Fantasy of forgiveness

The five sorrowful mysteries shudder within these pellicle walls, and they are not Enough Lost are the pleas upon deafened ears, what is the throat useful for Blood-sweat is fallen when waxen agony is traced with splintered fingernails The tattoos of repentance delivering languor for a broken mind, as meant to Nine tails cursing and

Sunsets

I drown myself in the nascent, crimson gloaming of daylight’s dying When I imagine draining all the sorrow from within, this is how it is Infinite fissures hidden beneath a lustrous tulle of rubescence, an oveure of self-portraits defying existence in a savagely critical form of art, with the overwhelming innocence of mindlessness; irenic and

I am naught

I am more than breath and bone… I am invisible, the interstitial; in the onslaught of existence, I am the space that bears dismissal; I am the ink in the blink, the prose never read, the praise never given, and the truth never bled I am muted, the bitten tongue, the trapped gasp of life

Rocking chair

Cool air, disturbing hair, the breathy whisper of convenience; rocking in safety and boredom; shackled to obedience and fear A foot brushes carpet in the darkness of a screaming mouth; hoarding silence as gold; looking through the soul to only desolation outside Hunting for treasures in the dung of afterthought; finding, as expected, only dung;

Whether the storm

Alone in the frigid cold, the stars her only guide, while consternation constellations in every direction, threaten to hasten the end Whether the storm of tempests rage against the sky, the shifting plates fault the land, the rising oceans swallow the continents piece by piece Or while ravaged by the fire from an untamed sun,

The many gods

Tongues and fingers light the path, flickering this way and that, casting hawkish shadows upon themosaic of dimly lit memories Twisting language and shifting grips,searching for the righteous wordsand propitious angles, hoping thepast is forgotten, thus forgiven Begging and bargaining to their one of the many gods, to be favoured above their brothers,flattered above their

Corvid

The corvid whispered his secrets feared, piercing his flesh with nail; he tried to scream, but could only hear, the corvid’s wicked wail They’re watching you, he knew it true, because the corvid said it so She pecked and poked for the writhing worm, buried in memory’s grume; he could not flee nor fight nor

The march

One beside himself;hand over fist, disgorging the shrapnelto bestrew his perditious path He tries in vane to tamethe memory-go-round;the golden ring long begone, yet his mind it shackles still There’s infinity in every footfall,of his never-ending journey;timelessness preempts salvation, with a deafness of damnable knells The solemn march of a good soldier,forging into the beknownst

Buried memories

What buried memories have I? Those that would drag me to   their perfidious depths;  where the skeletons of sanshi await   to cradle an ancient woe Those that would evulse tears unbidden,  ignite the searing guilt,   encite the burning questions;  lead the rings of fire to shed shame   amidst blush and fluster They who would turn a deaf ear

Hung up

Not the first, but likely the lastWaiting on the line for a caller Hung up on a busy signalNo time for a dead end like me Tongue-tied, strung upTied up ‘neath the crossed T Dotted eyes are now closedAccord, without consensus Benignity failed, depths scaledKnot the time for a swing Bad reception, lost connectionI’ve got

Asylum

Do not touch within the asylum, lest disease and madness spread Stay disconnected from the others, to keep the bogeyman away Keep your gaze tracking low, and you’ll not aggravate the violent… or see them coming Hide your many opinions, or the truly insane will posture and prevail Walk the streets in daylight, for the

Crumbs

untrammelled fingertips scratching for crumbs of dignity frenetically lurching for a morsel, searching across a society that’s failed no fraction of compassion to justify a place for humanity no sliver of transient sanity to quell the delusions of misplaced hope clawing hands cannot wring, and digging fingers bear the filth of truth praying hands sit

Left behind

Dreams departing like webs on the windEach new endeavour more transient than the lastErstwhile wishes begetting ersatz desiresIn a tangled bramble of silkless litterfall Every chip in the ego, births a crack in the psycheAnd the stretching interstitial tendrils grasp wildly Trying to hold onto the mind, hold fast the shatteringStill they escape the awareness

The man

It was her favourite time, whenhe would slip into view on thehorizon. Who is he, she wondered,what is his name She gazed for days upon his malaise,from afar.Insouciant fate made the man hers alone,serendipity smiled at the irony He bore a pale, shimmering pall abouthim, a ghostly glow. She lit up at his very presence,

Ever hell

When I within my darkness stumble, it’s you on whom I dwell; for you are she who let me crumble, alone within my ever hell I rip and tear the wicked prison, of my rufescent shell; in hope to find a light yet risen, lo, naught within my ever hell My pleas and prayers fall

Bullet dodged

Bullet dodgedHavoc unwreakedThroat unlodgedSecrets unleaked Sight unseenLover unravagedInterest unseemedHater unsavaged Seeker unboundHider unsoughtReason unsoundDanger unfraught Path unclearFate unraveledPresence unnearSteps untraveled Embrace unfeltLove ungivedDesire undealtLife unlived art: (untitled) by Marcos Beccari

It’s there

He prays for the crack in the ceiling, to betray the crack in the skyAn ever-present maw agape; its mockery salient, its derision sinisterHidden, but from suspicion, and the winding, wicked words he mumblesIt’s there He prays for the stain on the ceiling, to allay the pain of the lieSplit across time and azure; a

Cobalt sky

Never had she witnessed a sky so wise, and vibrant blue Cobalt, as her arms reached toward the vast, and distant hue Her eyes heard the visions from milky clouds on stark displayIn them, she reckoned joys, and forgotten dreams before this day The wind induced her locks to lash about her sallow facePenance for,

Man down

He had his heart attack the page, in its native tongue; a language he alone understood, but to utter it was a gift beyond his wordless grasp Each stroke bore more emptiness than meaning; enticing loops and inviting spaces, where the devil lies, where the details breathe and suffocate The same patterns, the same lines,

Placeholder

Absent desire, but alacritous disdain, the vestiges of his mortality drift away; away with his memories, as dandelion passengers in the fading light of day Sinister sickles punctuate the path as undeserved smiles shed in their fall from grace; the seashell razors left behind as reminders where not to tread Happiness hewn begets a visage

Of fate

Of wrist and stripe by razor swipeor tracks for miles as death beguiles Of neck and burn by slipknot yearnor choking pill to hasten kill Of pan and grey by leaden sprayor running leap to six foot deep Of funeral pyre by fuel and fireor hemlock glaze by goblet raise Of truth and will by

Puppeteer

As his lips were sewn by the iniquitous hand, noisome iron streaked the stubbled grey, loosing ferric wishes upon the deafened earth The pretender, the fraudster, Life, with bewitching, infectious glee, mended its marionette bespoken; into compliance, obediently broken He painted himself into a corner of his mind, with colours of ignominy and humility, using

Empty, too

Empty table, blocked entry to the tower of babel Empty chairs, silent interrogation from vacant stares Empty plate, I scrape the fork to stay awake Empty wall, save shoulder-shaking, shadow shawls Empty room, though scent of stalking nightmares loom Empty breath, no sound to suffer or oxygen left Empty chest, no spirit haunt, or ghost

To continue

He couldn’t write to save his life, evidenced ad nauseam; nor would he want to burden words with such an execrable chore It wasn’t writer’s block, no – not that he thinks he deserves the moniker – it’s rather akin to a nietzsche niche There isn’t much that occupies him, though he’d come to welcome