Absurd Chaos

Poison is attractive. To me, at least. There’s an appeal in Darkness; for light is abundant. But everything should be a choice; because, at the end of the day, there’s nothing more attractive than Freedom; and that’s when Darkness ceases to be appealing and poison becomes a prison; a perpetual state of toxicity and waste. Very apocalyptic and ugly. The bad kind of apocalyptic and ugly, the one we should stay far away from in order to maintain our Freedom, our own State of Mind. In order to maintain Ourselves. Bask in the Darkness, but, don’t drown in it.  Photo by me. 

november, december, january and fabruary, the months roll by, sunsets and sunshines each day similar to its predecessor the only difference is these prison bars they're getting wider the iron is rusting and the air is vile there's no ceiling or ground but i make no move to get up forever mesmerised by that sad ...face behind the bars

Heads sway On a dead dragon's tail Pelicans soar Above the Red Sea Into the sky Vultures are heard From afar Heads of Kings Sway On their dead dragons tail

Soiled bodies on Earth Covered with mud and love Lips the colour of dead roses Curled purple toes Last breath steams And the coldness evaporates

She was walking down the woods Hair on fire and dress made from cement  Bloody feet and dirty hands Midnight blue eyes reflecting the moons Sunkissed skin with sun rays for veins Chapped lips and a slit tongue  Zoe was her name  Thanatos was her lover…

Grace I  [31st of May, 2014] Grace the dead the spirits that fled the wounds that bled and the lovers   who never met. Grace II  [1st of June, 2014]   Grace the human sanity the everlasting insanity the dead leaves and forgotten trees the human jungle and the animal kingdom a falling king and a resented Queen. Grace III  [2nd of June, 2014] Grace the purple skin  blood south and north windswept sand grains  trapped in the snow the palm trees are skyward  but most bend at the knee Freedom comes when  fear goes Grace the Fear Grace IV    [3rd of June, 2014] Grace the dented lips  and frosted tongues of a human race      long gone shadows still creep in    ...

shoemaker in the middle of the street looking for shoes without finding any. bluemaker in the middle of the sky looking for blues without finding any. babymaker in the middle of the road looking for babies and finding many. gravemaker and babymaker are now successful tyrants shoes and blues don’t matter anymore. June, 2014

Until it stops feeling natural. Turn of the century, old magician, a pale mistress. A show being held at the great Apostles theatre  Gathering crowds and clapping hands All waitin for the great magician; Jon the Man  Now his mother never called him Jon the Man  Neither did the dead father.  If birth certificate were to exist, He would be Jonathan McKellan Of irish descent. Blinding lights guided The lost dogs to center stage Blinded eyes were The fillers of the front row seats. Ladies, madams and gentlmen, Make a round For Jon Not any Jon was he  Not any Jon was he  Our ol’ man  For us Jonathan Became Jon the Man, But even fires could consume The Man and his pugs For once upon a time  There was a ring of fire At a show being held at the great Apostlestheatre   Gathering frowns and screaming throats All watching the dead magician; Jon the Man. Now his mother never called him Jon the Man Neither had the chance to once again call him Jonathan. ...

a ray of sunshine stuck on a broken glass a hand reaches towards the glass to pick it up. the glass comes up empty the hand always preferred the moon to the sun. she heard the moon uttering what a fat cloud could not think about uttering. the stars heard it, too. the glass turned red the hand fell away unattached un- attended. why pick up the broken glass dangerous broken glass with it’s ray of sunshine on a Winter’s cold night with the full moon out?

A poet walks into a bar No this is not a how a poem should start I heard this joke before but A poet did walk into a bar He ordered an empty pint of tasteless beer The yellow nothing stuff dripped from between his fingers I heard this joke before but A skeletal poet did walk in the bar Ordered a blank page and a vacuum Words fell on the floor Our poor Skeletal poet from the stool Couldn’t move Beautiful women and men  with long vacuum fingers from the floor sucked the words I heard this joke before but I could never hear it till the punchline One by one, bones fell from a wet Beer-stenched stool On the floor: A blank page A broken pint An old fountain pen And a used poet Whose bones could never be burnt For the beautiful women and men Have taken every last Word Out of him