Good morning

Waking from deep sleep nine,

                            Phone too tired to remind me the time.

               I pick up a six string drum,

And strum along,

  To old melody and rhyme.

Monopath

 A familiar taste sits in my throat as I walk home at night. Letting my mind wonder as the streetlights stretch across my vision in a blurry orange beige spectrum, I contemplate on what the taste might be, but it is too unnatural to define as something organic. I let my legs stagger forward as my senses smelt together a complex pattern of ideas and thought. I hear myself groan as my feet kick the curb of the road, but the sound is detached, an automatic response to environment. The utterance is nothing more but dust on the skin of my independent society; My unique brain complex that leaks colour onto the road. Hallucinations of music vibrate kindly, entertaining my thirsty mind, bored of walking.

Click

Nation down!
Story uncovered and
Media drown.
Flood the wooden gates
Fragile from decay
Tear down the streetlights
Shinin' on old grey:
(The squares with the statues
Remind of old history
A memorial misery
The burden it weigh.)

Old meaningful morals and
United damnation
Of a tower of lies.
Everything falls-
Wasted bricks
As debris flies.
Battered homes lay
Under the siege.
Blocked roads, homeless people
A chorus of hunger, a screech.
Like a dying body
Sick
Body erodes to bone
City erodes to ruin.
Nation down everybody.
Down, down, down and gone.

Rising fumes against smiling shadows

Rise Rise Rise!

Why is it always this?

Gret sparklins arrive from the floor

And beckon

Whispers, in agrar husks.

Mist, aloft, the mist,

In lingers within large space,

In transparent, different volumes,

Harsh points in great intensity of feelings,

They drift,

Drift among me.

I am never alone.

The coldness intensifies as I relish that statement,

Everything I am familiar with dulls,

As I am pushed hard into a different world,

Fingers around my shoulders,

Scales around my arms and fingers,

And flashes.
Flashes are the things that catch my eyes,

The scythes swinging at my vision,

Cutting me from my understanding of this trance.

Is it not a game I can receive clear,

Nor deliver commuciation,

But just feel that coldness,

Wrap me round,

What if it takes me,

What if I am no longer, myself, found?

Smooth face

My best exhibit is a blank canvas.

No colour, no shape, no stroke

Just a void of final acceptance

That nothing I could paint,

Nothing I could create,

Would reflect the prince's smile.

Brush-Painting

Brush marks parchment with a slap of ink

Staining like a permanent burn,

Shades of nothing become embroidered into a new harmony,

Lively symbols

Of entangled symmetry.

Painter smiles,

Daring to curve and sweep his brush wildly

Fulfilling his need to deliver

An honest message

In a fury of passion.

Wounds of love

CRUNCH!

Teeth snare

Encoding data

Transmit

Into the apple.

Pulse of sound

Replays.

CRUNCH.

Teeth snare

Into apple.

Then withdraw,

Dividing flesh

To attack core.

Drunk

On bitter sweet sour

Green blood.

A thirst, a devious hunger,

For another taste

Of a broken structure.

CRUNCH.

Teeth snare

Into apple.

Another--

CRUNCH!

Fangs dig

Into apple.

Lips kiss leaking apple.

DUMP!

Remains discarded

Deep, dark bin.