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 mornsā€™,

Blanketing the lands in false reprise.

 

Those, asking to hold;

I, needing to be held.

Skin sticky – keeping little inside.

Far too porous ā€“ 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…

 

 

 

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.

In Some Place. In Some Time.

Blasting through the desolate cosmos,

Destination, unseen – unheard.

Life on the edge – vanguard to the posturing elite.

 

Shrimps drifting through the black mass,

Unable to witness the gleam of stars,

Unable to sing, and to laugh – exiles;

Living amongst the ice,

And encased in the shields that

Fail to falter and blink.

Languid in eternal, light-less sleep.

 

Craving all we cannot have,

Free movement, and happiness, and love.

Under the hammer,

Pressure beating like that at the core of a star;

We cannot move.

We cannot hold;

Those nearest – simple acts overlooked.

Separated by countless light years,

Galaxies spanning the indeterminable void.

 

One day, maybe we will arrive,

Pioneers, starting over – another try.

A time when we can hold, touch,

And linger in the soothing heat of close bodies,

The promise of warmth and intimate pleasure;

Sleep, with dreams, and fleeting images of the past,

Ushering us along

Towards a mirage that shimmers

All along the boundary, eclipsed by only vision.

 

Some day we will exit this relentless purgatory.

Some day we will kiss, and make love,

And bathe in the beauty of re-kindled humanity;

As we sail, and as we drift,

Living – but just for the moment,

On the cusp.

From the New World

Leaving behind home – some home, at least.

Backpack, scarf, and winter coat,

Alone and youthful

In the desolate Wilderness.

Bare feet on the bitter frost,

Not a moment passing, without glancing back,

Watchful of what might come running

From the ravenous purgatory of the far North,

In search of forgone humanity.

Crossed raging rivers, and traversed flats,

Into the distance, wanting – needing

To touch frail skin, and linger in the essence,

The sweetness, and the rare euphoria

Yet, my feet, they sink too deep.

So, maybe I don’t truly want to witness

What awaits beyond the decadent Wilderness.

Beyond the air of Death Roses,

And the scent of age-old ash in the choking breeze.

You wonder… why now,

And why here… why just me?

Staring into the bleak divide – the line,

Wondering if it is a sin to see;

If life might just get a chance to freely speak.

Across the mountains,

Along the coasts of seas’,

Where whale song once bellowed,

And where men were brought to their battered knees.

I tread the lines,

Paths not taken for untold millenia.

All for touch, and all for sense?

Driven to the ends of the land, through basic intent,

With the need to lay hand upon skin-

Hear a voice whisper beside me-

Share a bed that has always been for one.

Until then, the Clouded Sun can wait.