Front Page Pornography

Frequent guilt trip traveller,  forever forlorn and posted on a corner of a storm.

Mouth like a blow horn and posture hangs him slumped.

Posture is bad from the way head has been pulled down by gravity.

Posture looks like devolution.

Postcards to the past serve as a highlight to regrets that even keep the daylight dark.

Walking away from the light like a wayward spark.

Heretic of pop culture, harbouring pain inside like a hot ulcer.

Hands vibrating violently from the internal perpetual diatribes singing themselves out

They are eating their way out.

Someone sing them to  sleep.

Will someone come and offer lullabies for the diatribes?

I want to live to death, I want to live till there’s no existence left.

Will you play your voice box till our coffins close?

Your head looks naked with out it’s halo.

You looked like an ‘i’, now you look like a half done ‘L’.

Hand me down skin hangs loosely on the bones.

This is the world and you were introduced to all its tones

This is all you have ever known

and we are liars,

Vehement deniers of our own desires

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Pholcus phalangioides (Senile Ramblings from a wise old homeless man pt 6)

Remember when they made a mockery of your open heart ?  You were a walking freak show. Your skin looked like the graffiti’d walls of an old urban tenement ,not from tattoos but from a fresh batch of scars that life had left you with. When it got cold, you could feel all you had lost in that lonely chill like a phantom limb grinding itself on the sockets of a joint that once held your arm.

Word picture painter ,looking for a vacant stare for your art to reside in, they take you for granted my friend. Your soap box is worth much more than their useless hearts. You and I know that love is a dereliction of all good sense and you loved so much that they labelled you crazy.

One day you were walking back home, with your hands clutched tightly on a set of grocery bags. Gravity weighed down heavily on you that day and it felt like the clouds were gathering around you like an audience. The air was thick and humid and it felt as if you were trying to breathe in a slab of concrete. Fifty steps down an empty lane now separated you from home. You stopped dead in your tracks, turned around to see where you just walked from. You couldn’t identify the trail with yourself. You tried imagining yourself walking down those steps but it just felt like a painted back drop -artificial and dead. You wanted to somehow disappear into it so you dropped the bags like anchor weights, turned around and let the that thick air embrace you. You disappeared.

Word picture painter, how do you make the silence resonate so loudly? When they are next to you, they tread carefully like they were walking on humpty dumpty’s dead skin. Our poster boy for dissonance.

So here you are today, a letter addressed to human being or – is it being human? The two are both oxymoronic and as different as they are the same. You have done and been both and for that they’ve shown you an ugliness that can’t be blamed on bad lighting. At the end of your life, when  you were asked what a smile was, you were sure that it was another form of a sneer.

Word picture painter, your work still haunts me daily, with every word I quote from it, I hear your words echoing from the chambers of my own larynx. You will be missed.

This is what we read on the letter of your paper skin. “Don’t let entry level ass holes dishearten you. The world can only make you prisoner once you’ve given yourself up. Its safer to be a pedestrian than a passenger in a vehicle made to drive you crazy. All those eight legged monsters that you felt were a threat cant kill you. You see, the daddy long legs spider’s fangs are too short to penetrate  your skin deeply enough to harm you and even if they could cut deeper, they’re venom is too weak to kill you. That’s what they are, weak,poisonous creeps with plastic cutlery fangs and sometimes it may seem that they have hurt you but its not true. You are wasting your time in acknowledging them. You have the power to realize that you are a living article in the cypher of the infinite. You are and always will be even after death. Dreams keep the universe running and free thought has become so unfashionable that it feels like the world is spinning on a rusted axle.  Let go of the dust and embrace the wind.”

Loose Threads

Oh captive, my captive

I’m trying to seem more authentic and less deceptive

You want me to be 100 percent more perceptive

and 50% less protective,

You want freedom and less connection

While we stare at each other from our respective planets,

like we are trying to telepathically feel each others presence

Like a mirror collecting its own pieces to display a severed reflection. 

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Behind grief, I titter between faith and blind disbelief

and I’d do anything to keep you safe from their open mouths  

and grinding teeth  

I’ll provide a shelter for you to find relief   

I haven’t expressed you for so long its like my tongue wasn’t

designed for speech

 

You’ve been a prisoner cursed to walk the empty bypaths of my soul

– dirt roads occupied by rogues and a collection of regrets

Worn by use, poor maintenance and neglect

I’ve become over protective of you and I can tell that you are

tired by the very sway of your steps   

 

perhaps, I have become an apprentice of my shame and fear,

daily performing blatant cowardices in the name of indifference and vacant stares 

Heart muscle atrophying 

I was scared of harsh words, patronizing

 

You deserve to shine before you die 

You deserve to be spared from the echoes of my dread

 You deserve to live outside the shackles of my head

You deserve to be free because you are everything I love about myself.