Lavenders in a Border Province

one day, I want to stand in a field of lavenders, bending to the mellowness of the setting sun, free of the burdens of worry and regret, with only golden illuminance standing in between myself and all that is above.

one day, the alien reverberations, those cacophonous layers: they will crash down splendid as an orchestra of tides, up above my own wants with others, those miscalculated overcompensations and dreary examinations of worth and resolution.

one day, my skies will shimmer and shine like roses outside the forgotten palace, wild, untamed colors striking me down with absolution and unbiased intent.

across my chest the purple petals blow in the sounds of gods howling their blessings unrelenting.

—

in my own space I reside perfect and private, notes written by the fireplace stained by words of newborn love, contoured by a careless rollercoaster blueprint, an inconsequential doodle that ends right where it began: a living, not merely breathing, specimen of I am.

My Fantasy is Chaos

in some hidden cave
enclosed by the high-tide sea,
moonlit waves shimmer,
I stand, feet deep into mud,
and wake from beacon-esque dreams.

Sunflowers

a field of tall towers with spiral eyes staring into
nothingness, the empty space between me and myself,
the company it provides as we stare at the sun.
blinded, a face of sorrows in a valley of shine.
I’ve reached saturation, much like these yellow flowers
post-production. cast into bottles with the mark of the
sun. a blissful valley nothing but a plantation of
caricatures, of hopeless victims to unknown isolation,
of well-meant, fair-weather friends and followers,
cut me down like the rest of them, watch me bleed
from the suffocated heart I’ve deemed to be mine.

Midas

full spectrum of arrogance on
full display. saxophone solos interspersed
with pretentious nods of condescension,
appreciation, jagged mirrors that focus the light.
reflections, they hurt my eyes. freestyle
verse after verse, each moonbeam shines on
stock images, clip arts that don’t deserve.
Midas, the owner of all living things,
shines bright, cuts me to size. I wish
I could be him with his hand of gold,
with his broken drum machine playing
the same beat. again, and. again.
he dances to the wrong tune,
but no one cares. he is perfect.
I am honored to be in the presence
of the man who won it all. I sway
from side to side, small, alive, alone.

Sensory

I weep faithful tears on cold earth’s feet
fortune leaps back unto pity’s wail
I tread upon the lack of the fine right
of human flesh and blood. warmth
as a metaphor for germinating
sights, glances, acknowledgements,
utterly condemned to the depths of
the enemy, the first enemy, the
modern-day conflict, the post-love
scars claiming the sky and beyond.
as a finale the sun shines faintly in respect
of the unclasped palms aching with
rushing blood stains skin deep.

9:34

my alarm parts the sea, a miracle of demise. grand,
effervescent foam splashes in creamy waves of textures,
on my face the wrinkle-stained dreamlike state. of good,
even futures left to the natural. they progress fantastical
into boxed-up fears, adorations, envies. they cross my mind.
they run, they run from enslaving evil as the image
grows sharper still. gone are the plagues of endearing love.
they run as it hits hard like the stone. totalitarian reality
opens my eyes. silence deafening and dim light blinding.

light seeps through the silent guardians. they watch me
as they block the light from striking me. I hear my breath,
moist like dew, as utterances of suffering. but the shine
must rest on the promise of the day. I violate the guards,
push aside the fabric, bask in the hopeful warmth of being.
reality sets in like the homogenous sea. our freedom to be.
with the sun still ringing in my ears, I scale the sky, ascend.

Domineering

mind like a horse through a great open field, wilful ignorance
of stones and rough edges. a large mass of muscle pulsating
through the very reality where the weak keep on rummaging.
serotonin skyrockets, ballistic impact, they cumber the act
of a raging blizzard. like seasons, I run with diluting speed,
to act upon myself the need of depressive winds. an embrace.
the caustic engine runs itself dry. collapses under the heat.
silent under the sun. brown pelt torn at the seams with
no one helping to sew. infections, but for the host, peace, and
termination of the daily blight of inhumanity self-propelled.

Fractal Sense

rapid sample loops distorted
beyond a recognizable degree.
those jabs piercing straight into the edge of
music. differentiated balloons hide
a white smile and those unseen eyes
but they’re always seeing through the walls.
it tastes like sin. (spikes, spikes, spikes)
the hyperactive podium of a white blood cell
and that multi-colored warping bottomless pit.
ears with a frame rate, decibel counting eyes.
off the charts, melon gave it a ten.
“it must be good.” open break.
pop. last in first out. modulated springboards
microsecond breathing space, sweat-dropping
hothead. I make myself different.
music tastes like sin, or so they say. get out.
185 seconds of standing on spikes.
my talent, my limit, my exhaling shrieks,
my experiential experimental
death-gripped beat.

 

(inspired by spikes – death grips)

After the Mists of Yesterday

will the mahogany walls withstand the monsoon strain?
or will they buckle inwards and outwards, beat under strain?

silence. not that of remembrance, but that of hushed opinions.
doors closed like lips, sweat builds up under a tolerant strain.

fellow human, young or old, to you I say, “leave me be.”
like gears to a bicycle chain, control is lost under strain.

clothes drying out in the ultraviolet manifest. it’s burning.
away the stains of the far-reaching spot! reward for my strain.

windowpanes. in low light a figure arises from the glass.
liquid in form, it stares at me. and I knew it was to strain.

pillowcases soft, softer in the night. here I am lying.
ascended, above. this is how it is. for a while — no strain.

Drift Intention (Beacon)

we are there,
in a sea of floating specks of dust.
the deep pink impact has set us free and we
are drifting with the cold, callous wind.
from realms of green, gray and blue,
our minds wander carelessly around
the subsonic, subterranean totem pole figure.
“the one who gives the future.”
organized clumps of undead mite matter,
we are colored swabs settling on a book’s front cover.
anxiety, and dread.
the life we are meant to lead:
missing.
we float on.

(a boat in an unlit path stained with granite teeth,
one without an anchor to stall in waters waist deep.)