Immunity

So the stale conversation and repeating words that hold little interest to your mortally morale lacking brain drivel on… a few feted tears over wine dribble miserably into existence as diner beckons. It’s horrifically public and dining out has as ever never dragged so much but at least something is happening… someone is having an emotional breakdown at your table and you don’t even consider it an event of note!

Shock plastered as a cream pie from a clowns hand decorates everyone’s faces as words are shared to placate the grieving party, diner is damn tasty and you wish not to waste money by leaving any of it, an emotionally broken and fragility ridden form fractures as it leaves the scene. Everyone else seems to shade themselves a new colour of scandalous shock, words of all flavours both criticise and acknowledge the simmering pain that hath bubbled over and spoiled the whole tasty affair of eating.

And you don’t care!

When untainted eyes hath blinkered sight into turmoil soaked reality any spike in emotionally straining events causes a stir, ranges of vision so narrow to ever expanding waves of sorrow find shock in such meaningless displays of painfully distain causing exhibitions of human weakness. Those tainted by the brutal ripping of such blessings as blinkers away from sight now corroded into darkest depths, each fatal downward step into that everlasting pit burning away another level of reactive shock others expect.

‘Immune’

So use to things such as kitchen knives on flesh, catastrophic crumbling into distress otherwise feebly called breakdowns, violent outbursts of the moment and aftershocks of that wretched point of time, and having to eat in one room as things slamming rock bottom occur in where you wish you could watch TV… MEANS NOTHING

And the only thing casually uttered to those undeserving of/protected from the secret tortures unwontedly witnessed by your coldly glazed eyes, so severely severing of common realities, are the serenely spoken phase “Seen worse”.

Otherwise known as ‘How fucked up can you get’!

Otherwise known as ‘Immune’

To Brake

Pressure over time creates an eternally momentum building black hole of applied condensation of everything that constructs the very warped fibres of a facture ridden collapse of everything we know, have faith in and trust…. when once the release of these primal destructing forces is occurred, hell but beckons as a positive alternative to the reality that crumbles around the distorted windows, those through which every fatally fateful event since further fractures that fragile faith you had in your own ability.

How do you take weakly faltering step in front of potential stumbling step and know that once it was so much more solid before when you strode powerfully through doubts quagmire, little perception of the potentially crumbling reality around distorted windows that now only show the inherently under trodden footsteps of fated failure and despair.

Broken implies a repair to be implemented

Repair implies it is possible to remedy the problem

When considering the lowering tones of a mournful mood that every depressive, doubting and seemingly self-damned soul measures the mournfully lacking success of anything they have accomplished… broken, to brake, holds meaning so much more irreparable.

How does one then fabricate that seemingly easy thing to cognitively conjure when whole; an answer, solution, fix or resolution?

Till that mythical answer has proven worth, so broken will the afflicted remain.

 

All The World Burns

There upon the pinnacle of perfection lies a point of perception so much attuned to what our worlds are within the fractious chasms of flame, that only a singular person may see it within the obsessive focus two fold of what a madman may feel

To take apart with the methodical removal of brick by bloody brick the whole entirety of a person’s world, reason and rhyme a shadow of sanities fading form in the methodical removal of a person’s very foundation in the subversively torturous process required to go through with such a suicidal kill; a process by which all the upheaval achieves is merely to avoid the epically scaled monstrosity of what refuses to be deconstructed at the core of where his troubles began

The prison cell grows no bigger or sizes larger than what the mentality of a life lacking inmate has grown to know; the thankless bounds by which all a horde would enslave never offering the faintest ideal of freedom with each maliciously stinging blow

Endless steps out into the ashen fields with furies pace to evade that particular centre of what draggingly leaches the limping will to breathe, only to push the prison cell this a’ways to the right or left as the central villain of a man’s fate resides where the centre of that seemingly decreasing cell follows; following with as much furies pace as desperation compels him to put foot ahead of foot in endless step

To turn to see the reflective truth of that villains stare as eyes so damningly dark betray every repulsion drenched ideological dagger I hath cast upon my own flesh; all that remains when the very fated fragmented deception falls fatally to the flames and bare only the fractured and hollow form I wear

A wrist a paper thin contract with life

A razor a pen to break the terms of a life sentence

A mesh of loving fibres to sever

Should I ever stop running from the fatal truth

That the lies are less painful than facing the soul of this soulless creature

The soul a twisted representative debt to all the potential I have cast into the cause to stay blissfully numb

Beneath the Water

So serene the calm waters project to eyes the subtle ripples of an underlying event, to eyes unaccustomed it would be innocently conceived such shallow ripples were of an occurrence so slight as a weak breath. But sight aligned with lesser things and darkly hazardously truths do see the motion as a thing to be beware, no joking tongue of what destructive forces lurk so deep as to reach that far and cause still the surface infraction of noted disruption.

I lay a thousand hidden thoughts of what nature a dark god would tremble at the idea of in a thousand graves beneath all the calming waters tranquil glow, each and every slimy tendril sliming its way over honest intent. To all above the surface graces politely drawn airs to wisp and whirl in pretty collated movement, the storms funding such iceberg tipped reactions when deeper emotions hath torn a world apart in cruelly laughing jest.

So see as much of a delicate flowers petals as one would readily wish to engage in merrily hued sight, be oblivious to the soul sucking tormenting processes that feed its colour of shiny black and poisonous shades of yellow. I will know of worlds fractured so delicately perfect in ever corrupted chasm running to whence the tearful screams of suffering do create choirs of angelic voices, a root to the thing that when seen in light does faintly resemble the pitched angelic tones of falsely echoed joyfulness.

Stability an illusion ever under cast behind the veil by inherit instability of what my darker nature feeds upon and flourishes freely into corners, so tortured the light feels more pain than my own lacking positivity. The gift it is to not feel, the curse it contains so cruelly mocking as to only feel anger but therein lies a crucial flaw within which another post I will explore.

 

How a Man Leans

“A person’s posture can sell an entire library of insight into their character, chapters so subtly implied in the slightest of actions”

I lean, not slouch, slump or support myself against but lean on surfaces. When I’m leaning it’s a sign that I’m safe in an environment and at work it’s a sign of control, the ability to control a room from one key location with a singular tone of authority. The action also implies a safety about my mood, an inherit security for those surrounding me as the trigger finger is resting idle at the side of my readily unfriendly temper.

The very activity of letting every muscle falter into relaxation is a thing to spread the warming calmness through my body; an equally important activity is how I resume upright motion. Too quick and assertive and I could be on the verge of a volatile reaction, slower motion an indication of mellowed resistance and a composed disposition.

The best photo of me that I can recall is me leaning against a pillar, unaware there are even cameras slyly pointing lenses in my vicinity!

So what about you:

     Do you hunch in a repressed posture of stress or frustration?

     Do you spring from one arena of action to another in energetic pose?

     Do you shape yourself into those dark corners of the room in shaded insecurity?

However your body naturally accustoms itself, I say make it yours and do it right

 

The Week Defined in Darker Skies

From the first timid time I dared to lift my eye lids from over the two cold orbs I use to see, all demonic potential of a world heavy loaded with meticulously detailed pain extended as far as my cursed sight doth see

All a storm has passed this way, a merry hell to rain down in callous hail upon all this civilly constructed shell so fragile by every timid crack that screamingly outlines every faulted thing huddling within

No shelter stays whole or defence remains in ways to be even loosely defined as a working thing, when all fire rages wildly with wilfully consuming chaos through my besieged fragment of nothingness value labelled only as my calm

Eyes see apparitions of future pain through the poison lens of a crimson stain as the path before disintegrates so purposely slowly, as if a cruelly picking god were to be laughingly knocking each stone down in corrupted joy before the eyes of tortured souls

Blades meet flesh and suffering marks it in reddened streaks lashed across the skin, no angels here to heal a demon’s ills with enlightened tones of forgiveness prayer, only thanklessly begging mercy calling for their pitted existences to be saved

So fate creepingly crawls with derisorily drawn out cries to defect to places where I dare not tread, steps heavy laden with a past’s regret do doggedly claw to bring me back to whence sorrow’s crop have chokingly seized every fibre of hope

And all such horrific visions of misspent awfulness instilled in those seven eternities of twenty four hours of waking hell, sleep as damned as when I wake to see a freshly laid burden to pitilessly whip my only fractured fragment of brightness to have made it out, traumatised and broke

So from the first time the night with cruelty sluggishly draws the curtain on that fair day of all a dystopian nightmare would weep to feel, I must hope not the dwelling memories of what misery I write will persist to remind me that I await it all with the dawn sentence of fresh light

 

Beasts of Men once Happy

To he the venom of all a world reaps within the cage of what defines a man

A nature driven between bars of socially acceptable logic to points that nature is no longer human enough to be seen or politely heard

Ash to ash, fractured glass to glass, blood to blood

We commit the core of a person derided to where even the mad call time to whence souls do run red with pain

But alas that man does so survive till form beheld is what all else would banish and hide

A form corrupted by what those that would heap a herald of demanding demons hath made to free them of thier ills

No more to harps we hear the one return as whips crack upon twisted flesh in driving dances of what this one endures

Lacking all a mortal would weep to be without for so many lay idle that the folk condemned to make up the price of toil are no longer to be sane

Then the cage is constructed from every internal value nailed into skin and mind combined so those to demand will sleep safe from the creature they hath watched the working wretched become

Sleep not whilst I so fight to keep all my rage within the toxic pits of venom pure that when I fail will rise a thousand times the flames of hell to curse the devil to hide

Then when all lies an image of destructive storm against the woefully pitiful defences that stood in earnest stand to save the sanity of the departed give not a tear to your eye

But a look to watch the beast I hold slink back into his cage with all the crimson trail of that fated fool to hath reached mockingly for the key to turn to release that thing that once was kind in all its beautiful form
The reaper will have me to rest

But what remains will have the world to cry in fear