comatose

yesterday approached to lay upon my table bare, sullen,
pale,
in breathless heaving agony and with hands feverishly tearing away
at its cheeks and eyes, till bloodened wet, and satisfied

and today wonders why it is and stumbles on with stuttering sentences,
it holds itself to keep its pace along the well-tread ground it stands upon,
but remembering why the passing time, it noisy slurps the dregs of dusk
in memory resentful fresh as it slips into the past again

over shoulder glances tomorrow to me,
as if to recognize the outlook dreary,
but quite contrary looks ahead to frantic searches for daylight's spread,
as if to affirm its only way to go as yesterday did,
or today, more so.

ain't it grand.

oh how this dreary world quickens to pick up on another happy soul
from where it sat to where it goes,
in blazing lights, beholds itself to comers new
and lovers old.

likewise mirrors, stained with streaks,
reveal themselves to desperate freaks
the grotesque nudity of horror truth
of compounding failure that rushes in
to punish those, the gnawing, suffering
fools of fortune with hearts of gold

and with that

a beginning war descends on this homespun world,
a spectacle of lights and picture sounds enveloping, developing
the last looks of last days that have ended abruptly as the past stays
to haunt the remnants of the supposedly dropped and forgotten, although
now to say it's all coming back, in a new shade of light and with profoundest regret
i hate to inform you that it's not quite over yet.

who am i to be so taken back by the boundless multitudes in parade of
evidence against my case? it's damning stuff, it pierces soul with its
pointed remarks, its empty charades: and there's the rub, in a blaze of glory:
it never troubles so it be known what fear decides is there to know.

o, fearsome spark of creative force: to you, whom I'm indebted to, I fear to open myself
so you would violate me with your vicious wit and calculated cynicism.
all that's left to bear is distraction's friendly, gentle ear: I'll whisper softly, murmur close until I forget
all of that there is to care of
and as eyes roll their way into the back my head,
I'll drift away dead on an empty cloudbed.

overflowing

the sweet release of the burst within from
beneath red walls of dirty skin from
pores and glands and ducts and urethra laden with
glistening dots and drops to somber burgeoning branches:
from every hour, from inside sing are the deadened desires
with aspirations for quick release and private pleasurable things.
oozes and goo of various hues, the whites, the reds and yellows and blues;
all clamoring throughout the measured pace of day-to-day meted progress:
rabble-roused to claw at walls, some shrieking howls echo corridors around
the labyrinth corners of a sanguine sponge as it heaves and drips
the holy host to line the mouths and wallets of
the fiends and ghosts that rape our lungs

unhinged

there is something awful to be said for some with
thoughts a-weaving threads that galvanize and wrap around
the hands and heads of self-composed and self-obsessed petrifying
masses of degenerate pride feeding on their dread exude from every pore
with bleeding wrists that flood their eyes and fill their minds
to flowing out and carry with them clots and scabs to scars and
bluster

quartered

she is, as is, to me but someone
gloom and doom and irrevocably
strong and proud, yet meek and weak:
mother, lover, and daughter to me.

she stands aglow, her chesting swells,
a simple shoulder slump entails a quiet
kiss 'fore her retreat to blanket cover with
tiny feet.

fair coffee hair she fans about
the arm rest corner of the couch:
she hums and laughs with the color TV,
licks her lips and looks at me,
and clears her throat before she dares
to inquire when I'll be coming there.

commitment

in the morning we sing our songs on memories all but past and gone, but for the
pain they bring to every thought that clouds itself by yearning; singing
for some deadly calm of mind, but for a thorn and whims of pride.
goodness, mine! with clutching hand to chest we heave in darkest depth,
and breath bereft for what we breathe: alas, if we could but stop to sigh!
o holy tragic comedy, o torturous progression of godly time!
unfurl yourself complete to end: o noble, sweetly shredded edge, your
upward curl of indifference hand:
the centre struggles, yet, to hold
in time to crush this noisome soul