Category: Arcane Poetry Vol. 1

The Stockholm syndrome love

For my grim reaper

A fetish for death

Grotesque

Assuming the cloak of destruction

The end of a beginning

To the beginning of the end

The earthworm

Who transforms death

And cultivates life.

It is not murder –

Simply reincarnation

Acceleration

ONE blessed day

We’ll depart from this sewer.

Life is pain,

Death is hope,

Change.

The mystery

Of a future unknown

Beckons

As the seconds tick by.

I am in no hurry

But if it comes today

I am waiting eagerly

For it can only happen once.

Everything is devoid

Happiness is relative

Never real

Lasting

Or complete

We are plagued

With questions

With no answers

Programmed failure

For punishment

Or amusement

Life is pain

When we die

Does it get better

Or worse?

I want to pass out

And awaken

Someone new

This life

Is not to my satisfaction

This is my distress call

To no one

For it is only me here

No one else

I’m all that matters

But my stock is falling too

Kill me please

And resurrect me

As someone happy

This life sucks

I hate

Everything

The only thing

That keeps me real

Is

Frothing at the lips

Seething through my teeth

I haven’t felt like throttling anyone

In a very long time

Fortunate for them

I’m a gentleman

Whose restraint muscle

Has been well exercised

Yet my trust instinct

Has been whittled down to a bloody nub

Every time I come out of hiding

People tend to wipe their ass on my dreams

Unless there’s a way they can exploit them

This whole thing is a mess

My seams are far from seaworthy

Safe in my solitude

I enjoy venturing out

Of my shell less and less

Like the dead leaves fall,

Land and decompose

So the little hopes of my heart

Flake off and evaporate

Before my eyes

To be forgotten by everyone

Especially me

And a familiar chill

Settles into my heart.

The breeze of a helicopter

Eyes mirroring sadness

My thoughts a flurry

Of synaptic meltdown

To isolate a thought

And enjoy the now

For a half-second longer

In a state of chaos

We are but mere receptors

Struggling to find a meaning

Of it all

The bigger the All becomes

The more laborious the process

And the less makes sense –

A lack of equating

Between perceived and real.

What we are

Is the sum of our reactions

Our life a vector sum

Of the direction and forces

That collectively comprises

All that is.

A poet on a mystic path

My song is without a melody,

But with the rhythm of life

And the tune of the breeze

Under the thrum of eyes watching

Amidst the trees.

Only for a moment

Then it is gone.

Drunk on knowledge

Parched of meaning

Certain of direction

Lost in application.

We are capable,

I believe,

To create something

GOOD

Regardless of subjectivity.

From despair and depravity

A human can create beauty

In their world

Through the loves they share,

The pain they endure

And the ability –

Followed by determination –

To BELIEVE

And to share this hope

What some call religion

Others faith

I call transcendence.

Our defining quality

So mired by culture

Based on animal wills,

An inadmission to guilt –

A fearful refusal to speak

Invades the thinking

And beliefs of an entire society.

Art is not perfect

Yet it is our gift

That we all possess

From the most basic

Of sensual experience

An image can elicit emotion

Passion and psychic energy