Archival Footage

The morning sun swept to give me pause,
with light beaming into every pore.
Under the depth and weight of pureness bronzed,
she tried to steal my open eyes,
she tried to take my only growth;
to her, it was a darkened sore.
To her, I was a changing tide,
and she wanted me to flow for her.

I have slept beneath the bones of life,
under miles of everything rotten and blind,
so that I could know the reach of sight.
I lay here so I would know myself,
even though I've grown morose and deaf.
It is mine as it is oceanic breath,
But I would not change that for the acceptance of morning.

 

--

 

If you come to know the rupture
and withdraw into the sculpture,
the form of held enclosure,
you can see what I hold dear.
It's wordless and uncounted,
belittled and discounted.
The faceless, voiceless fountain,
it gives strength and definition
to neurosis, to ignition.
And in this deepening abstraction
is where I watch the endless crashing
and find freedom and salvation.

Release through retention;
contraction and expansion;
I suffer every tension,
am crushed beneath dissection.
What has begun as distention,
agony and dementia,
brings whole the separation.
I drink from this dissension
to wring out my ascension.

 

--

 

As thoughts start seething
And blood mixes in with what I'm feeling,
Like a tangled web of tears and sweat,
Of prospects sold to be unmet,
I claw away the mildew stains
To froth and foam spherical regret,
While you forget the words you've said,
They fuel the fields inside my head.

With rusted blades, scorned dull and bland,
The shit I've grown inside my soul is just too bare to shove away.
I can't even catch a single breath,
Nor find myself for one last stand.

This is the well, dug deep into bone:
No water, no stone; I've been sweating, feeling windblown.
The brown of autumn's face,
Inked darkly.

 

--

 

I can't sleep.  When did this hill become so steep?  I just want to lay my head down and be greeted by some peace.  When I picture your face etched in my mind like flames, all my thoughts become whitewash, and I feel like I'm insane.  I love you, even though you're hell, a concrete swell in an ocean of muffled bells.  It sounds like pain and tears and grime.  And it's all mine.  I think about you all the time... I still think about you all the time.

--

 

Low place like home