Kings & Shadows

 

Everything so blurry, everyone so strange.

Everybody’s empty – everything is so messed up.

Preoccupied without you, I cannot live at all.

My whole world surrounds you, I stumble and I fall.

You could be my one some, you could be my steal.

You know that my surrender is far from the ideal.

I wonder how to screw this, imagine just how far.

This wicker keeps on growing, gets heavier by the hour.

Imagine.

Imagine if you will, your life spiralling out of control into an abyss so dark, a crevice so deep – you haven’t the gumption to turn the light on. Your head is swarming with people, sights, sounds…odours at once familiar, then completely alien to the olfactory you so depended on.

Running away from the people and places that hurt your esteem and helped with your inadequacy – you choose to steal a diminutive smidgen of their haven. Caliginous blood spatter on the bureau and the stains that dried before that tell a story of a mental fissure that started its innings a long time ago.

You can’t stop this. Just you try.

An isolated spectrum of televised programming numbs the mind and freezes reflex oft. You’re imprisoned and escape is but a plan. Eyeballing the grim reaper, cause you’re stuck on stupid – colliding against destiny that’s splintered and bruised, your blinding descent through gore and dementia is an ill concieved reality show.

Playing their part are the progenitors – doting and responsible. They provide and care and yearn for your well-being – if only they knew the monster they created. The flesh starts to burn with an incandescent glow and when the chemicals kick in, the pulse rate slows down, the pupils dilate and a sepia toned image of your life starts to sputter in pixels the size of saucers in front of your jaundiced vision.

Flicker. Hope starts to.

The quaking immediacy of transcendental flight takes you to realms you’ve read about. Your strait-jacket comes undone – falling out are entire seasons of what adolescence should’ve been like. Accompanied by all those dates you didn’t go on. The lovers you didn’t pursue. Those that didn’t come after you.

You embraced the shadows. Wallowing in pity you stood in its tepid bask, warming up to a degenerate state of being that appealed to you since those complications in the womb. Swimming in what was your trimester, you felt the razor – and escaped the cutting but it stung the mind. And memory was always a forte.

Going toward the light, your plan was undemanding. You want to walk the ocean, just like you did as spawn. Shackled in chains of decorum and senility, this subsistence is siphoning the lunacy that you know has taken root and shape. Your sire is fading, this darkness abating. But fetch it back you will, every single time. That journey is so over-rated.

Escape.

You are maladjusted, just un-trusted, gambling through the sedentary, making that woeful penitentiary look pedantic with your avant garde sense of verve. Dental floss cuts through the carotid as does the shard of hardened sand, not yet carbon. The germ of envy rips through the muscle, flesh on bone cavorting with the arterial remains of pipes and tubes and the red elixir you’ve been expending.

Your cave is barren.

Your brow now creases to restore the sovereignty of mercurial that consumes your wretched carcass. The cadaver extends its sloth onto the couch that knows it’s’ imprint – all too well. Sharpening your nails and scar facing the walls of your cell, you juxtapose a map of plush denouncement. Stab wounds on your thigh are milking blood – you watch with interest.

Bone shifts, makes room for metal – you spit and choke. I’m in a maze. There’s purple haze. My dementia’s encaged.

Inside the crypt – it’s about Kings and shadows. You’re powerful and connected than any would imagine. Your bloated sense of macabre is as believable as the thalidomide trannies you score every night. Your time piece broke and now tells of an hour when you unleashed revenge.

Turning to dust, running on ends – why do all good things have to come to an end?

Some scars are meant to stay.