendiary like a cherubim’s marionette

Lifelessly ripening in the forest of apple trees

Born from Eden’s silence

As the hourglass devours me like the low hanging fruit I am;

By the roping strings of Olympians’ idiosyncrasies

Limping past symphonies on the coasting horizon

Of monolithic hieroglyphics twisting in

The visceral chrysalis blissful mithril lithium eclipse again

Creeping through the urethra of ethereal terpsichorean greenery

In the carrion prairielands of chrysanthemums

Banquet of sacrosanctity

Lanterns of antlered pandemonium in the soma of apotheosis

Open and closing interwoven in the eyes of a sunrise

Blindingly unwinding in the lilac geyser of cypresses

Violet with the iris of Goliath maniacal hyacinth of twilight riots

Spiralling in the choirs of isles among the spired Zion briars

Satellite kites biting into Nihilism

Like wrathful alabaster taffeta passageways in the beige highways of jade and purple haze

Sunrays crafted through masochism and daft religions’ swimming in circumcision

Amaryllis and bougainvillea

(Guillotines reign supreme for dreamers)

Iridescent

Brillant windmill villages

Like an umbrella of elegies, the tremor of a pendulum

The leaping steeple of (cedar) urethras of (gangrenous) onomatopoeia

Tempestuous biomechanical analog of gods like cogs in the machine of Elysium

Honeysuckle musculature brushstrokes kaleidoscope

Like iron spines of briars xylophone maestros

The captured grasslands of asper, kilometres of fauna rollicking astronomical halogens

In astronauts; the dunlap castles of hands

That baptise sunrise in the disguise of lilac defiled by the primal spires of our barbed-wire irises

Unwrapping crevasses like ceramic canvases mangle entangling mechanically

Turbulent bourbon of words blurred into sharpened straight lines for the murmur of a hurricane

An otherworldliness in the bevelling revolution

As the armadas of comets toboggan in the cogs of bottomless bliss and solemn columns’ abyss

Of revolving compulsive reverberating palpitating waltzing aether 

The waging phantasia grazing on pages of everglades and mayhem

A terracotta vase of a mausoleums’ helix

Swirling in sterling silver whirlwinds

Vertigo in the pools of the ludicrously beautiful monsoons of altocumulus

Surgical merging of the urban purgatory

With the ambient cantering of aurora borealis

In every pastel pastures’ passionate chalice of glass afterimages

Rhythm infinities of schism beat into the bleak black moon

Of spoon-fed dread and shrapnel bed

Into the astral bled from the cast out thread of the vastest red

Renaissance renovating revelations

Postulated blossoms doppelgänger in the fragments of the candlelit amethyst

In corroded clovers

In the interwoven osmosis

Of apotheosis with tranquility’s umbilical cord of swivelling sibilance

Of loquacious polymerization molten with sanguinolency

Abyssopelagic daggers in the static labyrinth

Of lavender in the belladonna andromedas

Panacea of herculean seasons lenient with the breeze of meteors like elysian seamstresses

Reach the ceiling and fall off a helix into its desolate decibels of epitome

In a volume of cauterized mausoleums

The bouquet of a maelstrom bound in alstroemerias

In the rising of the sun of billowing vermilion

Silhouettes playing pool with the ceramic planets

Funny how the sweetest brightest of apples of a dream

Could make a farmer disdain from his fields,

And waste away

Among courtyards

Tempests of empresses eventually attempting their descent down the mouth of the mountain

In a gallery of valleys that ran through promised lands of the damned

A sarcophagus of ancient esophagus

Like channels of bangled chandeliers beige with the glades of champagne

Seamstress of greasy Prometheus

Trapezing from the helium

Of welcoming alcoves and pelican balconies

Ballooning foolish lunatics with juniper crucifixes

Like loose fit nooses from the looping fruits of Jupiter

Knitting stitches in the eclipsed fabric of history’s whispering

Tunes to the cartoonish typhoons of altocumulus

Graffiti terpsichorean like a vandalized horizon’s kaleidoscope

Like murals of the empyrean quadriplegic helixes

The brooming wounded cumulus

Panoramic with the magic of stanza’ amaranthine

The stars whittling away at the moon like the tomb of combed teeth

In a grand cathedral on a cliff face

In its cistern of hieroglyphics,

Whittling shimmering bougainvillea civilizations under the shadowy shade of evergreens’ glade

Bleeding from the seed and the wavering blade of elysian grey

A crying eyelid binding in the geysers of grindstone horizons

Dislodged between cogs of tobogganing mahogany transmogrification

Of radio stations irradiated procrastinating vastly in the astral tracks of collapse

Of every outlasting masterpiece

From the ocean reefs

To the forest’s leaf

To the mountain’s reach

Of our boundless leap

From roosts construed from the ballooning screws

Of a rusty constellations’ naked wires in wildfire

Combustible in the rustling wind of Seraphim 

Like a cloth of gospels phosphate and the apostles of phosphorus

Awash with the glossy blossoms of cotton esophagus screaming into photo-reel speleothems

Of holocaustal metropolis lost in the sarcophagus of time

Bound by the soundless boulevard of open arms

Tarnished by the barnyard harvest moon

Spooning the illuminated flecks of light into the mouth of the night

In the moonlit heist of lightning into the flighting righteousness of ichor

Spiralling in the veins and arteries and cartilage of cardiovascular afternoon’s

Ruminating in the blooming ooze of grooving nuisances

Waltzing from the sulphur porterage of winds

Incendiary heresy in barren groves of baritones

And baristas of the speleothem of tethered reverends of Armageddon

Reverberating in the fairy circles in tune with the forests of borealis with their lithium conifers

Thirsting for Mercury in the purple tuberculosis

Of open wings singed by the quicksand hands

Of gods that applaud the solitude of a crawling moon

Crocheted in rainbow crows of osmosis oceans

Of roping dopamine fiending for the cremation of weeding non-believers

Who foster the clockwork of their own gardens

In the backyards of monasteries

In the Gregorian chants that channel the Babel’s avenues of an avalanche

Dancing with the amaranths and chrysanthemums

Of anchoring sanctuaries that hold down the boundaries of hallelujah

In hallucinogenic cemeteries

Married to the unyielding fields of Elysium

Creased by the spectres of crepuscular nocturnal vertebrae

That search the hollow earth through hurricanes for stained glass pastures

Of ecclesiastical masquerades

Of Salem’s Samsara in the gardens of martyrs

Saviours’ salvation faithlessness

Latex to the pavement aether of and on the lustrous cusp of nothingness

To questioning terrestrials

Vessels of testament

Wrestle each other under writhing sunlight spires of

Chimera lilac diving into the asylum of briars spiralling with Nihilism

Imprisoned in the linguistic circumcision of bodyless godliness

Terrestrial

I dance with death beneath my breath

My path is set

In sunlights’ depth

I hate the present

And doubt the next

I hate the former’s metamorphosis

With its crown of porcelain

As the crack of a smile between my teeth

Unravels me from all my dreams

In its endless grove of epitomes

Glaucoma foaming bloated in the distoma of soma’s ocean

Interloping in the incorporeal kaleidoscope

Approaching in the cornucopia of corn reaped from the creep of a steeple

Bending in pendulums to the sentient sentences

Of sentimental senescence

Of pestilence iridescent with its spectacles of nectar’s blessings

Phosphorescent in the nestled nook of a bookshelf’s alcoves

Exodus imploding interwoven

Phantasmagorical hormones of the morrow of porcelain

Intercourse morsels of the vorpal North Star’s outstretched arms

Carving monarchs in the calligraphy of rhythm

Infinity blizzards of the scimitars that scaffold crackling blasphemy

Over the unfortunate clovers of Asmodeus

Exodus groves of momentum checkered crescents of engines rending in (existential) fentanyl

Sentinels spent in hell eventual

Banshee chrysanthemums

Irises kaleidoscope

Discombobulated hydraulic monoliths of bulbous altocumulus

Like crawling mausoleums in helium surrealism

In vandalized asylum rising higher than my diaphragm

Of spiralling wireframe stranded in the grandest of amaranths

Under glorious aurora borealis and Saturn’s of Babylon

Waltzing on asphalt and sulphur

Bulbous and bulging belted from the cauldron of andromedas

All-consuming in the blooming brew

The stew of malting Jupiter’s reunion entombed

In the luminous altocumulus clotting in phosphorus

With the cyan dryads in their spriggan photosynthesis of penniless tenebrous embryos

 

Puppet and the Master’s Love

 

The embroidered tendrils of my brainstem reach for God

Regurgitating his words without clarity

The mouth tries to shape with a swollen tongue

Tell me what am I supposed to be?

Another goddamned child?

The womb itches

The record scratches its own back like an empty page

I am still here

But in the end I too must face the forces of nature

Time, love, and death immortal

With my own

And part with them each, gracefully

Word for word

Silence for silence

Noise for noise

On their battlefield

And voice until each whisper crumbles to dust

Until the last syllable blows into the static

Until the colour bleeds from the portrait

And the lines blur into the twine of a subdividing iris

Walking through the rain without getting wet;

Imagination

Identity

War

I welcome the abyss

As I would the heavens

You will either feel everything

Or nothing at all

(To taste from the stream of my veins)

(Acrylic basllicas, vermillion capillaries, of bougainvilleas)

(To stain the fabric of my history with watercolour flowing deeply)

(I still wear the tie-dye of every hue of the vibrant tomes I have seen)

(I still see in colour)

(Though I may fade)

(Through the kaleidoscope of time)

(I feel everything)

(And nothing)

(Until the last desiccated cloud over each terracotta menagerie)

(Drops through a symphony of rain)

(And ink)

(No longer runs)

(Through the rust beneath dirty fingernails)

(Or hugs the veins of)

(The paper that loved it)

(And coaxed it)

(Into verse)

(As the canvas would sit sensually)

(Waiting)

(For an artist)

(To bring new life with each stroke of her paint slathered brush)

(All we know)

(Is nothing)

(Before the weight of everything)

(Like a grain of sand that doesn’t know the ocean of soundwaves beyond the blades of grass)

(We don’t know, still fear, the beauty of drowning)

(The track marks of tomorrow across the fields of asphodel laid with terracotta pottery)

(Will lead nowhere)

(Passing down stillness in ignorance)

(While our bodies continue to move)

<Instinctually, with every breath of air, with every heartbeat>

(Relearning what death has yet to teach)

(Knowing nothing)

(Fearing everything)

(Familiarly ignorant with the tomes left unknown)

(Removed from us)

(To keep us wondering)

(To keep us young)

(Sinfully ignorant, all-knowingly curious)

(Damned in our salvation, motionless(ly) with(out) direction, still, yet moving)

(Delusions illuminated in the glairing wisteria and plumerias varicose oceans coasting)

(Yet still striving, growing, pushing and pulling unto brilliance)

(Maybe the next mountain of heartbeats I climb will reach it)

(Or I’ll find another way up)

(I can’t stand being looked down on)

(Even now)

(By the brightest, and most brilliant)

(Of fallen, s**t shooting stars)

(Until the last wilted flower petal pirouettes into a stream of decay in the pump of my heart)

(Until I hit rock bottom and dig myself out of this hellhole)

(Until the voices in my head finally stop, like a watch put back together that no longer ticks)

As silence becomes more deafening than white noise

In one voice whispering

To know the scream of time shouting in my ears

As the wind shakes the shadow of the trees

And the wall of mandalas brighter than green

Let it be enough

You have nothing

I have nothing

Let us share nothing but our words

Smouldering in your outstretched hands like pupils of juniper

Tendrils of parhelion in our (spellbound) skeletons

Please,

Let it be enough

Drowning in the brightest, and most brilliant stars

I feel everything

And that means nothing at all

All I am is empty

The crawlspace of my chest still feels the pitter-patter of feet creeping up in the ribs of an attic

I cannot overcome death

But I won’t let life beat me down

I am a broken guitar

Smashing myself to pieces against a brick wall

To hear the screaming vibrating sound of my crumbling parts

Of reverberating strings and broken glass

We were made from their shattered formless shapeless parts of artwork

We were made from soundwaves cascading in this grand beach

Baptized in silence

I am a broken guitar

If only to be frolicking in the gardens of my own melancholia

And now I hang by these severed heads of Armageddon melancholic mandalas ovulating

Melodies of solitudes strawberry armoires of armadas’ harmonicas melodic andromedas

Symphonicas’ monikers of mother’s pearls swirling in suburbia’s mimicry of infinities scintillate

(Crescents opalescent incandescent heavens)

(Bioluminescent pestilential crescendos)

(Regurgitating hurricanes of the sterling inferno’s chromosomes)

(A stone’s thrown of deaths-row pandemonium on every boneless podium)

The people I brought back to life with

These snapped strings

(Strung along by everything)

Nothing is all they know

All we knew

(All we were; <and I know that now>)

 

Reaching For All We Are

 

<Reaching for all we are>

<As crippled as I am>

<By the entangled tarantula that brandishes sin within my heartstrings>

<Strumming with what is left of the tapestry of sinew, artery, vein>

<Within the twine knotted with the roots of my redwood heart>

<Now felled and chopped into rusty musculature and sawdust>

<The branches that once danced with antlered sanguine>

<Reaching for the fallen Sun>

<As it sets below the earth into this garden of andromedas>

<Buried within the maelstrom, the mausoleum> over-encumbered, overburdened

<The looped threads tied into links of strand roped in the obsidian strings>

<Holding the weight of God> within the tendons’ crescendo

<Their music in the wind that blows between the straw and leaves>

<Their song is empty of voice, soft, desolate, loud in its quiet, a choir without a mouth>

<These snapped strings> scream

Without a tongue, without a syllable, without something to say

Hell is cold, and crowded with forgotten chords that hear no reason and know no God

The echo of their closed curtains

Staged within the smoke and mirrors,

(Of empyrean gears that turn the words of eternity back to burgundy)

In this playground of tombstones

Nothing is real

Nothing matters

No man lives to wage war on the shaper of clay

And yet still, the terracotta warriors shatter each other into pieces

The kintsugi of altocumulus as we split the heavens with our hands, and our hate, and our love

Piecing together our Armageddon

I build monuments with the shrapnel of our skins, and our minds, and our limbs, and our kin,

Reassembling in ebony compendiums my untethered brethren of Everest

The empty cup that was once overflowing, each drop of spit healing the earth

They do not know (the) beauty, they refused to see, bleeding for nothing

God was mistaken

They greet war like an old friend

(Forever disturbed by their bloodlust)

(They always taste for more than their own)

<Nothing is all they know>

And like them, I must go to meet my own destiny

I fill my eyes with them

(For) They are my endless tears

Not to love them, but to see them for what they should have been

If only they were better than this

Better than nothing

<(Better, but)Instead, they are (just) human>

 

Continuation of the Gravedigger’s Abyss

 

<I pity them; and their ideal(s) of imperfection>

<A shadow of a shadow>

<A reflection of a reflection>

<I too am shapeless, (amorphous, diluted, lacking [of] God)>

<And like them stumble blindly>

<Towards the untraveled path of God, of angels>

<Never reaching it>

<Left behind in the dust and the glare of the empty heavens>

<(Smiling down from their forest of clouds)>

<Daffodils and apple trees flee through the ample tarantula of the limbs of bush and brush>

<Stroking the canvas blank to wolf’s howl>

<Worn away by the colour of hours mixed into paint>

<Swallowing the moon like the broken mirror of suns they are>

<The wrinkled crease of the horizon’s furrowed brow>

Its crosseyed philosophy, rocking back and forth fetal like a boat in the (fog of) oceans>

<We wish to be better than nothing>

<We wish not to drown in ourselves>

<To pretend innocence, love, mindfulness, dominance, but in the end>

<We are just human, feeble and unable to comprehend the wrath of our own downfalls>

<Unable to overcome ourselves>

<Free to come to grips with our hollowness>

<In the court of angels, (to be) judged by God>

<Awaiting persecution for our human actions, our (human) failures>

<Falling more, wanting more, taking more>

<Beating down the stray nails with the hammer of judgement>

<Burrowing deep into the wood>

<Beaten down into the dirt, the earth, the tree roots’ with splintered teeth; full with gout>

<The branching tendrilled teeth of the comb filing out loose hairs without discretion>

<The scalp itches>

<(We are entangled in the depths of civilization)>

<Plastic, waste, death, lost in the phosphorous operas of mockingbirds)>

<Humbled by my scars on this scarred earth>

<Looking for something lost beneath the skin with these wanderer’s hands>

<Something beneath the façade of August mirages>

<Something after the alabaster suede of yesterdays>

<Like castaways in the passageways of a masquerade>

<They are holding their hearts out with their outstretched palms>

<I’ll take what I can get>

<Sanguine gangrene tambourines in the blinding lamplight all spiderwebbed>

<These fingers are covered, doublecrossed by, smeared in my ink, and these rusted nails>

<Well>

<I do nothing (with them) but scratch at the bruises>

<And do nothing with this tongue>

<But lick my wounds>

<To get the taste of you, your words, and your worthless dreams out of my mouth>

<This world is simple, cold, cruel>

<Do not expect me to be any different than your master>

<I bury hearts in the hope of growing sunflowers>

<The ripped pages of their petals like crumpled newspaper scrap metal skeletons>

<Don’t underestimate the seeds >

<Cramming whatever they can within the hollow of their chests>

<They will reap our harvest, and leave the fields empty>

<I’ll pity them too>

<Eventually>

<They are similarly empty>

<They do not care>

<When they are gone, I suppose the next ones will be empty as well>

<Loveless, and terrified by their inability to love>

<Carrying the weight of their world>

<Unable to share their burdens>

<Disappointment, disbelief, dissatisfaction, death>

<Reach back into it>

<Know it>

<It is my gift>

<It is all we are>

<All we know>

<All we were>

<All we’ll ever be>

<Beaten into the ground>

<So many>

<Of my fellow strugglers>

<They know>

<Somewhere in the back of their skulls>

<That they are not welcome, as we were not welcome>

<There is no love for us here in these endless barren fields of dried mud>

<I’ve stopped looking for it>

<Stopped caring>

<Keep dreaming>

<Keep trying, (if you think you can)>

<See where that struggle gets you>

<Keep your head above the deep rivers of mud, the grey abyss of this empty page>

<Tell me what you see>

<Because at the last hour of midnight>

<Our day, our lives, our light, and we, will be over>

<Before I fade too; just tell me, show me, bring me, the world I’ve yet to see>

You, who inherits my will, my life, my death, my struggle

Tell me of your empty victories

And of your false battles

(Let us chant, and once more, our sandcastle empires, our promised world, and dying words)

(Be whole)

(Let us answer your ramshackle roar)

(<Rambling> Within silence)

(The truth we have not heard)

(Let the mountains shake with it)

(Ringing within the ears of the old, deaf, dead, cosmos)

(Know it, know everything)

(‘Something we could not give)

Receive that which could not be taken

(It is their gift to you)

 

 

Author's Note

I will paint over this (unfinished) canvas as many times as I need to.


The section labelled 'Continuation of the Gravedigger's Abyss' is optional, I'm not entirely sure if I consider it part of the poem, it's just sort of there, feel free to tell me if you still like it there, or if it's a little weaker than the rest of the work.

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.

Reviews

[LJW]

This is what a good acid trip would look like. Probably right after reading The Bible. Trust me, that's meant as a compliment.

For sure this is a piece meant to be read by a highly intelligent person. After all, who wants to have to stop and look up words? And even if many of the words are not understood, as a spoken word piece this would take on a life of it's own. There is a musicality to it. There is a surrealistic undertone throughout.
Interesting, unique, writing that creates it's own lane.
.

[R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)]

I actually started off in spoken word, slam poetry. I got into the finals in my home city’s poetry slams for the first 2 years I was there, but I found it difficult due to the anxiety I felt and the longing to write mainly for myself and focus on words rather than performances. It’s been 3 years since then, and I still miss it, but being able to go from poem to poem without having to worry about getting ready for an audience is a good feeling. My work is very abstract as you can see, I definitely like to go for something instinctual, sound, metaphor, the shape of the words and how things are said are all fun to work with. Creates a very, very different kind of read, some people like it and some people don’t. That’s the beauty of writing, a different perspective creates different poems, and different experiences in reading poems. I’m glad you’re one of the people who enjoyed me work, that really means a lot to me. Feel free to ask me to review some of your work, I always love a good read! Thanks again.

R.J

[Adeline E. Weathers]

Your poems and form of writing artistry are too much for a simple mind. The words and pictures are baring and soul clenching. I hope my words and not being able to understand don't discourage you. You'll find your way into communication if that's what you're after, or if you just want to create an art of your own.

[R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)]

Thank you, I'm glad you took the time to read my work, and I appreciate your review as well.

[Zoe Richardson]

I have to be honest. I don't totally get what you are doing here, but that's okay! That's not a criticism. You marry images and weave them. You dart your thoughts in and out like threads in a tapestry. They form and collide and scatter, like iron pellets when you drag a magnet over them. I think you want to write a book, but you are finding it difficult. So you created a labor of images to describe that process. That's what it means to be a writer, and to find meaning in what you create!

[R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)]

Thank you for the reading and reviewing, I appreciate your honesty and I'm glad I could share this poem with you.

[Carlos Lorenzo Estrada]

You paint such stark vistas of imagery that sends the mind into a dark frenzy. It's like walking into a nightmare and being captivated by its bleak sorrow. It is shock after shock which stuns the soul leaving one mesmerized by its aftermath. You truly do take your reader on a journey my friend. This is a painted canvas of words few will ever forget from the ride they are taken on. Excellent work R.J. and I say this as a fan of your art, I hope you never lose inspiration for writing.

[R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)]

You know it means so much to me to have a great writer like you enjoy my work. There's a constant cycle of writing and not writing I go through at times. I am happy when I can write, and feel unbelonging when I can't, since writing is a part of me, much as it is for most writers I believe. I will certainly continue to write. You and the other writers who find something in my work give me a reason to get up in the morning and write something I hope will be better. Take care, and you keep writing as well.

R.J