Untitled II

Axe poised above the nape of the neck. There is no time. When I see the young, I only see ancient faces staring back at me, their expressions a spit away from the end. Who is watching? Who is it that really sees? A beckoning temptation frustrated. Deeper than the deepest nooks it hid, this subtle seed of doubt, taking root in the cracks of the foundation. Who’s to say when its nigh? Bursting forth emergent in daylight all encompassing the slow dead. Borne in a secret mode, taken in a prescribed dosage. Tenterhooking, rear-ending. Yes, yes. Continue the train of thought, pursue it to the farthest reaches, the horizon of youth, the bladed pass, burning, scraping, recall — there is no substance. Who recalls? Or bring it all back, the refrain simultaneous, the chords apounding, instance without, implosion. Rein it in, suck it back. Into the depths again, back to the underbelly, the roots still crooking, crawling, burgling. Seethe and writhe, pain noted, unrehearsed. Indeed real! Who feels? Residue lingers in a soot blackened pot, floundering in the stills, the very impetus for the rush and the gore. Too soon. It all left besides, belike. Or was it you all along, who turns his face, that profile unbent, unsought, and the peripheral glance through herculean effort, seeing nought. Fie. Leave it behind, empty toys. Still that axe and its many implications, now already drawing blood, conclusive climax. The publication long awaited, highly acclaimed. A let down really but keep it to yourself. The final gruesome scream for salvation, and a grasping, clinging onto the fabric of certainty, engulfing mess of curdling parasitic afflictions. Nothing changed as was expected. After all, nothing ever changes. Yet it felt unlike common wisdom, gentle folk, who knew so much and dared so little, imparting these generic thrusts of spiritual circumcision. No bitter remorse, no wings of light, no ringing truth. No, not even an inward tear. Just an eternal wait. A suspension of all knowing or sense based phenomena. A color: seafoam. Odd choice. Who wants to know? A curling, cringing, wormlike retraction of the feelers put out from before. Anticipation relapsed, then subsided. Destination an immediate concern, axe notwithstanding. Who comes? Who goes? Whoreblack soul grime suckling temerity’s wizened teat. Come. Tango and foxtrot. A dance macabre. The figures, shadows, flicker and crumble. Nothingness. Washed out, drained. Reckless. Feckless. Dull, finished, husk. Who noticed? Extremities explored and still wandering. A slow bleed and time evacuated. In no way plausible expenses mounted like horses wild agallop, mainly fiery steeds unbridled curt fashion staples. Surrender harken, embargos lifted then silently swept beneath floorboards unchaste, unhinged, berate, ingate, unfilial, mad encyclopaedic diversity sonorous, grating, ever never sown. The axe touched something.