Water Logged

Steel blue, cold, soft whisper skin
Pale shadows that have washed across
The arms and legs, like feathers brushed
Along the surface to be lost
Cool shadows hung in curtains far
In shapes that morph from top to side
Approaching now in fluid motion
Clear as day to those who lie
Bubbles seep from still mouths edge
And nose and ears to travel high
No air down here to fill the lungs
No sense of fear or paradise
Great toothed beasts explore the deep
Sharp and ready to be sated
Those who hang themselves with iron
Stuck and helpless, heavy plated
Bouyancy defeated here
Limp, dejected figure wilts
Shark concencus, curious
At the deadweight, chains like stilts
Open arms to heavens high
Rag doll waiting here in vain
Nudged by testers passing, biting
Now to still to feel the pain

Hand Mouth

Underbuckle, ignorance
Be still my throbbing decadence
Because I am not on the fence
I must be on the side

Celebration, to damnation
Away with listening, too impatient
Grades of inky desperation
Leaking from the book

My twins with different eyes
In sickness and in lies
Ripe to be chastised
For staying close to blameless

Lament the sorrow tide
But dare not shank the bride
For she is to be tied
From ankle up to neck

Unspeak unspoken truths
Assume this Earth that moves
The gravel becoming smooth
Stilleto softly grinds

Approaching from the right
His apple will ignite
A target in the sights
Of danger men in hooves

Allowance of the fool
Babble, belch and rule
To set upon in duels
But all hope shall prevail

The one that chants and writhes
Will loot ungainly prize
While zealots tear and cry
Defeat is not the end

Memories

I keep mine in a little box
Safe, unfrayed and warm
You flay yours into scarlet shreds
A neccesary harm
I lock mine up in ribbons thrice
There to feel and touch
You drown yours in the days long gone
While feelings turn to mush

I cradle mine with a touch of care
Recalling them, so clear
You wrestle yours in self deceit
Remove the tail and hair
I talk to mine as if my own
The cherished thoughts of then
You curse them and neglect them all
But find them once again

To Be Cherished.

The aperture widened and I hastened myself against the bridge as my vision expanded around me, taking in the heaving waves crashing below me, yet at the same time the sky hovered above and I was so high that the curve of the planet was all too visible.
I gripped the cold steel with both hands and struggled to keep my footing in the prevailing wind.
I don’t know how long I watched the water for before a thick blanket of clouds swept in to obscure what I could see below me, enhancing what I saw above the brilliant white cotton balls.
A part of me wanted to let go, just relax and fall into the slow moving cumulus. I wondered how it would feel, if there was any resistance and more importantly, I thought about staying in the clouds themselves until they became rain.
I didn’t really feel it at first when my numb fingers eased their tired grip, nor did the sensation of wind become any more frigid and fierce at this altitude, but for the first time I became lighter. As all weight left me I realised that it didn’t feel like falling or flying, but like suspension.
The clouds met me half way down as the cables and steel structures of the bridge whizzed past me at lightning speed. I closed my eyes as I became surrounded in the whiteness of the clouds that would care for me until they dispersed. They would be closed forever as I did not open them again.

Purposefully Vague

She would say things that left a lot to the imagination, rabbiting on about her downfall with little to no detail on the events. She only included what could be described as self-flagellating desperation and a wanton desire to punish herself for being alive in the vain hope that someone would notice, and when they did notice a set parameter of response was to be met.
Those who dared to question her actions were shot down and ridiculed as not being a good enough friends. How dare they prohibit her from wallowing in her own misery. How dare they take the reigns and question her own destruction.
It was a form of art. She would draw them into her sticky, warm web of despair with faint pleas, wrap them up in her cocoon of misanthropy then allow them to bend to whatever shape she roped them into. Any deviation was strictly forbidden.
What little she was left with in the way of friendship catered to her shrivelling sense of irony and happiness. The hole had been dug. The buddies clustered around her like poisoned clouds and rained down sympathy, and she was ready to relieve herself of this mortal existance once and for all.
When she had left them, she had planned for them to blame themselves for not doing enough to help her survive her depression, even though she was defiant in her will to crush anyone who did not comply with the procedures she had set into place, and blame themselves they did.
She had used them, just like they had used her to fill their own gaps of insecurity to boost their own self esteem.
And so, bolstered by her death they took up her past time and began to head down the long path to hell itself, only those who looked back were not welcome.

Puppets

A brooding mist swallowed the black roads in a thick, dank brume. Visibility lay only a few feet, the dim paths drenched in curtains of biting coldness that hung in the air like spirits drifting through the vortexes of Calmeena.

Armen Sayer wrung his hands together as he stood in the haze, hunched up in his long coat and exhaling into his scarf for warmth that seemed to sap itself instantly from the young mans bones. His smart shoes that once shined with spit and polish were now clodded with the mud and excrement that made up the black hills.

“You should not have come!”

Armen spun to the direction of the gutteral call, but the fog lay dense and uniform in all bearings.

“I… I had to,” he shouted into the night. “The key is yours.”

“Such a quick response to my request, Mr Sayer,” boomed the voice. “Now there is just the small matter of… Olivia…”

“You said she would not be harmed! I came alone as you asked. I brought the key. Let this be the end of the matter, I beg of you!”

A black sillouhette came into view, drifting a few feet off the ground, zipping around Armen first in one direction, then the other.

“Perhaps…” it sighed. “You wish an end to this foolish affair, so be it.”

“R… really?” Armen was suspicious of the beasts motives. It’s lies had brought them here. Its games had been the start of this mess. “No catch?”

“CATCH!” It roared and flew towards him, stopping inches from his scarf obscured face. “AHHHHHHHHHHH!”

Armen stepped backwards, almost losing his balance as the beast Migor deafened him with insane shreiking. The mist oozed from it’s nose and mouth while its eyes blazed an intense firey orange with the smallest hint of a pupil at their centers. He caught his breath in vast gulps as Migor snaked towards him, slower and more catious this time.

“I will pay you for that key, Sayer Swine,” Migor hissed. “Payment in full, what a catch that will be.” It cackled and held out a swirling coal hued paw. Armen took the large gold key out of his pocket, feeling the intricate tribal design and inset gemstones through his gloves. He placed it in the beasts paw gingerly and his hand barely missed the steel of Migors sharp claws as they shot out, imprisoning the glittering key. It vanished slowly under the thick black fog of Migors coat as he absorbed it.

“Armen Sayer, Swine of Calmeena, gambler of lives, this is for you.” Migor surveyed the hunched human for a second, snorting and grinding it’s teeth, then shot forward, pinning the man to the ground with an imense weight. Armen felt his body being pushed into the soft mud and he feebly pushed into the dense blackness of the beast Migors fur. It was as if Migor was made of concrete. Its fur did not move and Armens strength was apparantly useless under the pressure.
The beast opened its jaws horizontally, wider than Armens skull, and whipped off his scarf with it’s dextrous twin tongues, then proceeded to force them into the terrified mans mouth. He choked and writhed as the tongues slipped into his trachea, a grey mist flowing out of his flared nostrils followed by a torrent of blood, blood that also began bubbling out of his eyes.

The last thing he saw before he lost consciousness was the reflection of his bloody gagged face in Migors flaming eyes.

A Broken Nail.

Two months ago they were mere stumps, ragged distractions that brushed my lips. Things to be gnawed on.

Two months ago they were dirty and hideous. And edible.

Now they rest upon the nail beds like royalty, tended to nightly and kept beautiful. Their beauty also keeps them from the one thing that I desire most, to feast.

Now the corner of one thumb nail is broken. I am rather upset by this, and rather tempted by the opportunity it throws up.

Ragged distractions brush my lips.

Now the corner of the nail next door is chipped and jagged, hideous and edible.

I am holding onto the rails of this wagon by the regal beauty that I am feasting on.

When did I spin the world this way?
The wood would rot
The silk would fray
It was not I who threaded forth
Or traded words for less then their worth

When did I run in ladders here?
Among the nylon
Trussed up fear
It was not I who clawed the ground
Or used my tongue for evil, found.

Progressive Never Ending Cycles

It’s not that I never wanted the chance, I just never had the means or the inclination to grasp it and see it for what it was worth, and to me that made it completely worthless. What was life without a little risk? Nothing if the only buzz I was getting was drilling into the pit of my stomach and splitting me every which way but the right way.

For a while the entire room was dark, everything covered in raven hues and burnt nostalgia. It was the hour It was the curcumstance.

Small tendrils fell from the ceiling to whisp past my head, getting tangled up in my hair. As I grasped at them I would catch them one by one, pulling gently until their cords clicked and illuminated the large room for a few seconds with a faint white light.

The door was always open.

I endeavoured to sit there, biding my time for something I was never sure about. Hours and days merged into one entity, only to emerge as years.

That door looked very inviting.

Then I grabbed at one of the strings that danced upon my hair. To my surprise what I expected to be a fine thread was now a rope, a collection of the entrails of old. They had massed amongst each other, and as I pulled down on the enormous weight of the rope the room was flooded in a blizzard of light.

I had forgotten how to set one foot in front of the other, so I crawled to the gateway in tense motions with stiff, aching limbs.

Someone approached opposite me in the doorway. She too was crawling and shared my tired features, mimicking my every movement, all but one. Where my chest rose and fell with breath hers remained still, and the condensation of my exhalations became clouds of smoke from her mouth and nose.

She was in my way.

“Move,” we commanded each other.

She cocked her head to one side as if taken aback by my similarity to her then rose to her feet.

“You’re in my shelter,” she said.

I craned my neck up to look at her, then nodded and moved to one side.

She took my place at the far side of the room as I had taken the place of my doppleganger years before and the thick rope withdrew into the ceiling, but as I left her in the fading light I pulled the door closed behind me.

Therapy.

“He told me I was stupid.”

“Oh? And what did you say to that?”

“I agreed with him.”

“And… why did you do that?”

“Because I’m stupid.”

“You don’t really believe that, do you?”

“Of course not. Do I look like an idiot to you?”