Failed Poetry Regurgitation of Miserable Dream Nonsense

 It has, once again, been a long while since I've published anything on this sad little site. I've got no excuses other than my downward momentum into numbness and hopes for nonexistence. For seemingly no reason at all, whatever has been operating my mind for the past 27 years has decided to get more inept and viciously cruel in how it guides me through day to day. I've always been tired, but I have since been tired to the point of near immobility. I haven't been able to write...at all, really. And quite literally nothing at all has managed to spark even the most infinitesimal fraction of inspiration or motivation for me to think of any ideas, any lines, any imagery, any dreams, nothing. There's nothing in my head, there's nothing flowing in my veins, there's nothing whatsoever. Then, over the course of the past week or so, I have tried to simply force myself to write - but that too was a near impossibility. Until the other day, I was able to spontaneously write a short bout of nonsense into my notebook. After that, I attempted to transcribe that nonsense into some form of a typed-up, "finished" poem. But that didn't work either. A few more days passed by and then finally, tonight, I sat down and wrote without thinking much at all. What came out is not what I was planning on writing and none of it was taken from my scratchy jibberish found in my notebook. Furthermore, the writing that follows is decidedly terrible and not worth anyone's time. But I have to put it up here to be able to move on and, hopefully, get a proper start on the poem I actually wanted to write. Everything keeps dissolving faster and faster but still far too painfully slow. The end needs to hit me without me knowing or anticipating, and it needs to happen fast. However it happens, it need not be my fault so I can successfully manage to go my whole life without succumbing to my life-long depression and killing myself. If only it were that easy. 

photo by Felipe Dana (used without their knowledge)

Dreams in the Corpse Pile

Under the soiled hospital bed clouds

And rains of syrupy nose bleeds,

The promise of nihil

Pipes solemnly through - 

Trumpeting from all obliterated beaks

Of birds plummeting towards a great howling ocean,

Smashed onto a tapestry of unspoken pain 

That has long since consumed the Earth.

Under the atonal shrieks,

Unending and crescendoing, 

And fog-choked sirens 

Breathing out plagues of stolen beliefs

You’re lost and backward

Inside a growing mountain of posed cadavers 

Expanding and assimilating 

Into all their graffitied gowns of gauze. 

Without a single identifiable sound,

The cure for existence 

Short-circuits and shamefully dies 

Inside the sliding walls 

Of your jack-o-lantern skull.

Now endless memories are your only issue 

As they pray for concussions 

And banquets of anesthesia,

Noxiously babbling with futility,

You’re lost and drowning 

In flowering wounds, obscure trinkets,

Scintillating ghosts of regret,

How can anyone be near you

After the malignancy grows? 

-

Gimped corpses pile in,

Parades of monumental hatred

And self-flagellation

Etched carefully into heavily lacerated scalps. 

An evenly patterned grid of suicidal ideation 

Flitting ‘round 

Your permanently crying eyes. 

You’re free from the comfort of dreams,

Unshackled from evolving nightmare tableaus

Burrowing nightly into your unquiet head,

The lifeless dirge of reality overwhelms

With nowhere possible to go 

Outside of remembrances of prolonged, 

Boundless agonies. 

The grease-painted worms 

Slowly squirm and squeal into you,

Following the flow of blackened pus

And evaporating brain matter

That shrouds the horizon in dazzling flashbacks,

Eating away at the sky. 

Your face ignites 

Fills the phantasmal canvas of everlasting night 

From end to screaming end,

Waiting for the final notes to descend 

With one last circulating whine 

Of possessed, insect-driven pipe organs

Ushering in the slaughtering ghosts 

To rearrange the unobtainable end,

To cover you, smother you, envelop you

Pushing you through the threshold 

Of gradual insignificance,

A mere fraction of the overflowing dead. 

Kindled black antlers 

Plough the flesh-drenched land,

Upending the industrial biospheres,

Restructuring the hypnagogic framework,

Making way for whispering maggots 

To fill your harvested, hollow tube of patchwork humanity,

And snuff out every single

Futile little dream you ever had 

Of being human, 

Of being remembered 

Of being significant in the bloodied avalanche of our suffering

Of being or believing

In anything at all. 

One lost in the perpetuating pile 

Of corpses toppling corpses,

Not even death can free you 

From all of our

Savagely meaningless lives.

-