"I've got this killer up inside of me... I can't talk to my mother, (friends, women, coworkers, associates, affiliates, city council, the internets, the homeless or even your mother) so I talk to my diary."

-that Scarface song from Office Space

A Fiend Like the Living Dead

I’ve got the eye
Yet I don’t know whether
I’m seeing the sky
Or an abyss
As the understanding of myself
Has gone amiss, contracted
And elapsed to beckon
A vortex of ellipse:

Constricted by the collapsing
Of two sides whilst the others
Burgeon my eclipse.

No, it’s not that, this rhyme;
It’s that I haven’t even
Erected from my grave this time
Around, may I remain dead
Rather than return alive;
Endure the hell of ground to which
I’ve interred myself.

It must be the trust;
A kind you will only serve in jest
To feign pious, hence endured
Is death fulfilled, inured
By faith placed on bended knee crest-
ing a Loan-of-Arc lien
On your lust:
Betrothed and bound
And placed ‘side the wince of flame
Until it’s liqueur, it’s satisfaction
Is retrieved; Salem-Bitch tied
Entrenched, buried eternally
That legacy echoing a freeze
On your stalk, betrayed
Fully milked by youth’s zeal
With reeling incompetent incontinence
Finally relieving your attraction.

Those seams your graves create
I reek between, a body decayed
In this minefield, caged ‘neath and
Harbored by abhorred trees polluted
Through a delayed effect of reality
And malady elected mem’ries alluded to
Before, tales heard only by foul roots
Nursing those insouciant leaves which
Shading with their heft, benighted
I succor to, now.

And they are my harem
My apparent menagerie
From great ape to jungle cat to sow
All what I’ve written over ages
Osmosible rages embodied
For Gau’s assimilation:

Wealth and death,
Death and destruction,
Destruction and what is left:
No matter the marital, conspiring tithe,
Matter or not if prima nocta was mine;

Death and Wealth,
Wealth and what is left,
What is left of destruction’s inherent theft:
It will not matter if my only life was mine,
In concert or not my stand beyond time;

To you, no longer me, nor even god to see
In his creation the ideal
To curse relentlessly,
Against itself and
The nation it purports to be
A figurehead of;
An inaugurated, indigenous cohort
Even natural leader, perhaps weaver
In the cycle of human life, though
Through being man, a wife to genes
Having thus signed a prenuptial
On the doubling of his strife.

Diablo, he can not free me from it
This time and the Icewind Dale
Is at a loss
The winds of my will are far too shrill
And the flurry of unrest too hot;
As frozen as the Dale is and the epiphany
His Soul Stone can produce, they
Cannot in my willingness, concourse,

Yasunori, save me!
Dani, my panacea
Intubate me with the otherworldly!

Rescue, un-stolen jewels, the worth of my being,
If it can be summed in numbers
I rule the syllables as I count them
And the past echoes it in recurring sleep:

-It must be the trust
The kind one may only have of wealth
Since you’re thinking you are safe
Backstabbing your own face,
To place thy faith in someone else!-

Over years regressing to concurrent nightmare.

On The Dream of a Shore
Of Another World I leave damp prints;

The “Star-stealing Girl”
From afar affronts a beach blackened since;

And above that salient of organic, oceanic reverie
My living eventually ends, there.


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