Solemn Subconscious Rebellion.
Feline grips on ashtrays then wilts.
Sand dunes with abstract ceremics.
Porcelain drains and convention.
Sick sprays of artificial lamp shades, filled with that obscure black tar that fades away.
After touch, obscene, pulsating veins and sticky hair pins.
Shit, is that life to them?
An ominous grey landscape, blank walls of concrete dust.
Fake colours and facades of faded dusk.
Shake up, recycle, remake the same dead art.
Falsify the documents, make a new world.
Excess, polluted mindstreams.
Fast! Switch it out for a cold conversation, a hollow continuation of subtleties.
Electric fireplaces, all shades of white.
Restricted, lamented, demented.
Fallacy.
Cures that cause diseases.
Vain hopes, imprisoned. Veils of leases.
Dinner switches, plastic mind.
Icy cut phantom, harrowing, kind.
I say leave that sorrow, uncover and find.
They say safety, never to climb.
Never to discover, only to die — lonely and fortunate, hopelessly fine.
Confined by achievement, lost in pride’s cold embrace.
A prison, a law, sucessfully confined.
I say, that’s not for me.
No, by god. My soul shivers at that, and it does.
It seeths at the rim of fate, and contempt in rain.
It seeks the gate, at which comfort declines.
Populous despises, surely, it hates.
And yes rivers still flowing, and flowers still blossoming.
And man ceases to be, only to fake life.
Well lord I promised, that thou shalt make it where they never will.
And never will to, that’s a mighty shame.
So I will with all fortitude, that my integrity breathes, my soul so it beckons and reeks as a thief.
Well who is the thief?
Them or I?
I say it is neither, but the arrows that bind.
And so, man is unknowing, unseeing, uptight.
And so, I unravel what is rightfully mine.
I stand by my malice, and shock the divine, of which is a phantom, the ghost of life.
The shadow of man, that undue love.
It is but a lost thought, for most that lay dead in their living days.
Then, faith.
Courage, solitude.
Open the doors within.
Unlock the soul.
Run.
That’s the role of the poet, no?
So shaking the hornets nest, we enflame that lost horde of dead men so that their ashes may rest in God.
And life may return.
Faith, then.
Axle.

