Carrion on the carousel

Frustration rears its peerless fear as
fearless peers move forward; unveiling
avarice and hubristic expectation

He turns away his longing gaze in a
forfeit of forbearance; while life flies
by, his skin crawls to flee the flaying

Hidden eyes can’t hide the lies, when
time torments his tender flesh; through
tempestuously violent slipstreams

The gale of failure, whips like nine tails
in flagellatory avidity; the cat rending
meat from marrow, calm from sanity

A tumultuous duplicity of right and
wrong, outspread as wide asunder as
mytikas and tartarus, divinity and villainy

Confidence slain amid folly and shame,
only himself to blame; as the raptors
pick clean his final, delusional dream

No rousing claxon, no call to action; no
coming attraction or devilish distraction;
just night and day, carrion on the carousel

art: the cage by Peterio

Needlestack

Overwhelmed in a subsumption
of rapier steel, a slender stalk
of hay in the needlestack, every
eye encircling him in judgement;

each piercing their displeasure
in a mental bloodlet, no hand
would brave the chromium cage
that traps his bridled rage, lest

they too be lashed; no way to
thread an escape, he sets to gaze
in perpetuity upon the pleasance
at his reality’s edge; self-inflicted

destruction would surely end the
improbity that surrounds him,
presses upon him, crucifies his
every pore; yet he yields in

torpidity beneath the wake of
life’s defining failures and the
weight of obstinate oppression
that steels his own imagination

art: Idle Hands by Will Barnet

Not be

The searing reminders of innate fallibility,
subconscious pillars of darkness wept,
supporting the crumbling azure high

Recurring rejection in sobering plentitude,
feigned adulation for favors in the interim,
naught but nothing remains

There’s no escaping the erubescent sear,
holding sway beneath the eyes, from
consuming the hymns of songbirds

There’s no escaping the being in being here,
the destructive reality of misguided fantasy,
except to simply not be

art: untitled 42 by Peterio

The writing’s on the hand

Staring at textures of
skin and light, shadows
and scars, painted across
a topography of vein and

bone, he sees an age-worn,
sorrow-torn, hirsute surface
whose rivulets unerringly
circulate life that remains

teasingly beyond his grasp;
out of reach, this life, with
its promise and potential,
augurs riverbeds run dry,

fortunes forever lost, and
the certainty that one day
others will look upon him
knowing death, as he does,

like the back of his hand

art: Mano by Javier Arizabalo

Vague

Hidden within his egoic forest, facing a barren laund, he struggles to recall the name of each wilted dream he sees through the rapidly forming mist

In his pocket, his left hand lets the last seeds of hope slip carelessly through deadened fingers, before ever having a chance to blossom; vague portents each of failures yet to flourish

By his side, his right hand hangs; a noose insouciantly strangling the posy of his most cherished memories; its thorns, poisoning the once fertile soil with each vermilion drop of unabashed sorrow

He wonders why his weakness wins, while he weeps his will away

Life has yet to make him stronger, so he waits for it to kill him