Objects without a story

Not lionized or accursed, not a source of wisdom or song

Objects without a story, unburdened with sentiment; devoid of outward interest, lacking a beginning and charm

Pitiable and stagnant, awaiting their decaying epoch, as no roving eyes pause upon them, disabused of desire

Resigned to dwine in their shadowed box unbidden

They abrade no memory’s surface, yet steadfastly collect the dust of ages, and ash of bridges

They neither twitch a lip to herald a smile, nor stitch a brow to presage a justified frown

They are nothing in the overwhelming nothingness

No one remains to inquire, no one qualifies to respond; unrecollected, she exists; an object awaiting

Begging of her breath to halt its march; pleading with the rose to wilt with her prose

Lest she be forced to remember herself

art: void of non-existence by Peterio

Nameless

Why does he bother… deprived duende, marred by a sombrous mien, building bridges with deadwood, in a language he alone speaks; farouche, and paying the tolls to navigate the ashes yet to be, hopeless to redefine that synecdoche

An innominate one, extending his naïve tongue for the whim of a wafer, an exegesis literatim; marginalized for the well-adjusted, he’s left inviting an invective soliloquy for the lack of intellection and for the simple company… of another

Walking barefoot whereupon the crimson let, a macadam packed with ossified offerings and reified refusals; a cramoisy craquelure of his sanity beneath a lazuline skyscape, blemished in perpetuity by a thunderous tumor over tremulous shoulders stalking

He dares straddle the liminality delineating equilibrium and deliquium, controlled by porous hands bearing pious guilt; a back-scratching, favor-hatching collective society who shuns purgation, while lamenting hestern and filling entitled shovels to tamp the exploitable dirt

art: Three Studies for a Crucifixion (2) by Francis Bacon

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

Silenced

He tires of the magmatic struggle, the viscid
tiger crawl of liquid basalt enveloping his head;

The vertiginous plume consuming his vision
in a latticework of soot, smoke, and sorrow;

The thermic surge, a thigmotropistic urge,
seeking to enflame his fuming faculties;

The sweltering seduction of fervid lips,
brushing his cheeks to glowing rubescence;

A wheezing weasand, charred and choked by
the muted words of his sempiternal reproach

art: by Eric Lacombe

Forsaken by

Forsaken by love
Forsaken by woe
Forsaken by friend
Forsaken by foe

Forsaken by goodness
Forsaken by badness
Forsaken by sanity
Forsaken by madness

Forsaken by dream
Forsaken by living
Forsaken by nightmare
Forsaken by giving

Forsaken by everything
Forsaken by one thing
In the end I’ll be
Forsaken by nothing