insomniac sonnet

Lunar lucidity reflects star-scattered sea.
Tearless eyes washed in blood lust direction.
Shadows shine across skulls cracked free
Of unborn angels crashing without affection.

Ubiquitous iniquities afflict the broken spoke
within the silent dawn of freely torn skies.
Reflected vision of cloud, light and smoke
Are walls of lost words meant to disguise.

Broken cymbals you know always need tuning.
How to seek voice in raw sonnet verse?
The shattered thoughts already ruining
any chance at sleep under nocturnal curse.

No unity of performance in pixelated screen,
songs without melody and paintings unseen.

An exorcise

The usual numbness that encases my heart was shattered today by cause unknown. Broken and badly-healed, it bleeds out freely.

The sleep that sometimes silences evades me in short spurts of lucidity interrupted by dreams of hostility.

Alone in an ashtray apartment I'm waiting for nothing to happen. Should I go for a walk? Pick up another book I won't finish? Look for the words that fell between the keys? Drink the night away?

I wonder when I forgot how to cry. And why when others are around I want to hide. Alone I wish I weren't. Unknown anxieties cease all actions.

My mediocre meter cackles at me from the screen. The words all rest wrong. These thoughts should never have been. Why always moonlit deserts? What is this abyss but a figment? How does the little boy who whispered to the shadows and hid behind trees never grow up?

What makes him think his stories should be told? Does anyone know or care to know the lemon-scents of incense?

No, Romance is dead and all these delusions are juvenile to a postmodern mind. Join the mechanism. The sense of sacred you wish to attach to every moment is a chemical blip between diseased neurons. Your mourning clothes need washing.

Put on a saccharine song, that's what sells as mental health. Look out for number one. We're all ok because we're self-absorbed. Everyone wants to be on tv and no one wants to make the film. It's always someone else's shit that stinks. All these suicides are lies.

What the hell do you want? The womb/tomb's oblivion.

What do you really want? To be free with life's uncertainties knowing that at this moment I am living and not just alive.

Your extant exhaltations are mere indicators of ecstatic existence and should be extinguished along with the archaic entomologies indicative of intention.

Nothing means a fucking thing except in the mind of another you're unsure of. Slapping people with vocabulary delivers no sting except incredulousness. You know you hate it more than anyone. You only resort to the bigwords because you don't know what you're talking about. Shitface. Go fuck yourself. You know no one would read past the second line of anything you wrote, so filled with your own bullshit it is. At this point you could explain to everyone exactly why you hate them if you didn't love them. Don't hit send.