Part 1, The fragility of a human being

 

The fragility of a human being

Is paraplegic frequencies only the broken bones strained deaf can sing

Only the whittled stems and twigs of lazulite stars know what it’s like to be stepped on

Only those who are still standing, suffering, have collapsed

Stillborn bodies of old men who can no longer wander are plastic daffodils in the darkness

I am a moth to a flame

An insect called life, that clings to the flesh of blackwater velvet

The veins of moonlight that strum the voice-box in my head

If only ever in silence will you hear me

For I have never bled

Reaching, awakened from my epileptic madness

As the starlight shimmers the little feet that cannot hold the weight of dawn falling like an angel

As we all burn like the sun

In our frozen hearts, our native tongue, dying young

The only thing that is passing is new picture frames

Of times when old ones fabricated mavericks from hibiscus

And crafted angels without wings, glimmering shadows

That were never meant to fly

Were we ever meant to be?

You and I

 

 

On the feathers of dried rose-petal sediment

Speaking steel whipping the backs of our tongues choking on existence

Vomiting words

That I never wanted to hear

Like the sound of rust on the hinges of my soul’s doorframe

Locked behind my ribcage

Did I have anything to say to you, in the first place?

The dead men are still alive

I wonder if they never wanted to have heard anything I have said

With their knowledge of empty full moons

Without their hearts beating the devil out of the aurora of dusk

The dwindling douse of flesh

Whittling away as the bones sing of broken vows to solitude, kindling in the wind

I was never alone

I hear nothing

It is beautiful

I am repeating myself

Every empty breath is rhyming through the jaws of this ocean above our skullduggery

The cloudy scalpel cutting through sunset

The ruthless rhythm continues, in the sunlight of another dark star’s scapegoat to the clockwork’s octaves

The fragility, impulsively carries on the fragrance of insanity, upon the backs of hours

Buried in the dirt of seconds

Flowing with the river of minutes

Under the wax of a shapeless world

We are all abstract castaways in the inkblot gifts of mannequins clothed in the madness world’s apart

Dreams of threads cut through the distance

Like the dawn cuts through a nightingale’s war-cry

I am at peace with my battlefield

The fallen are still standing strong as the foundation of our lives

May we never rise above that suffering

Silence double-crossing the nothingness that was always something ordinary

Something broken in a way that still ticks like a heartbeat

So mangled that it’s more human than it used to be

Scribbled in such clumsiness that it could be said it was perfectly whole as a jigsaw puzzle

So beautifully without grace

So lovely that only an ugly picture could capture in its broken arms

Limp as a corpse that smiles on our memories of their lives

Gone stagnant, but still growing under the skin of our past

Wrinkled with smile lines, laughing with death, over the fickle fleeting monster called life

Part 2, Shattered

 

But I am forever just pieces of a whole separated in hatred

That shattered like cardiovascular Rorschach’s in the nightshade barricade of the civil war of sorrow within the world of my embryos tornados memento of celestial metallurgy

And even my cadaver has sharp edges, verses of purgatory torrent agoraphobic

So don’t cut yourself on my pride, ribbons I wear like memories on the straightjacket sleeves of a family that passed me by

While my hands that write eulogies on a dead heart’s perjury

Still beating,

Ember’s of incendiary hurricanes let me turn the lights out and tuck you in

Mangled ensembles of broken wings

Battling the stratosphere with the metabolism of an avatar

Behind the bars of word’s

A prisoner that sings symbolism, invisible to stabbing avenues of cataclysm

That made me fragile as paper cuts on the wind flowing like the pages of a broken spined book opening like a lead flower

Smudged with silent words flying the ashes of a pacifist like a flag of insanity

Never heard by the bastard of a moment giving birth to redemption

Adopting pain, divorcing reason, reinforced freedom, bulletproof semen

The abortion of a child chained to a machine called Torment

A fiend of psychopathy’s rapture

Crafted from the sapling of god’s onomatopoeia

Only in the flames, can I let you go with the smoke in the wind

Burning out like a flicker of hope

Dwindling obsidian daydreamers of chaos, lost in Holocaust

Sinning infinity virgin to the curtain roll

Hanging from the soul of a telephone pole

Part 3, Pragmatic Fragments

 

Let me flip the world upside down so you can level with me

And get high on the divide between self and apartheid sacrifice

Cause your head’s in the sky like a death scythe

Ripe for dilapidated afterlife’s magnum opus

Metamorphosis of intercoursing osteoporosis of cloudnine’s satellites

Like meteorite transceivers of intravenous double helixes

Reaping Olympian photosynthesis like pragmatic fragments

As they avalanche shattered glass psychosomatic amalgamated glaciers

Of chandelier immaterialism’s prisms of ethereal rhythm

Imitating motivation infinite ricocheting hieroglyphics

Abyssal infentesimo deafening requiem

From the sky of formaldehyde

Saying goodbye to the grindstone gears of sunlights’ blight

Shuttered shadows tight with indecipherable poltergeists

On the incorporeal twirl as they dwarf our worlds

 

 

Art Credits to: Henry Christian Slane, _maichan-art, more-than-ideas.tumblr, Centophobe, artollo.com