Breakdown Pt. 1

“Darkness is the absence of light.” Wrigt states.

“Might I, Elij, input; the trustful presence of light primarily
Grants us vision in a distant world where the calculative
Ether is ever so obsessively dappled with hazy miasmic greys.”

“Just as rivers would seemingly flow at reduced states of
Vibrating energies, callously, in it’s disinterest.”, Hawrl adds.

Lifi protests with fervour, “Callously? Callous is too emotive.”
Huffing, “This one world does not care, it cannot be given such meaning–”

“Quit wasting time analysing an analogy. They prove nothing. They are merely
Obscured truths to further explain the thoughts of those lacking
Sufficient words to properly explain a concept.” Wrigt exchanges.

“Yet, they’re capable of abstracting thoughts creatively.” Elij rolls to her tiptoes.

“Zzz.. First, offensive. You weeded I ‘lack words’ in there. Second, I used it
Just in case. I thought maybe it would be an easier pill to swallow.”



You turn the knob counterclockwise
And the door, freshly framed, creeks open
Into the apartment. Complex
Emotions wind through you,
You can’t put your finger on it,
Although you feel you oughta be able to,
And they’re crooning
About the same things
Or are they, thinking
About the real things
Or are they, in this dimly lit room.

You venture, the floor creeks too, further
Into the kitchen, past the dining room,
Where they sat like mannequins
With their arms splayed,
With their legs crossed,
Or were they
Standing with just smiles spread
Across both their empty faces,
Or were they torn
Out circular voids,
Into the hallway that contains
A bathroom
In between two bedrooms.
You push open the bathroom door,
Already cracked opened,
It’s dark but
You can see the tub half filled with blood.

It’s only upon waking
You realise
It was only,
A fabrication
Of a world,
Of your own.

It Seemed

“Well, the inevitable is only a consequence of predictable outcomes.”
His face distorted, smug, at wits end,
As if baffled at the mere mention
Of the conversation being held.
She tosses her hair,
Plopping down
On the sofa stuffing her toes
In between the crevices.
“Our holy father is the grand master planner.”
He closes his eyes in prayer,
Muttering in tongues, moving rosary beads.
“It is chance working like ley lines
And just the human mind
Trying to make sense of the world.”
She smiles politely, compassionately.
“It must be fate. Soul mates have been decided by the stars”
He looks up with an out of world
Expression from his astrology text.
“Idk man. I just know she made a believer out of me.”

If “It” Would Be

Galactic kings shoot their luminous galaxies
Suspended over official gigantic super futons
Leaping across the universes’ seas
Their duties call them forth,
Back onto uncharted battlefields.

When they heard they looked up in disbelief,
Not particularly focusing on any thing,
When they’d sworn, in cosmic sands,
They swore them off in a not so far off reality.
That can’t..
That must’ve been
Wishful thinking..” in discord
Their darling lovers sighed and implored,
Mustering effort to voice their blooming concerns,
‘Bout the assignment day.

With insufficient info logged into computers,
Land dwellers kept staring at screens to find
Which independent interplanetary sector
They had chillingly come zipping
Through the ridiculous sky from.

Worst Case

Immersed alive into tumultous wells
Of real mint colored mana pots; brimming
With frivolous imperceivable bubbles,
Into the bones they soak. Supped, it
Incurred due passions to fruition,
Affecting aspects of neuroplasticity.

Appropriated branches stooped down low;
A kind of deafening simile
In an unrealistic loose setting for when
I caught you there, heedlessly, deeply submerged,
You, my princess, told me intensively
Of your misfortunate gladness to be
In my gorgeous rippling arms,

Right when you lost your grip and fell into this tub.
Allocators on mountainous peaks discomfortingly rub,
Yet they speak simultanously, “You haven’t seen thundering.”

When They Requested

Lost distorted air densities
Colored in boggy burgundies
Filled with meteoric realties
Too close to the event horizon
Of spherical black holes
Of collapsed stellar masses;
Observances of the purported
Teleported in sealed envelopes.
Upon reception, tossed to the side,
Forgotten, then shredded up
With the rest of the wasted.

Without tomorrow’s worried sorrows
Noisily rearranged to help,
“Me hungry, me cold.”
They’d curtly dribble,
Punching tickets each day
For many a Sun’s and Moon’s
Before they’d look to know
That which was to come
On what pre-impressed day.

Hoarsely Imagined

On the etheric plane
Rising hazes of anomalous
Life forms, flicker,
Not quiet here nor there,
Live out in quiet tumulose plains.
They dried cultivated manifestations
Of barley and wheat
From arid embankments.
Where they kept asking
The makers in consensus,

“Do we cease to exist if no one can sense us,
When remembrances of barely
Thought out incantations
Partook in their feasts?”

“If we need to eat and drink of this mead
And we live these moments
Just as of those who breathe
Are we not as real as they appear to be?”

The maker in turn responds
Daily, tumultuously toppling
Toppling trees too far
From those of whom
They’d have been intended for,
With the thunderous roars
From eldritch lightning beasts.