Untitled #6

And the broken man sat down at a table and hung his head in his hands.
His silence is stained with lachrymose. The sun, to him, is a stranger.

He goes to his familiar room. The room filled with books, and he tears out the pages, word by word.
The moon, to him, is a stranger.

It's almost like forgetting the name of your favourite book. Your favourite song.
It used to be so easy, but now you can't remember.

And the man at the table next to an open window feels the chill from the icy moon. She, to him, is a stranger. But like the name of your favourite book.

And the broken man shuts the window. He goes back into the familiar room and puts the shattered books back into their places.

And the broken man became reacquainted with the moon.

November.

Rushing and racing and spinning in circles in life's fast forward motion.

And as we clung to hope, we fell to our knees. A thousand ancient spiders bit and scratched our legs. It seeped into our minds. It poisoned all our thoughts.

And now we move so fast that we forget our purpose. Racing and colliding so chaotic.
Spinning so fast that I'm frightened I might disappear in the blur of the

burning that caught on our legs that snatched us together while we weren't looking.
It sparks into emerald green spirals that twist on forever inside of your eyes.
And we began to laugh up a storm and melted away the speed, but as we cried, we tried to find the words that would

help with the decay of our hope. Upon the soft, spongy moss, we lay our heads and our hearts down. We smelled the earth and cried until we laughed and laughed until we cried.
And then we took our tears and mixed it with the burns that covered our legs.

And a soft November rain began to float down. The spiders curled.

Slow me down, November rain. Sweet rain.

And the burned legs did not move quickly. They did not twist or run in circles.

We are the king's third son, and we cannot sleep. The words that we searched for were not home inside their tombs.

The sweet November rain gave hope to our legs, praying that disease would leave us.

We are the king's first son, and we drove our hearse straight through the rain.

Answers in the Basement.

The darkened house loomed before us like some black colossus, hoisting the night sky high above it. We glanced at each other, both shivering with anticipation. Or fear? We couldn't differentiate the two. My hand found yours, the distance between our fingers shrinking to nothing in an instant, as did any doubt. With firm resolution, we stepped onto the cracked driveway. It had long been weathered; tiny green weeks poked their leaves through each rift in the concrete.
Everything was covered in frost. It was deathly quiet; almost like a cemetery.

And maybe we should have hesitated just a moment there. We should have stopped to raise the question. Should we be doing this? But the night was contagious. Any stillness that was in the air seemed to have wormed its way into our brains, stifling the part that should have been catechizing the situation.

We reached the maw of the terrible beast and stepped inside. The air itself seemed to have become stagnant. Abandoned cobwebs drifted in the zephyrs that were stealing in through the door. We exchanged glances once more. Should we be doing this? Of course.

And so we stole into the quiet home in the world of dreams, our scarves wrapped around our necks like nooses.

We slipped in the door and slammed it quietly shut behind us. Turning around brought more than we expected. We were in a den of thieves. Little silvery blue will-o-the-wisps flitted this way and that, snatching darkness and swallowing it whole.

Quiet interludes of piano drifted up from the staircase positioned in the center of the room. Requiem. Nocturne. Bolero. Minuet. Serenades of unknown composers twisted upon mobius strips, writhing and slinking up the stairs.

Bravery must be catching. In the instant that I found firm resolution, you squeezed my hand, reminding me that I was anything but alone. Trampling the mobius strips, we began our journey.

Books. Books upon piles of books upon pianos propped up upon books. Our dream has come.
Our hands flew to cover gaping holes in our faces and our knees rushed to plug the air gushing from the floorboards.

Our hands set their priorities straight, and reached for tomes instead.

This is how we stole through the den of thieves and began to rummage for answers in the basement. We perused the questions in our minds and pondered the answers in the freshly decrepit pages.

They've named cities after us. They've built statues of us and put them underwater.
They've fought wars over us.
They say it's all our fault. What's all our fault?

I don't know.

And this is the story of how we found the little girl in the basement in the quiet house in the world of dreams. Her pianos glowed -- it was the oddest thing. They were filled with candles. Even curiouser, the flames were the same from the den upstairs.

Upstairs, the sun had passed through the glass. The dark was blacker than black. A quiet requiem began to drift through the dark, catching on radio signals that were snagged in our hearts.

And this is the story of the little girl in the basement, who had been born with silver lilies gleaming in her eyes. She was sleeping for eternity by morning with her scarf around her neck. The lilies began to wisp away, curling up over her eyelids and dissipating into the musty, bookish air.

Forever is a long time. I know.
What did we do? I don't know. I really don't know.

And this is the story of how the earth made the heavens and waters collide with such a fury, it was incorrigibly calm. This is the story of how we never discovered what made us so delightfully distasteful. This is the story of the quiet house in the world of dreams. This is the story of the little girl this is the story of how we stole this is the story this is this is this is.

It is so simple, the way the pieces all fit together.

The final piece, the final understanding. Here's a scarf.

No sound at all.

Shaken.

We are the Broken, the Few, the Damned. We are the dust under your feet and the shimmering stars above your head.

We are the fallen birds with broken wings. We are the fists of vengeance that pummel. We are the forces of nature that buffet and raze. We are the swirling clouds that block the sun and rain justice down upon mankind.

We are the channelers of life and dispellers of death.

We are the relinquished spirits whose requiems were lost in the dark.
We are the bolts of energy crackling from the sky and the soft glow of the moon in the blackened evening.

We are the conjurers of dreams and obliterators of oblivion.

We are the Ruinous, and we are back for retribution.

Frightened.

Sand dribbles from my clenched fist, running though the tiny rivulets and creases in my hand.

Minuscule rocks tumble to the ground.

I wish I could live in music. I think my life would be so much better if what I called home was the cradle of a soft, lulling flat sign in a song, rather than this shitty, fucked up bubble that prevents me from achieving my potential. Chains.

I hope it's everything I hope it to be.

Sighing songs from sad, little, twinkling stars make the trees weep.
Weeping willows already exist.

And it all seems so silly.

I can't take this anymore. I can't fucking take it.

Amid the falling snow, I catch glimpses of something beautiful. I can't quite see. Who the hell can see forever?
These little birds love the white sounds emitted from clouds. Chirp chirp.

Dreams are easy to achieve if hope is all I'm hoping to be.

Antisepholes.

Please remember me. Remember me when I'm dead and gone underground. When I've faded from each singular soul's mind. When my stain fades from the human lace entirely. Please. I'm begging you.

One cold, wintry, blisteringly frigid day, I'll take you there. I'll shock and awe and amaze you. It's an awful, flickering, terrible, beautiful sight.

That place where the cool, green waters cause the golden empyrean kingdom to droop and the shivery, cold, dank earth to rise up.

And thus, I go to the place where the water makes the heavens and the earth collide.

And it's a sad place. I'm all alone there. It's cold.

And everything there seems to represent my existence, for better or for worse?

I stand beneath a cherry tree -- naked, bare, exposed. I reach out to touch a blossom and I detonate in a mixed cavalcade of emotion. It manifests itself in cherry blossoms. And I fall to the damp soil, pretty in pink. A thing of the most bizarre nature. Of the most peculiar stature.

Please forgive me. I apologize if I took up too much of your time.

Untitled #5

Fuck you for doing this.

Fuck you for all the photographs you won't burn.
All the digital images you won't erase.
Trapping us together like rancid breath in a fucked up, snaggletoothed mouth.
Each photo a jagged, twisted, painful

memory.

Fuck you for calling us significant others.
Let's just say we were lovers and get the fuck out.

Fuck you for leaving me every morning.
I'd fall asleep with you
and wake up in the company of ghosts.

Fuck you for the things we did and didn't do.

Fuck you for every convoluted sunset.
Every cloud torn asunder by your love. How fucking romantic.
I'm under that same sky.
Those same stars.
And I hate it.

But most importantly, fuck you for loving me.
Fuck you for giving me everything.
For letting me give you everything.
There's one thing that I want to say, so I'll try to be brave.

Love is nothing but time and a friend that you lose. You expected it to be more.

I'm not sorry there's nothing to save.
Fuck you. Fuck you for everything.

and i love you.