Title Lag

Expected transfigurations
Of silhouetted contours
From hatched outlines
In mimicking craft
Of countenances.

Forms of commanded silences
Derived from ideologies
Of Truth is Law;
Unshakeable, indisputable
Moments of momentous mementos
In destructions of unfounded wooden
Lodges with wedged in reasoning.

Enigmatic enmities of rebuttals
Of rebellious refusals reflecting
The absence of the prescribed.

Repeated bolts of heightened acuity
Fiercely quell repudiations
By irrefutable evidence
When facing the sagacious
In strikes of stark realisations
In learning reliable consistencies
Repetitive leaden defeats leading
To admittance by amicable amities
Of words blindly accepted;
Reframed as idolatry.

What We Chose

Reflections of mangled confidences
In incandescent words
Of inevitable losses
Those who sought redemption
From repudiated horrors
Of untimely hours
In muted reveries;
Vaporized voices of intangibilities.

Airtight metal doors locked;
Unresponsive to patterned codes
Of likely misconstrued rhetorics;
Of queasily relinquished prides;
In quizzical encumbrances
In unrequited diminishing vortices.

Anthropomorphically weighed physics
Of bleakly styled truths
Or exquisitely chiseled fallacies.
Where comforted comorbidities
Of mythological redundancies
And existential deities,
Salve.

Spouting extrications of love’s yearnings
Hopelessly behind those locked doors
In layered inquiries of reality, prophecies
And connected scales of measured precisions
Of ethically disapproved pursuits;
Pierced valves of barely perceived incisions.

Here’s a secret,
Morality is whatever I wanted it to be.

Express Stops

Notices posted on pages;
Barely perceived train delays
Of misconceptions made
In ticks until effaced
By the days passing,
At a snails pace,
Encroaching the date
Of planned service changes
Of bypassing local stations.
Notifications, given months prior,
Ushered within the undetectable
Connections of tinted hints,
From branded jigsaw pieces,
Conducted into those
That appear to be
Neat alignments.

A conclave;
Contemplating;
What is to normals:
The unforeseeable;
Future pavements
Of grand galactic schemes
Of disclosed endeavoured minds.

Straight Through Most

There comes moments
When every current doesn’t matter,
When truth extends its atoms
Across the racing expanse,
Where divisions of perception
Suddenly become united.

I stand below
Waterfalls encircling
On a tiny hovering island
Inside a bottomless space,
Trying to peer over
From far below the horizon
To catch senses of our home
On a disturbing distant land,

But instead, I’m catching
The wind furiously blowing,
The sound of thunderous flow,
The darkness underneath,
Of the cost of gravity
Weighed heavily.

Without Her

Uniform directional velvet strokes
Of distracting idealistic sheen.
Velveteen faux pas fabrications
Eclectically tucked underneath
The gleaning unctioned pall
Of previously held beliefs,
Of Love’s imagined appearance,
Of Love’s supposed transfiguration,
Of doubtless felt patches,
Of thoughtless assurances,
Of windowless panes,
But really,
I know
I’d be okay
Without
Her.

Without reminders
I forget everything
Or so it seems.

Pretending to be Blind

They come in orbits
Of discarded eye sockets
Of cauterised bleeding runs;
Silent pleas of morbidity.
Plagues of infected victims
Leading lonely loveless lives
Simultaneously scream sardonically.
Vitals vieled vicariously
Through thorough theatrics
Of obvious oblique offenses
Taken from lines of informality.

While the forces of projectile
Vomit spray chunked particles
Of intent, sown in cautioned words,
Disregarded or seen as flexible,
Discontented perforated holes
Miss infrared tracking missiles
Locked on to no beginnings;
Guarded walls of inflexibility;
That hateful order.

Stained hands keeping
It in its trajectory,
Pretending to be blind
To the possibilities.