Subconscious Rupturing of Neverending Grief

This probably should have been two poems. Or maybe it shouldn't have been written into anything at all. It was all a mess of several disconnected pages in my shameful little notebook, all unknowingly focusing on the same old tired bullshit that I simply can not escape from. It will be the end of me. But for now, here I still am...still writing these nonsense confessions of disgusting, awful, futile, ridiculous feelings that matter to no one and contribute to nothing. This is all that there is, perhaps. We've all been deceived. There is no future. 

photo by Matthew Lombard

 

Haunted by the Last Days

Used syringes in cobwebbed decorations,

Impressions of our bodies etched in black mold,

Labyrinthine assortment of pills 

Orphaned mice, emaciated and weeping,

Funneling out of corroded radiators

Which never gave us any heat,

In the collapsing north

We replaced the walls

With rusted metal gridwork 

And mirrors stained with opened veins. 

Books of existential fallacies,

Amateurish writings in vibrating text, 

Shed their gnawed pages and line the empty spaces

With thundering hollowness,

All the frivolous, ridiculous poems I dedicated to you,

Composed of fatally intense emotions that you stopped feeling,

But still won’t leave me, 

Scattered across the filth-lined, ruptured floor.

Your many positive test results 

And nonsense prescriptions to continued agony,

Stapled across my scrawled words 

Of unknowingly doomed adorations. 

Outside I’ve escaped through 

Corridors of overdosed teenagers 

Handcuffed to melting street lamps,

Heretical mutants tasting each other’s cavities,

Lining the abandoned streets 

With perfumed decomposition,

Crazed solar flares 

And annihilating pulsars pulsating

Out from necrotic pores.

Their jaws and sinew crack and pop,

Malforming into sardonic, shining grins 

Emerging from the array of thorny fallen trees,

Stripped bare, whispering incantations

Confirming the barren future,

Pestilent and gray,

That you committed me to. 

Not once could I stop,

Look shamefully back 

And be left to think

Of you shrinking in the decaying windows,

Your trauma-howling little head

Melting into my ghost

Stained on the pillows I left behind.

Close off my mind,

I’m laughing into total sickness

As the plane begins to plummet. 

I can’t help but dream;

[Glitching astral landscape,

Void pocket secured in isolation

Somehow your frail, porcelain body 

Is once again held tight within my scarred arms.

Flowering chain of beautiful dreams

Unspooling from your delicate and all-too-familiar gaze,

I fall into overwhelmed hysterics of love,

Feeling an impossible smile eating away my face

As your hallucinatory lips lock into mine.]

-

Rotten flowers of flashbacks

Overtake everything,

Every time I imagine you speaking my name,

Another thin sliver of my abused flesh

Retracts, curls up, and flows upwards

Into the weighted air

Like billowing cellophane disappearing 

Into a plastic landfill sky. 

I look to the east,

Lost days of hospital visits 

And suburban graveyards 

Alone with you,

Now without you,

I’m finished with this life.

-

Waking into a veil of beheaded grasshoppers

Leaking menstrual intoxication

Descending on the repeated lonely night

Of sharpened, targeted grief.

Regrettably, I feel my brain folds

Stretch back

Pinned to my flayed, ashen nerves

Poorly upholding my tilting skull,

Stained with all the photographs 

I can’t bring myself to burn,

And all the flashbang images of moments

Where my world fell away

And you were all that mattered.

These memories dance

Into outrageous, raging firmaments

Drowning out the moon,

Tearing away at my brittle, splintered bones,

Frolicking on broken legs 

And shining opened chest cavities

Torn-open and ravaged,

Breathing deep the new existence 

Devoid of a functional heart. 

This pervading ache  

Will eventually take me

All I can do to fill these dismal days

Is stare longingly out into a contaminated past

With a massacred brigade of tears locked

Behind your twisting, inflamed fingers

Wedged deep into my dispossessed eyes

As the sickness of reoccurring dreams drip

Boiling tar, candle wax, and liquifying incense smoke,

Masquerading in your shadowed form,

Into all the Wormrot holes

Radiating in my sleepless head.

But all I want is to somehow hear 

Your whispered, carefully measured,

And achingly beautiful voice

Filter through my diseased threshold once more, 

Telling me, caressing me,

“Please wake up.”

Eradicate these nightly possessions of mockery

And poorly recreated

Scenes of how we once were.

I don’t want to continue 

This habitual razor blade surgery 

Against myself

As my tired and embarrassingly fragile

Invocation for 

THE END,

The only suitable method to 

Finally call upon an ultimate

And freezing 

Severance

From my self-harming love for you

That’ll never be reciprocated

Or even sympathized with

Again…

Selfishly, I beg for death,

And can’t help 

But burden myself with wonder

If you’ll miss me,

Or choose to once again think of me,

Supersede your haunted, manipulated image

You’ve created to protect yourself

And, maybe, hopefully, feel something 

Towards me

For the last time.

-

Back in that haunted northern flat,

Milky red caste of an abnormal fetus

Left in the indent on the couch 

Where our bodily fluids first 

Surged together,

Where I quietly prayed that I’d die inside of you,

Or beside you, entwined in you,

In a grand bathtub ocean

Of our shared blood.

Why did you fail 

To release us

From this lonely grave?

 -