To continue

He couldn’t write to save his life, evidenced ad nauseam; nor would he want to burden words with such an execrable chore

It wasn’t writer’s block, no – not that he thinks he deserves the moniker – it’s rather akin to a nietzsche niche

There isn’t much that occupies him, though he’d come to welcome that particular distraction from his quotidian routine

Often, however, as with most of his endevours, the struggle is finding a reason to continue, other than “for something to do”

It’s clear that his style – if, in fact, he can be said to have one – is never going to win him favor or a place at the writer’s table

His writing is now little more than a masterclass in insipid repetition, a neverending exercise in ever rending prose…

art: Listen by Jeanne Bessette

Life is beautiful

Life is beautiful, or so they say,
poetry in motion; he could only
play along amidst the throng,
imitating the art around him;

an æsthete desperate for a
glimpse through the framed
roses; a forger cutting paint
with turpentine, diluting

delusions to bear the greyscale
that taints his perception; he
can only see a masterpiece in
what could be, the potential

pentimenti when his eyes close
and his mind is free from the
onslaught of this garish reality;
painting with words in the dark,

his impression of what abounds;
an oeuvre of fantasies, a gallery
of escape, beauty in the still life of
half-eaten apples and candles spent

art: The Disillusioned One by Ferdinand Hodler

Jigsaw

They told him, with pride, to pick
up the broken pieces, instructing
him first which ones to let lie

Striven by a delusion to justify
failures; evidenced by illusory
jigsaws, their incomplete pictures

Putting together those remaining
pieces of his h-e-a-r-t and s-o-u-l,
has left him only another h-o-u-l

Where the sewage of draining
happiness streaks the urn with a
hypnotic flow of verisimilitude

While a choler gale whistles with
incredulity; an obdurate reminder
of eternal, inexorable solitude

art: untitled 36 by Peterio

Oblivion

Swallowing laments, coughing
up stained glass, her voice is
lost in the shattering barks
rending the silence in twain

Vitric dust settles in layers of
carmine remorse over bare feet
and choices wanting; painted
into a corner, and into oblivion

Ocular leadlights with cames of
tear, a cranberry gloss no longer
rose, reflecting life, her tormentor;
rolling eyes, leading to salvation

Her back against the wall, she
vanishes into the pale embrace of
waiting white, leaving behind only
footfall islands in a crystal sea

art: anesthesia by Peterio

His rose

The boy would stop to smell the rose

When he grew tall enough to reach

Abrading his nose upon a petal frayed

While he suffocated on the redolence

Rooted from his rafter for the dearest of life

Suspended by its thorny vine, the hanger hung

It was ever there, of his being a part, apart

No other flowerbed was so enticing

No other garden welcomed him so

art: gallow.. by Peterio

Whittle

Lip chewing

Making waves

Beneath heavy lids

Going down stares

Led by come hither fingers

Dripping darkness dares

To steel my clenched fist

Whittle flesh, make a man

Bereft of bone and sinew

Pedal and brimstone

Whet with gore and malice

Grinding shrapnel for dessert

Soaked in lies and afterthought

Napalm charring the bowel

Of a soul encrusted chalice

art: too late.. by Peterio