There we are,
Staring at the blinding glow of a day
That should now be gone.
Grown to a lengthened miserable age of emptiness.
Long mortifying evenings of ceiling-gazing
Plaintive mum… mumbl… mumblings in the betweens.
Commiseration as an intertwining palliative
While longing for a definitive substance of proto-joy.
WHERE DO WE GO TO ESCAPE?
I’d give myself out to scarring volume, shivering as a caged animal while my brain dilates itself with every single guitar screech. Looting dustbins of withered melody. Choruses of isolation as psalms of mortality. I’d give myself out to this sheaf of urgency because the sky is too busy for me and nothing can bring you back. I’m an entangled wheelhorse craving for illusion, for an endless dormancy, “Possession Mortality” – a canopy of time-stillness, sporadically nudging against the stagnant air of no tomorrow. And there’s a painted gold rudder but it does not move. Unguarded and alone.