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

Fellow Man Not

Alone, but for the innumerable, in a cacophony of pandemonic howls; he weeps inconsolably, an outpouring for the downpouring

Hollow and immovable, akin to those withered rampikes propinquitously poised; one within a wilderness of wails, yet never felled

Tremulous and numb, as the thunderous wrath disturbs the brume that consumes him, assaults the superego that subsumes him; a fellow man, not

A beggar bound in mute torpidity by their vanishing touch; the maggots feed and the leeches bleed, for mere nourishment, is he, beneath the boots atop his shoulders

Their discordant gnawing – picking and clawing – strips the dignity from he they tread; a destructive perturbation of diminishing identity

An ever-growing grove of rotting madness remains; greying roots and spraying splinters, tearing limb from desperate limb; if only, to be seen

art: (untitled) by Zdzisław Beksiński

Broken Does as Broken Is

Watching noir in the cracked rearview / petrol pools beneath moonlit dew

A fire’s rage berates his prayer / too late to save, too lost to care

Carnage lies in forward cast eyes / ever drawn whither madness cries

Afraid to live, but scared to death / a swell of questions, yet naught to quethe

A siren’s wail then splits the night / enticing hope, and horror’s bite

She proffers hand, the offer lingers / ‘fore kindness turns to dagger fingers

His broken head can’t bear the bait / as justice deems, just blood will sate

So pressing hard, his essence low / for all a broken gift bestow

To swallow smoke and ash and ember / to spare the world, who’ll not remember

art: psychodelicious by Peterio