In reflected specimens pinned
On breathable blissful backings
Encased in transparent glasses
Of patience in wooden frames carved
In subtle waves, smoothly surfaced,
Sprouting prides at cornered edges
In horizontal and vertical lines, curving
In entrails of ignorant rampages
In steeping concaves and convexes
Where beneficiaries lie in vexations
Of dustily powdered venous wings
Of wrongs ignored in dotted patterns
In scalloped ends lined with white,
Amongst orange blares of “what” ’s hinted
In slated violets in the brackets of “the fuck” ’s
Of irregular circular strokes in repetitions
Of unrefined or naturally splotchy markings
Of absences balking in darkened earthly matters.
In antennae of stacking contrasting perceptions:
Yearnings to rip my own feathered hollows.
Perception
Exalted inflections in layers of tertiary
Inclinations of secondary stout devotees,
Fiercely quell and repudiate in primaries.
Thralls enthralled in flamboyant sparks
Hilariously slithering in verminous mucks
Lest these wiles inhumanely slyly smile,
Sown in gnawing leaps of worth; diminished,
Yammer within negated syncopated beats.
:Three
We Shadow Lurkers have a tendency to stick to – well, the shadows.
There have been several controversial discussions on the ethics
Of the “’Proper’ Way of Hunt”, and are still in circulation. But really,
I don’t pay attention to those sorts of things. Oh,
No, don’t get me wrong. I have my – things.
Like, I don’t really like hunting families;
That’s just not my thing. There are some bigots that don’t really seem to care
About the dangers of leaving offspring without their parents,
But normally, I don’t associate myself with them.
What I’m about to tell you, sort of contradicts with what I just said.
I know I said I “normally don’t”, but there’s a reason for that.
It had been just like any other day.
I was prepping my equipment at my hunting shed,
(Which I had built far away from the bustling city),
When suddenly I heard three knocks on my door.
It’s rare that anyone visits me; especially out here.
Cautiously, I slide the cover from the peephole to check who it could be –
Some weirdo wearing a cape
(I mean common, everyone knows capes
Are the worst thing to wear when you’re hunting).
I give her a second to speak.
She doesn’t.
“Uhhh, do you need something.. or something?”
She responds in some weird mix of garbling language I’ve never heard before.
I can’t really understand what she’s saying, but she seemed harmless,
And she seemed hungry and cold, so I let her in.
“You came at a great time, I was just about to go out to get some food.” – lies
She garbles something at me again, but I thought I heard her
Say she wanted to come, so I handed her a knife.
That’s how it all started. We’d hunt together, pretty much, every day,
Didn’t really speak much, but I enjoyed her company.
We’re out in the forest tracking some prey on our own,
When I hear an abrupt skin prickling screech.
I rush over to access the situation and see her convulsing;
Her body morphing, lumps shooting under the pall of her cape,
Then it stops.
I lift up her cape –
She’s killed a mother
And she’s stopped moving.
Fabricated
Foraging through a demo
Of yapping lines respondent
Of translucent swishing botanics
Of solidities pawned solely
In moments of evocations
Rearing in upheavals
Of fabricated processes held.
Uhhhh
Despairing haunting horrors
Of spectacled menacing grins
Of tentacled worlds, caught or lost;
A negated named nameless sage
Belonging to others in real realities
Comes slickly crashing down in finality.
While discounting the possibilities,
Well in disinterested phases, slipping,
In farces of convoluted reasoning’s,
In symbols of an effigy.
In That Time
Find solace in the evidential,
In the gains from love’s chase
From desperately trying to
Find metallic splinters to
Form those keys to
Unlock those doors where
Fragments of knowledge
Would be found in mystery,
Because that experience
In trying to even understand
A millimeter
On a seemingly endless ruler
Pushed you further
Than anything ever could.
Even it meant that
Every magical moment
Never happened.
Enough
Indicted collectives of homo erectus;
Throngs of indiscernible objectified masses.
Thoughts wrought with re-applications of rules
Of anecdotal malformed ideologies of misgivings
Of prescribed biases latched in netted implications
Of disoriented silvery fibers of whirling madnesses;
Outwardly named intrusive, whilst peripherals slowly
Darken, fully encompassing gorges by shrouding molasses.
