#mark-poems

Don’t want to see you

suck down words,

repeat yourself

for the thousandth time.

Let’s throw ourselves

into the blades of a harvester;

metaphorically speaking.

You and I both

already jumped

into a galaxy once.

Buried

under rotting leaves

a thousand miles deep.

Maybe

she will find me here

breathing in this heap.

Because I whisper melody,

because I set down dreams,

because I set the world alight,

only in my mind.

Buried

under written words

giga terabytes.

Maybe

she will find me here

dying without light.

What is goodness?

What is War and Peace?

Who didn’t think frankly,

of what remains to speak?

Albert stayed a child

when he chased it,

yet Edgar was in tears

when he faced it.

Charm and adventure,

purity too;

it’s in diversity,

is it in you?

Never did and

never wanted to;

genuinely.

But could it be

buried so deep?

Remembered briefly that feeling;

that bee-stung helplessness,

that… what was it?

Exhilarating expectation,

almost like a certainty;

time waiting to collide with a gyroscope.

Hallucinated everything,

but never learned how to build it.

Died of exposure.

Spirits

found profit in a pulverised

message wastrel.

Avanti, alarming -

astonished.

Breakthroughs.

Melody cascaded,

drenched in beauty;

alacrity

suspended essence of nightmare

distance crisis of melancholia.

Whispered

bridges out to paradise;

concentric fractal divinity.

Why do you cry?

Answer me.

It’s not enough to scream.

Now my little

Daruma has two eyes.

Such an uncertain victory.

Such a climax afterpoint.

Nothing but a B thing. Ha.

Apoplectically soporific

in my dulled nonentity tonight.

Oh

etcetera excelsior;

name your ship

the Senescence of Celestial Beauty

or some shit,

and bask in wavelengths.

Striding our way along

a cataclysm edge point;

but trust not,

your sighing

hums it’s way to heaven;

that’s the last stop?

Signed it,

watching a thousand ideas

slip on vapour trails

flat-planing onto a disinformation superhighway;

stopped myself from mansplaining,

not really my place and

not my time.

Their time.

My mind.

Signed it.