Digging Your Own Grave

Your hands starts scraping,
the dirty floor,
with your flaky dry hands...
peeling,
from the sand and dirt,
rips open your skin,
see the bone,
the skeleton hands,
reaching down,
digging out the dirt,
see the blood flow
in,
deeper the hole goes,
more the flesh pulls
off.
Laying each bone,
on top of another,
the skin layering,
draping over,
the bones,
let the dirt fill back in
from the quivers
of your shake, rattling
nerves,
dirt trickles in,
teeth shake & shiver ...
in the dark,
eye balls blink,
and the brain
doesn't think...anymore...

*

.

tear

.

Ant Colony

 The word Colonyervinat began as Roman colonia include citiesement prescoming fro is a city mes from the Latin word colōnia. This in turn derives from terminology is taken from architectural analogy, where a rvient beneath the controlling head (with 'capitaed) head capital, which is also a biolo pillar is beneath from Belgrade to York. A tell-tale sign of a co this etymology. Other, less obvious settlements th Cologne is an example of a settlthe (often stylizmeaning 'head'). So colonies are not independently self-controlled, which m settlement once being a Roman egical analog of the body as subsm the Latin caput, l, but rather are from a the word 'eans colonist but also implies a farmer.gcentre with a grid pattern. The entity that serves the capital function.

There was I alone beneath the quavering moon. The stars hung about the sky like swallows on a birch tree. There was hunger on the horizon but nothing compared to my own appetite that gnawed insidiously at my stomach. I laid the calico cloth on the dewy meadow. It spread as a whisper over the bent grass.  Above me a silent midnight owl passed across the heavens casting a pale shadow on the ground. I opened the wicker basket taking out two plates, two sets of cutlery and two thin glasses all of which I set upon the coarse white fabric of the makeshift table cloth. Then I pulled out the bottle of Dom Perignon along with a silver corkscrew inscribed with two names: Adain and Branna.

I poured the first glass for my true love. The wine flowed free gurgling like a water spirit. It was as though the air from her lungs, seeking the gift of oxygen, hissed and bubbled. I remembered stones shifting under rushing water. A turf caught by the hook of her heel tumbled with a splash into the river. It made a dull splash. The sound was a conclusion; a door being shut on someone’s history.

I raised my glass to her then tipped a libation to the ghosts of our ancestors; to the unspoken, forgotten gods who trembled with impotent neglect before leaving us to our own devices. I chinked my glass against hers. The sound was of a miniature church bell tolling a welcome to the midnight hour; a fulsome pagan ring that sent three wood pigeons to heavy winged flight. They’re such stupid birds I said smiling at her. I laughed at my own wit then poured more champagne. I took from the basket four white tureens. Lifting the lid from the first I saw honey glazed carrots; in the second the roasted breasts of young partridges; in the third buttered asparagus whilst the fourth contained new potatoes coated in butter then garnished with mint.

I kissed those lips of ruby red, I caressed that ivory throat, cupped her warm breast in the palm of my hand, held her body next to mine as it quivered with pleasure, and watched those grey eyes fade to white.

The wind blew softly warning me of the autumn chill. I felt a shiver run down my spine. It could have been her fingers tracing my backbone’s curve

I asked, are you not eating my love? Her appetite was never large. Realising my error I took her glass, still bubbling with champagne, by the stem then walked to the river. Her face still beautiful to me, her smile of purest white, reflected now in the mirrored waters of the river. I poured another libation into the chuckling stream - to the memory of times gone by.

"And all I've done for want of wit
To mem'ry now I can't recall
So fill to me the parting glass
Good night and joy be with you all."

illusions.0ne

 

.

Same as before...

See the features
to the new night
fresh wondering mind
Its the same
then maybe
that's alright.

My sham
a hero
which can
rekindle
like before...

That's just my game
weed me out
endanger me
impossibly plastic
a little bright
see the flame
body fluid
like me
with illness.

Walked into line
a law giver
but satirically mocking
this self
practice
out of necessity.

I melted out loud queue
let breed.

I run to the door
sentence split
understood
nothing

I thought
I shall re adjust.

Each fly wanders down
I drain myself
and rearrange
few.

Heart warps
place me tightly, pack me in
with imagine of the satellite smile
ripped plucked and fluttered
awe muttered
in synch
sirens reach me
by the
dawn
rider of the instance
still beautiful
deal out
bail out
perseverance
to flight
please lead me
place me in a row of pawns

Same...

*

*

Robert

Heaven and hell are two sisters.

One sits on your face and wriggles the other smiles as she steals your wallet.

At least now there are no bed bugs.

"Have we vanquished the enemy? None but ourselves. Have we gained success? That word means nothing here."
As it is above, so below. Ashes to ashes, as we fall, may we rise. A myriad sky beckons, full of horror and grace.
Goodnight, be at rest.

And now a silence of well-worn regret

That whispers wistfully behind the edge of conversation.

The remote face at the television screen

Never looks at you, never smiles, forever faraway.

Somewhere over the blue horizon

a dream escorts a wounded memory,

Footsore, swollen, treading hungrily to reclaim lost ground;

Time wasted by petulant disregard.

Another sin in a cul-de-sac of sinners.

...waiting for the end of the day.

Eyes fading black
at what your eyes want
more then they can take
sounds that puncture
lying softly
to get back on track
everyone has gone away
at a different rate
we have dealt with the street coming back
lost impressions in the last track
every price we have got to pawn
we take away from the heat
a little piece of earth
ease of anticipation
I'm left, your insides
cast me out
don't shout or pout
or rewind everything
lingering fears quietly rehearsed
at the play of my honor
on the look out for feeling
feeding the
mask
I ballet hello to the next good day
waiting for the night's cry
dry your eyes
there's no way to stay or retreat like everyone does
so long to the great long goodbyes.
spotting terrible eyes by chance with a glance
please take my side
lets slip
until the blinding light takes us
faces us all
we shall want to shout
where am I?!
where do I stand?!
...waiting for the end of the day.

A Dark Angel from Discharge has passed away. R.I.P. Robert Chrysler! Thank you for your inspiration and support!

Down by dirt bag the hells of shallow breathing

Remotely viewed by callow individuals

Who know little of passion but purvey pursuits

Accessed by cold machines

The digit details attract ions

As I fade from that screen

the sad faces of happy artists

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