Man down

He had his heart attack the page, in its native tongue; a language he alone understood, but to utter it was a gift beyond his wordless grasp

Each stroke bore more emptiness than meaning; enticing loops and inviting spaces, where the devil lies, where the details breathe and suffocate

The same patterns, the same lines, fed to him by familiar foes; now the sermons languish from a man down, as he barrels deeper into obscurity

He can’t remember why the ink flows or why his trembling hand writes upon the wall; only the sillage of failure bethinks him of his worthless, wandering words

He knows he floats with the agent of his demise, on growing waves of discontent; for to fall upon his pen would be too perfect an ending

art: (untitled) by Zdzisław Beksiński

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Absent desire, but alacritous disdain, the vestiges of his mortality drift away; away with his memories, as dandelion passengers in the fading light of day

Sinister sickles punctuate the path as undeserved smiles shed in their fall from grace; the seashell razors left behind as reminders where not to tread

Happiness hewn begets a visage of cold, cracked stone; unnatural edges, yet an attrition of angles, accentuate the homely crag that teeters atop the crumbling mountain

Penance is no longer a means to maintain control, as madness molts like withering leaves within the pluviose violence of a forgotten forest

In the distance, the thunderclaps for the windsong, while a soul cowers in the shadows of the blood-crusted, rust-dusted walls of ineptitude and solitude

Empty is the hand that chokes the empty heart; a husk, a placeholder for life, this human simulacrum awaits the corporeal waste of time to catch up to his own

art: (untitled) by Zdzisław Beksiński

Of fate

Of wrist and stripe by razor swipe
or tracks for miles as death beguiles

Of neck and burn by slipknot yearn
or choking pill to hasten kill

Of pan and grey by leaden spray
or running leap to six foot deep

Of funeral pyre by fuel and fire
or hemlock glaze by goblet raise

Of truth and will by madness fill
and wilted rose from question pose

Of blessed peace in sorrow’s cease
and fateful end by destined rend

art: untitled 41 by Peterio

Puppeteer

As his lips were sewn by the iniquitous hand, noisome iron streaked the stubbled grey, loosing ferric wishes upon the deafened earth

The pretender, the fraudster, Life, with bewitching, infectious glee, mended its marionette bespoken; into compliance, obediently broken

He painted himself into a corner of his mind, with colours of ignominy and humility, using broad strokes of incredulity; trapped by the never was and never will be

When then these coercions forced their way through the welling windows, as each pane betrayed the pressure, the cascading saline adulterated the sanguinolent pleas

Mollified by the pink, swirled confession, hypnotized by his own warped reflection, he languidly hangs from the noose beneath the fingers of his puppeteer

art: (untitled) by Zdzisław Beksiński

Albatross

The albatross, she hangs desperately about his neck; delighting and smothering his senses

The weight of her coercion pulls him ever downward, into the depths of her eternal sky

He can’t bear to look away, for fear of forgetting; he won’t dare hold her gaze, for fear of forever

Choked by the thought of her, the strength of her grip, and bearing the rictus of delusional peace

His flesh rots, weaving through her skin and time and memory, as if to remake her with his sacrifice

She sings so only he can hear, a siren for the shoal; providence for his madness, damnation for his soul

The albatross, she won’t release him; the albatross, he can’t set her free

art: (untitled) by Zdzisław Beksiński