The wont and the glow

What was real had long since been established, had long since been ravished by other worlds, concepts, ideas, by proud suits blazing trails, sharing thoughts perceived divine, suggesting no other way but to move blind through this reality with no other means but “mine."

Let daylight expose the soul anew, and in such light instill the idea of externity and the impermanence of purest reality, and the truth that we could forgo the trappings of this wounded hour, to de-spin the false clouds of a static power, when once before all existence we had cowered, now all afire and aflow, never more conscious of the wont and the glow.

But I am here wondering if distance is a dream, if this illusion from you to me, is the moment when this thought had become, might have seemed, yes, might have seemed, indifferent, yet beamed, to have radiantly engaged the idea that our hands, though tied, offer up the grace to be free.

Saranesia

Down the road
a boy would
go

into darkness

fearless

afraid,

she never stayed

and the living gravel
would bite
at his feet

whilst moving headlong through

a kind of haunted sleet

"a cold has come"

though he trudges on

to some unknown end

to begin

again

where was she

if ever she were there

the flame of his despair

a warmth of a kind

that left no trace

behind

that she would ever

care

again

then he would pause

indifferent to
any cause

and upwards he would
gaze

into a kind of blinding
space

where a light should

cut its
way 

casting off

remnants of a 

past 

at once forgotten,

spoken of
in hushed tones

a memory of a reminder

that she were there,

any and every

where

head down

reposed

onward he 

goes, his

Saranesia

in the distance

knows.

Blood letter

A sickness would overcome me

in time for the winter solstice

to deface me with

a kind of beleaguered
discretion

not really trying

to suffer the dying

but bowing before

a cell
that would not

fail

the longest night
dreams

the shortest day 

screams
and an idea

got in my way
that i could

ever change you,

it’s true

but in this gray place,
where i try and hold this,

bleeds a certain feeling 

i can miss

in time for

this bloody solstice

to let the blood 

of my faith

in you
spill

and my flesh would pale in

your garrison

an entourage of

comparisons
go idly wiling 

slightly smiling
as i shiver
red

this river flows.

The Dregs Necrotic

Bodies move in succession

dripping with acrid indifference

a multitudinous progression

overwhelming the environment

these bodies gather unwittingly,

pushing, shoving, bumping, 

comatose to the failure of existence

having mindlessly given up

any pretense of resistance

to what must surely come

the bodies move decaying

squawking and forever spraying

words that have no shelf-life

touting the benefits of a purpose

in the face of a nothingness

that your god simply cannot explain

whether we are given purpose 

or create our own

we all go away in the end,

so we become numb again

prescribed a drug,
the opioid moment,

to quell the anxiety
of the ever present,

effervescent end.

Cancel

Break and breathe
a getaway train
for the tripping
speeds

into a station unmapped
relapsed again
here comes the frame
again to blend
in when spin
has unspun
a friend

deleted unsettled
a franchise unfettered
i wish i'd come sooner
when dying was less
in

forget to forget
all the way home
akin to skin
amend
amen.

The wasting

A drifter

shapeshifter

approaches

soul sister

explains existence

in a word or two

sharing...

we are the dead

bodies walking

stumbling into a promised

systematic failure

without a hint of redemption

nor guarantee of a life

less fleeting

at moment’s end

we are the wasting

a dripping sickness

a mass of cells

coming apart

on the basis of day

slipping away

a slow decay

this time untamed

death is irrelevant

when death is so prevalent

and the fact that

we medicate suggests

life is not evidence

of an existence 

benevolent.

Live crabs

Live Fearlessly

Masturbation

Afterthought by John Belmont

I have to pee

Afterthought by John Belmont

Broccoli

Afterthought by John Belmont

Dressing

Afterthought by John Belmont

Who are we kidding?

Afterthought by John Belmont

Bloody bits

Afterthought by John Belmont

Fart like a man

Afterthought by John Belmont

Blonde?

Afterthought by John Belmont

Chewing too fast

Afterthought by John Belmont

Masturbation time

Afterthought by John Belmont

Mammoth

Drawn inexplicably towards
indifference,
an apathetic state,
a gray crystalline kind of weight,
a sort of beacon pointing home

where purpose is a luxury
for the many who go blindly,
yet ever so certain, kindly
into the false sublime
of hope

and there on a precipice hanging,
a mammoth to this waking,
dream witness to the
aching, flowing tepid through
the soul.

Die you fuck

Manage my death

so that i can formally

displease you

appease not a thing

that should ease you

synchronize my love

for your pain engrained

on blood-stained windscreen

i am so glad that i am not sad 

that your body I’ve shamed

it’s just that i inundate

myself with images of shit

bag fuck-wits walking this 

zombie dead dirt fuck ground

earth that dies dies dies

stinks rots bleeds fecal matter

a cold warm blooded spatter

why won’t you die you 

fuck?