KlaxonLithology

A vigil free of fine leather captivity can be found floating along fragments of an aether fever-borne deception.  I am free. Dirty fingers smear layered grime-cake in search of some soft purgation, the kind provided in a gentle carcinogen nestled just underneath the skin. It is a long way from gasping in miasmatic indifference but this is the enigma, the method of fleeing.  It is not your fault. Not everything can be reduced to rosebud syllogism, interleaving petals and sunshine threads that tie all these disparate fractions and force you to conclude that it all works out somewhere.  I was told wa

Conflux extremities bend tangle-web and trapse within a tryptic catharsis birthed from the inception of birth and barren from the womb. Bound the blind eye along strands of energy, intwined optical fancy, and disclose malevolence as a means of understanding: 'This is the way of things.' Syllables said in such countenance as to be sure of being steadfast in the vigil of time. There is small comfort in convolution, bathing mistakes in brandy does not dissolve the fetid scraps of yesterday's miscarried lie, and although those words would weather the ages until found nestled between the breasts of a tepid concubine; in that mo

Permafrost listlessness, hushed countenance in the throaty dialect of stifled winds, and so I became this cold kind of creature: Jagged ice-lattice capillaries flow in fractured indifference- the sort of scathing smile that knows the world was made for nothing.

Old man by the crest of the sea steadied upon rusted spear. Flatline gaze and steely eyes, world-weary and weak.  Black bird overhead in a spiral trap, wide-eyed in the ocean's wake. Outstretched hands and a pouch of ash sifting through the gale-winds.   With every gust comes a bitter faltering in the branches of a windswept elder tree. The old man's children succumbed one by one, to the fires of war; charred flesh bound and burned. One by one, hunted or drawn by the allure of a greater Father. For time beyond memory, he took to wandering the wilder places, watching a world caught in subtle devouring.

A vigil free of fine leather captivity can be found floating along fragments of an aether fever-borne deception.  I am free. Dirty fingers smear layered grime-cake in search of some soft purgation, the kind provided in a gentle carcinogen nestled just underneath the skin. It is a long way from gasping in miasmatic indifference but this is the enigma, the method of fleeing.  It is not your fault. Not everything can be reduced to rosebud syllogism, interleaving petals and sunshine threads that tie all these disparate fractions and force you to conclude that it all works out somewhere.  I was told wa

Conflux extremities bend tangle-web and trapse within a tryptic catharsis birthed from the inception of birth and barren from the womb. Bound the blind eye along strands of energy, intwined optical fancy, and disclose malevolence as a means of understanding: 'This is the way of things.' Syllables said in such countenance as to be sure of being steadfast in the vigil of time. There is small comfort in convolution, bathing mistakes in brandy does not dissolve the fetid scraps of yesterday's miscarried lie, and although those words would weather the ages until found nestled between the breasts of a tepid concubine; in that mo

Three-fifty-seven and I've lost my head.  Torn from within ragged bandages and seeping blood. Scrape my fingers across the floor and etch symbols to remind myself that I am some part of me. To be whole is to be a self-construct saying "I am everything I made myself to be." I am not some jigsaw slapdash three-ply cutout that splits at the seams whenever it rains. Uncanny smiles and faded levity.  Wasting years in a shanty store by a creek in a town of twenty-two. Forged in carbon nano-fiber and meant to last forever, with the happenstance tendency to forget to shed rotted flesh.  I am dying the slow death that slithered in th

Permafrost listlessness, hushed countenance in the throaty dialect of stifled winds, and so I became this cold kind of creature: Jagged ice-lattice capillaries flow in fractured indifference- the sort of scathing smile that knows the world was made for nothing.

Old man by the crest of the sea steadied upon rusted spear. Flatline gaze and steely eyes, world-weary and weak.  Black bird overhead in a spiral trap, wide-eyed in the ocean's wake. Outstretched hands and a pouch of ash sifting through the gale-winds.   With every gust comes a bitter faltering in the branches of a windswept elder tree. The old man's children succumbed one by one, to the fires of war; charred flesh bound and burned. One by one, hunted or drawn by the allure of a greater Father. For time beyond memory, he took to wandering the wilder places, watching a world caught in subtle devouring.

It is not cowardice to turn the heel and flee until the distance will keep you forgetting. I once told myself to accomplish greatness like the shockwave of St. Helens, of towering smoke and the rough-hewn edges of the boundary between earth and sky. Cowardice is a stuttering, a slowly decreasing stepwise function, an ordinate forged of dreams set aside. It is not some property of a person; it is an evolution made manifest in time. Fleet of foot in the rain.  Given enough space, perhaps one can return to Abaddon; lungs heavy in blood and ash, standing steady atop the mossy crags at the mountain-peak. I exhale and the world

It is said that all knowledge is worth knowing, that ignorance has never deferred the ignorant. But the depths of elation and despair are neither. All learning is done so that in some future all the synapses will connect, and in that connection we may peer with inquisitive eyes into the depths of space-time. Perhaps in this we may feel out some greater grain to make of ourselves something whole, and in that wholeness there may be nothing known but truths. But what of the unknown? Perhaps feeling resides in the space between lies. Uncertainty is pensive of the want to know more, and affection is ignorant of a bitter failing

Crash and recede.  Crash and recede. Madness, perhaps, resides in the heart of the ocean; Hammering against the hardened crags and persistence of coastline.  Madness is the method of winning.   Harder than wrought iron, steadfast upon the mountain; of all the properties of stone madness isn't one. It does not beat itself over the surface of the Earth. It is not mad.  It cannot win. Children were born to be thrown into the swells of the ocean and broken upon the jagged coral mort ensconced beneath the tide. Their bones would scatter and proclaim themselves to the next generation, saying: "My skull tore upon the third rock from the sands

To save the strain of feeling, fiber-optics inlaid into the central nervous system supply input for every touch and smell and gust of wind and stop-sign slowness. Noise.   The signal is on a circadian rhythm, sensations caught in circular subroutines do not fade with time. Drowning memories in noise seems superficial when unstable solutions falter in the quiet between the sheets. Perhaps it is best to have a microprocessor heart; beating away at ten thousand times an eye-blink and every wavelet of emotion lost behind a steady sensory overload until anesthesia creeps beneath the skin. It is the want to recognize that sends the mi

Beneath the sands of the land of somebody else's god lies the skeletons of its ancestors, flayed of flesh and left to be nestled between the sun-baked crests of the desert. Today, steel and eager hands will unearth the weathered bones of an old god and proclaim that it was necessary.

In the tomorrowland, with the scarecrow and the wanderer. Tomorrow is the day before yesterday's day after flowers bloom starkly against the bloody sky and pour rain onto the unsuspecting blending the priest into the paper as he takes a sip of cider and drips down the page wickedness abounds as the young lovers meet around the master flowers their lusty perfume clouding their senses but they don't exist they never exist they lie and they don't breath, they never learned how because no one had the time oranges blossom in the trees blissfully waiting but never seeing, never losing their colour as th

How do How do How do you Stop Tell me how How you How you How do you stop Angels scream Angles of glass through wings, hanging Bleeding nails scraping ice. Devils laugh Grinds against metal and sparks fly Skin burns and twists like paper roses. Fingers are hesitant and long They spider through shadow and flesh searching for something warm In the winter that has its roots in your head. Please tell me how how do you stop.

don't think that I can't understand the importance of this duty; I see the danger in your eyes, the gravity of what you've done. but here is the difference between us, excepting the formalities of leather restraints and a small glass syringe: you cannot return my gaze. your stare stays fixed on the needle. look: everything you've become is distilled to the liquid inside this vial. see: here is your heart, captive and fluttering as a wanton bird, its plumage sick with dependence. it sits in my palm, waiting. I have only to close my fingers.

we are what we are and no less. we are what we are and no more. removed from what we may have had and what we might've had before. we are play-things of a dead god. we nailed his son up to a tree. a nail in each hand and one in both feet. a crown of thorns from you and me. living is the proof of nothing. dying; just a change of state. the span of time that we exist here is nothing more than fickle fate. there is no sin and no salvation, only what we make of each. the guise of what is good and evil lies in what we choose to teach. we are satan's fly-blown supper. a carnal, cabalistic stew. laying blame on fallen angels with

Hoarse birds croak their blessings And the low and slithery things bow their heads. Tooth, scale, wing and bone glitter In the moonlight. And the clank of armor Rings against the trees and glistening grass. Laughter shrieks and claws its way through the forest Like a frenzied beast ready for the warm kill. The fair and dark Faerie Queen rides her horse through the Long and fallow trees. Her dress is white and black and everything; Made of glass and the hair of the dead, the lace of a widowed bride. Her face is hidden behind a veil made of the finest fallen stars, and her skin is carved from the bleakest marble. To her right is

I would do a portrait in yellow but I don't think it could capture your lace and petals. Plastic teacups and glass faces you pick up the knife by the blade and cut your fingers. You're dolly and your mother and your father and Lucy up the lane and you're the gentlemen you imagine sitting at your table, drinking tea and talking with smooth voices. Nobody ever leaves you. As you get older, tea turns to wine and plastic to glass and glass to flesh. You drop the bowl because there are eyes glistening in the sugar and slam the door because you hear the skritch of claws on the floorboards and told him to never say "I love you" again. Mot

There once was a little spider, who wove a web on the windowsill, insidious eyes always watching, body tensed as if time was still. The flies would never notice, a figure as focused as he, as they buzzed into their deathbed, he would later feast with glee. Mummified to be murdered, lives wrapped away with white, as his legs spun faster their hearts beat slower till' they stopped squirming, gave up the fight. If they had not been caught in the spiders web, would have wandered wall to wall for days. Their false freedom was gone, through they knew not, glass would have stopped their escape anyways. In the spider's mind a favour

You watch A poplar in the mourn of a dying leaf, A leaf as it popples through the dying dark. You hang two parts of your body from the boughs: Heart Lung You hold those hardening words against the fire of our impossibility.