Poetry Attempt: The End (for now)

 This is it. From sometime in February of this year to now I've managed to write over a hundred pages of poetry, which may have been the most creatively productive period of my life since my early teenage years. I get no satisfaction or gratification from this. There wouldn't be this newfound productivity and inspiration if it weren't for the events that transpired in February. The person I loved most in this world betrayed me, abandoned me, altered my world, and annihilated my heart. And from out of the cold, pathetic remains of my hopeless heart, all of these words of unrequited love, nightmares, suicidal ideation, visions of the apocalypse, and even (most surprisingly) attempted expressions of new love that I then completely sabotaged - and then subsequently wrote about, came bursting forth from my maimed carcass. I hesitate to say if it was worth it. I'm entirely unsure if anything I have written or will continue to write will be worth the pain and complete disruption of the life I was trying so hard to build up. Oh well. Words will fade away, lives will perish, and memories of anything that transpired in my life and those I've been entwined with will fall into dead obscurity. Nonexistence can't come soon enough. 

“Ghosts Vomit Over Me”

- A personal apocalypse in three acts

I - rituals of the nightmare bizarre

Young woman’s thinning body

Snaking itself inside 

Hollowed, dirtied crevice

In the sinking bowels of the nightmare bizarre,

A demolished highrise, 

Upsidedown exploded cockpit,

Unnatural human-shaped holes manifesting

Coffins for heaps of spoiled meat 

And harshly shining syringes.

She’s bent in half, sideways

Her head planted 

Next to her heavily mutilated feet

Hair in fried tendrils 

Reaching out to blind passersby

Out of her scarred mouth

Spews overdose fluids,

The stench rises,

Rotting out her glossy eyes.

Their newly created Madonna,

Mismatched faces

Wrongly stitched together

In ongoing failed surgical experiments

Left with no chance to see,

To articulate speech,

With wet pulpy facial tissue 

Seeping out in waves of sepsis

Under infected masks of new

Scarifications 

All surging through the mire

Quaking and undulating 

Across the haphazard stitching

Barely holding together 

The multitude of expressions of agony

Slowly caving in her collapsing face.

Nightmare engineers

And maniacal rhinoplasty surgeons

Await their results in a plight to map out

New man-made ritual passages 

Of reborn hallucinatory flesh. 

There’s never any warning

Before I’m locked inside dreams 

All their pain and odorous death,

The only love left to flow in my veins. 

-

 

II - the fall of Jhonn Balance

Untethered from the squealing moon

Ashes of demonic ELpHs pouring out

Like leaking filament of hot tar,

Out of his unevenly

Self-pierced ears.

Vomit clings to his unkempt beard,

An inverted mirror in his mind, 

Flashing effigy of D.H Lawrence

And automatic magickal sketchings 

Of puppeteered cabals 

Personal butcherings to find the black light

Shining backward from limbless mourners 

Flaying themselves

Over severed, undefiled heads 

Growing from the soil in the sepia-toned sky. 

Self-inflicted bruises casting white rainbows

Side-real glitching noise echoing out of

His many trauma-bound cuts

Dripping onto moon musick from his outstretched arm.

Numbness overwhelms rusted mechanisms

Rolling in his deteriorating joints

While each subsequent last beat 

Of his wormy, chemical-soaked heart 

Feeds the alcoholic atmosphere,

Fueling the time machines,

The circulating libraries,

The seasonal twists of the river Thames,

And all the strange birds hatching into themselves 

All unable to prevent his fall. 

“Has my time come?

Can we finally end

This drunken stagnation?”

In the last desperate moments 

During the fated collapse,

A darkened pathway to celestial ancestors, 

All his pain and esoteric musings

About the powers of the coiled sun

Bleeds into me,

Until I’m overwhelmed with all of his fears

And disintegrate in a screaming fit,

Awaiting the ghost of his eyes

To take hold of me

And fuck my mind

For good. 

Eternity ends here,

Eternity ends here.

-

III - swimming in a sea of stillbirth 

Newborns cleaved open 

In all directions,

Each malnourished section of them 

Wailing and giggling,

Dirtying each other 

With their spouting fountains of milky blood

In shining crimson trickles,

Painting on with their little cherub fingertips,

Dangling by fine, spiderweb-like veins, 

All the facial expressions

I’ll pull and stretch over

My scalped, shorn, and skinned head.

Laughing little dead ones,

Teach me something new. 

Toiling in their designated pit 

They can not ever figure out 

Exactly how to find solace

And permanent sleep 

In the new infancy of what will surely be

Heavily maligned

And existentially exhausting lives. 

Their chubby, abstract faces 

Sweetly sing garbled, gurgling, phlegm-soaked hymns 

In their hospitalized cemeteries

That they hope to forever dwell in. 

Throughout all stages of 

My sordid, pathetic, dejected life

They keep calling out to me. 

But I can’t help but explain everything to them,

Forcing maturity in the minds lucky enough

To remain weak, ignorant, and 

Profoundly strange. 

Drown them in anesthetized cement,

Don’t let humanity be reminded

Of the dregs they produced

Only to mercilessly leave behind. 

Instead, I join 

Their bramble of severed limbs,

Nailbeds still transparent and irrevocably 

Fused to the infinitesimal sections of flesh

Left untouched 

By the tainted fire of man. 

Asymmetrically sectioned brains

Oozing from shadowed soft spots 

In misshapen skulls,

Growing arms and teeth 

To gnaw at and drag me down,

Join them in their 

Dizzying, colorless oblivion. 

The ailing, crackling world far up ahead, 

Veering off its sickened axis

Unshackled from its cosmic cage,

Tormenting a ceaselessly growing population

Of sightless, maddening sewer people

With the promise of a rapid descent 

Into the supernova bile-filled sun. 

My self-imposed wounds

Steel the lovely stillbirths 

From the cold continuation of life, 

The prisons of their nonconsensual conception.

Together, we sacrifice and mutilate 

Our unfurling, unforming dreams

And warm ourselves with the pulpy pools
Of phantasmagoric blood

That flies out in torrents between us. 

Amen to the death penalty

We’re descending into the drowning 

Pulpit of cement

With the earth’s perpetuating 

Collection of stillbirths and suicides 

Injecting each other 

With hypodermic needles of diseased honeysuckles 

And oily fragments of 

The falling sky. 

Maddening procession of industrial pounding 

Drums and marching puppets

Dangling from their outstretched, 

Bleached innards,

Stomping out the overturning corpses

In the new byways of human extinction.

Mercury pusher in the tumbling clouds,

Earth finally folding over itself,

Final cataclysm shines 

And sings 

Before all of our dazzling, 

Undead eyes. 

I’m lost in the concrete crypt,

An ocean of gleeful maimed infants

With humanity wailing into annihilation 

Just above my head,

Sinking further into the crepuscular depths 

Of now unwanted certainty 

That you really are gone, 

Leaving me to face our planned apocalypse 

Overwhelmed

And entirely

Alone.

Exactly how you planned. 

-