Interstellar Lullaby by KlaxonLithology, literature
Literature
Interstellar Lullaby
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.
The Last of the Old Gods by KlaxonLithology, literature
Literature
The Last of the Old Gods
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