An Attempt Of A Poem In Dedication To This Mortal Coil
I’m Dead, Right?
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The shoreline is littered
With discarded monoliths,
Crumbling cliffs with acrylic rocks
Bursting out of the canvas
And stuck, jagged and bloodied, out of my dreaming head,
Where songs transmit from an easel stretched over living flesh
That pulsates and vibrates with crashing waves of sounds,
Writhing upwards within.
The heartbeat is dying, I’m left on the shore,
Slowly fading out after every solemn, calculated beat,
Until it dissolves and washes away
Into the gnawing great red eye
Of the bisected painted sun.
I’m all but dust beneath.
The sky splits open
Overlapping, crescendoing voices endlessly muttering
Guiding needles of hypnagogic messages,
Stirring winds and teeth-chattering seraphim
All descend upon me
With fist-fulls of radio-wire
And dissects my sleep
Leaving me to struggle to inhale the polluted bouts of air
That makes up my last breath.
I can’t even begin to tell where it all went wrong.
Every single day is eroding faster,
Disintegrating between my putrescent, blotting fingertips
And forming little scintillating sparks
Of void splotches
Against the ever-encroaching shore.
This is the only light left at the end of it all,
Inverted and vacuous,
As it was from the beginning.
Stop.
There is no rest.
The only possibility is to escape further into it,
Further cling on to the sounds that’s filtering through the festering pores
Of what’s left of my ears.
The sinuous, churning words
Outlines this mortal canvas
And enlightens it with a new causeway of veins.
The waves begin to accelerate,
Closing in the distance and
Washing away the gray, fading rocks
Where my windswept, transfigured body lays,
Twisted and mangled, vocal cords clogged with funeral sediment.
The sounds escalate, mutates around me,
Flashing agonizingly familiar emotions,
Causing dreams of unending solitude to spiral out
Of the whistling wound left in my head.
I’m left with nothing but comfort
In knowing the end will be devoid of light,
And that the beginning was much the same.
My dreams held on a threshold,
Pushed into it the fading, charred scenery
Of songs birthed from consuming tenebrosity,
Echoing caravans of disembodied angels
Continuing to churn the waves, as the painting
That entombs my remains
Finally alights.
Ablaze with synthesizers
And swooning backdrops of noise
That are now made flesh
In order to replace me.
These songs coil around,
Feeding teardrops to my dirt-stained bones,
And rumbling at my grave
Allowing the worms to swarm the shoreline,
Decapitated cherubs sweetly singing
On their squirming backs.
Small radial joints, painted in
Streaky burning sepia
And flayed nubs of knotted nerves
Where wings used to be.
My body, torn apart by the audio tempest they bring forth,
Left to burn eternal along with this island of the dead.
I turn to face the worm carnival
Delivering achingly beautiful reverberances,
And realize they all look just like me.
They’ve come to consume me in sound,
The heartbeat starts again,
Beats once,
Then
Stops.
I’m awake, the dream landscape aflame in my head,
I’ve felt the melodies surge through my masticated musculature,
I’ve felt it all consume me beautifully, to guide me to the end.
But I’m no longer dead. And the only sound left,
Is the piano inside my bones.
And as it plucks away.
All I have left to do is
To sit down and
Cry.
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