Bones suffer the strain, violent in their cage
Writhe with blood that blots out the sangrophage
Thoughts collide to form visions of their past
Flows as clean as veins can, then overcast
By clots, grotesque from birth to modern age
Noise shatters the scene, breaking in its wakes
Earth to dust and ground that cracks undertakes
Their coffins and live corpses to a grave.
Paths that part and branch en masse misbehave
Yet they cannot hide ways the destined take
Shine brilliant for him, city of the dead
Crypts now void old, young, poor and figurehead
Mad design made to define him as tick;
Bugs on back of light and life majestic
Shy off, away from where the walkways led
Stone caves convert to homes and hovels far
From the beauty that burns at sorrows scar.
Worn on the edges by convulsive hands,
Encased in rough glass shattered into sands,
Recovered swiftly to forbidden lands,
Translated from words no one understands;
Was the tan book there to display its might,
Or inspire fools to chant in the night?
It was insipid to tame the unknown
With that wordless brick of inane old dreams
But some say they skim, mindless to what’s shown
While human thoughts sink in subconscious streams
So that those fools, lost into a nightmare,
Fall farther downward than any beast dare.
Still I read it once, to test present fears
Of community and of my country
Yet, as I thumbed it for strange words to try,
I saw only tan while I held my ears
To stop the ringing that cut through silence
Though not hearing it makes no difference.
Murder monsters dance in the thrush
As tumulting shores lap and crush
Echoes return in waves of gray
Each memory leaps to the fray;
Shattered senses start the rush.
Spreading legs whip out and assault;
A missed reunion, the husband’s fault;
Wild jaws crush down and reform;
The forced custody, his daughter’s norm;
Traumas unleashed from their vault
Rage consumes and rewrites his mind;
Violent hands sever weak, dead spines
Climbing with unnatural militaristic fervor
Along appropriated reconstructions of terrain
Tunnels recentralizing aforementioned core landscapes
Building as limitations transcendentally refrain
Traps of feet met the streets to show the way
A set of sounds so curt and sound all day
They pass on by all sly and shy in trees
Then round down to the ground to farm in ease
Structures set industrialize habitation complete
Against traditionalized redirections that repeat
The skin wore thin that sun-fueled summer day
Crackling in the dry desert ambiance
Drying sweat that could feign a dalliance
As the first peel rose up in playful sway
Bark born of man shed at a frantic pace
Frightened, I raced hard to some hydration
Reeling mad at each pained step sensation
So much that I fell on my heavy face.
Echoing my spontaneous shedding,
Thundering clouds began their blood-letting.
Thick and pleasant to the caress it wafts cold in November gloam
Bringing portents to the fall of winter beyond warmth forgotten
The movements sing whispering moans lost in golden and copper cables
Charged with false sin to betray sight, sound and senses ill begotten
So desperate, discarding chains weighing failures of static souls,
Flaring painful in each passing until they all corrupt and numb
Except those lights, birthed by the buzz, starstruck children hued indigo
Stretching strata with heaven’s arms strangling doubts earth-seeds become
The void is real, screaming lightnings, infinite, far into skylines
While chaos ebbs in deep oceans, constant darkness, and solid stone
Still no break stands in awesome strands born of being, bathed in reason
Excised from flesh, and tied to life that blesses minds never alone
The ache inflated slowly, pressing the blood instead of pumping it into swelling gray matter. Flaring and spreading it’s source as a Tesla-coil does, the nodes and nerves rolled and jerked inside the flesh supporting them until there were no other sensations to be held but alertness and suffering.
One too many nights spent cast out across a stone floor wore thin on his skin, his bones and his heart-like flesh that pumped and quivered black and blue in the cavernous stone that was home, bed and tomb all at once.
This was not new, so there was no wetness to his face save the perspiration from unrest and the murk of the unyielding sponge concrete clasping tight to all the wet and the rotten drippings it could suck out of it’s own dead stomach.
As the hours slid on and the pain began to recede back to his mind’s caverns, the man stood and was presented in the dimmest of living light cast across the walls of the earth’s unyielding organ, yet the syrupy iron rust that poured from the jut of his hauntingly pale fist showed intention to make it yield.
Placing a quivering paw against the smoothest spot an arming his blasphemous pick at the right angle for force he screamed a ferocity that wailed around and swirled inside him with the echoes of the pit as to give him a manic courage so violent and raw that he could ram the blunt, meaty stick into a lightly crumbling dent mottled with that rusty iron syrup but dry and clear in his eyes as the loss of his own life.
For each crack he bellowed and blared and roared louder and longer, drowning out the fear and madness that would befall him if the cracking sound revealed itself to not be the dent, going on for hours until exhaustion, days until malnutrition and weeks into starvation until the jut of the knuckle was no more that a jut of the arm.
And then, when his strength knew defeat and all was swept up in a vacuous dead void, so too was his arm as it breached the point. Prying and plying for the sweet air that could only be where his arm had gone before him he cast out rubble and skin until his head could stick in and at that moment he had lead his head to where his arm had already gone, and the inky black void was silent, and still, and dead.