misplaced brains poem

Misplaced Brains

Some days, there are endless words,

And some days,

I live in contrary of continued strife.

Popular by demand,

Unwilling in wasted, apathetic action.

 

Broken, and begging,

In parks, and on the outermost edges;

Of the lands where the spirits linger,

Where cadavers lay flat.

At least the fog is a guise some morns’,

Blanketing the lands in false reprise.

 

Those, asking to hold;

I, needing to be held.

Skin sticky – keeping little inside.

Far too porous – clogged coffee filter existence.

 

From the pictures of an old-age days.

To the pathetic anger of high-school dreams;

Laughing at the fishing-line-thin teenage certainty,

Of all that was never to be,

In all the places that were never to be.

Some dead-end cul-de-sac,

From what one used to witness in the haze,

That clouded those prickly, sharp-edged days.

heaven poem peachs almanac

Breathing Purgatory | Poem

Just walking, and groveling.

Well… mumbling, as always;

Habits, they’re sure hard to beat,

Being beaten, being broken – it’s easier;

Letting yourself become broken,

Like a freezer that refuses to freeze –

Pointless! Lifeless! Redundant!

 

Counting down, relentless in spirit.

No doubt, fucked in all certainty.

Lost in the frivolous passing.

Wondering when one might

Stumble upon that revered salvation,

Where dark is light,

And the Underworld – oblivion.

 

Muster in the haze of solitude,

All that fortitude that has no audible voice.

For what is hearing,

If there is nothing to be heard?

For what is living,

If one does not live?

Ha – something of nothing.

Like a ferris-wheel turned on its side;

Revolving… turning – but going nowhere.

 

Red Samurai Peach's Almanac

Red Samurai | Poem

Renegade to the lost enigma.

Laughter in the halls, timid… pure evil,

Jests the Red Samurai, bottomless in his Kings’ Quest

Hand on hilt, writhes his fickle smile,

Edge to edge – wider than light.

As it lives…

And, as it breaths…

As it tears as the souls that fail to wander,

Nor heed, the cries of the One True King.

‘Bring them back, and let their voices sing!’

Rally the pleas of the forgone citizens.

 

Days without the mists of red,

Without the heavens turned black,

Without the immorality of such sinful wisdom.

Yet, it floods back,

Clearer than all joy, and all wonder, and all love.

Red Samurai – bringer of decay, catalyst of entropy;

Standing beside the God of Death himself.

 

Cleansing, that’s what he calls it…

Ridding the world of the weak, and the feeble,

And all those without necessary contribution.

Somehow he can stand,

In pure, defiant reverence of his demonic actions…

Completely alone in the land he calls No Penitence.

Dark Forest Poem

Residing Where There is no Light | Poem

***I promise to post more often from now on***

 

Terrored by the spines that do not waver,

And the life lived by those with little spine.

In the brush of the deep, decadent woodland;

Feet on sucking moss, and rotting leaves,

Lumbers the Beast – eyes towards destined heavens;

Where gods linger, fingers on buttons,

As hesitant as ever with their raging, cleansing thunder.

 

For the time, the wind is silent.

No longer does it sway the branches with fevered anger.

It is still – overpowered by the Beast’s rumbling heart,

Its pumping arteries, and the dark blood that races throughout.

 

Many times, he’s been up for slaughter,

He’s run, run… from the cries of, ‘You monster! You killed my sweet, innocent daughter!’

Though, the Beast of the Wood, he knows no different.

It’s basic instinct; but the masses with pitchforks,

They never listen.

Not with their closed minds, and their simple god-appeasment.

 

Blinking in darkness, the Beast dwells on what has passed.

On all the things that have come and gone.

The light that faded with the growth of towering trees,

And the bright that dwindled in the hope of recompense.

 

It’s at night when the Beast thunders through the undergrowth,

Head up high, eyes to the stars – as they always are.

Deep in thought, in a mind that is accepted to bear none.

Rendered lifeless by the terminally, sickly mindless.

 

If only there were something he could do,

Something to lessen the pain of being unknown.

Alone in the tangle of green –

The stench of aged decomposition.

The stars draw the Beast,

For it is there where he sees salvation;

Be it in the true gods, or the beauty of light only he can see.

Beast… he wishes he weren’t known under such a name…

 

 

 

Hillside, on the South Banks

**I’m not dead!**

 

Dreaming of light that once flowed so smooth,

And with such determined vigour;

Of trees, and the tree-spirits that reside within.

All across the Lands of the New World,

Where we, feeble and weak, drink from streams;

Rust coloured, tainted by their shifting conversations.

 

Whilst foxes roam the valley, and the birds the hills,

We wonder, because wondering is our hope.

In grievance of what falls so swiftly to the ground-

Resenting, often living inside hate,

Of course, what else?

Blue skies, and blue water, and blue minds…

Insistence on belonging, just in the right time.

 

Brushed by the sun – caressed by warm winds,

Carried to faraway lands on the clouds that soundlessely swim-

Some days – beds of white.

Some days – suffocating black straight-jackets,

Unsure, not knowing the where, and the when.

And yet, in the moment, grass is still.

 

Our huts, warmed to the stones beneath.

Some days we manage laughs,

Some days we hold, and we drink, and we sing.

And in those times,

When Winter’s Philharmonic rings-

Living here in the hills, where the sun sees –

No matter our wild, wild dreams –

Isn’t so bad as one might first think.

Secular Polar Bears

White Beasts,

Evil antagonists of the clergy,

The Reverend forced to his  knees;

As clean, and as untarnished as the dense fur-

Looming, prowling,

White-hot stars from the North.

 

“Take me, free, me,” the voices relay,

Deep and sorrowful – crossing worlds.

“And rule, with heavy hands and few words!”

Let the masses wonder,

In hesitance of a black or white future.

 

Imprints of the cross;

Imprints of people long passed, long gone-

Beyond the Boundary of that fretful snow-North,

Where cold is unshifting,

Where the ice moves not an inch South,

Where thoughts freeze as they are conjured.

 

“Hurry, with the words, and with the devilsome deeds!”

Jaws wide open, teeth bared,

As the pulpit is savaged,

As the beast ruminate through dreams of terror

 

War on the horizon,

They scream “The Battle of Needs!”

Ringing tempered, and true,

Orphaned by the lives in which they thought they knew.

 

Looking South,

Pleading to some eternal, eclectic creature.

“Away! Away! AWAY!”

Shout the cries as the White Beasts pound nearer.

 

Until, all that’s left

Are the souls of a thousand moons.

Eyes vacated – voice after voice, quelled.

The White Beasts have taken this day,

Starting at one again,

The remainder, they simply pray.

Deserts’ Speak

We walk, and we carry on walking across the lengths of this desolate world. Counting the stars and the steps taken, blistered feet and weathered minds. Something whispers in our ears during those cold, shivering nights; when the winds howl and the true wild sleeps. Bodies close, resting together, living as one like an ant colony. Needing the heat and needing to acknowledge those distinctive, most personal leads. There are days when the sun pours down, and days when the steaming rain beats silt and sand. Looking to the horizon and into the deep valleys – onwards towards an outpost, hope in hand of the life that might dutifully follow. For we live in desperate, yet revered hope.