The marionette parade

Dragging behind you every decision
& memory:

a ragged procession
of skeletal marionettes;

decaying bones hanging limp from
        myriad strings,
they dance the maudlin, shambolic
parade of your existence:

the weak blue
            deep blue
hollow
            fallow
moment
after
moment.

Different colours, different shades*

The track was carved too shallow to follow
but still remains & always will.

Water warmer than blood & a bandage
of elastic bands & any paper
that could be found, then dreamless sleep.

In the morning a red-stained scene
of failure & a shame deeper
than the track that missed its path by an inch,
& lead instead to survival.

Weeks passed without a word
until, where the track ends
something was discovered
to be beautiful & trembling with life**,
in unknowing defiance of winter.

Then a morning came when
I awoke to the smell of your skin, &
the hope
that the journey would never be
attempted again

until the time was right
& the endless night would arrive

in due time.

*New Dawn Fades – Joy Division

**Three Peaches – Neutral Milk Hotel

Bipolarity in Post-Modernity Part ii

Living like this, through years-worth of wine-stained
painting on canvases of lying lips,

always breaking, always confused
with nothing left I’d hate to lose,
 
no single cell free of abuse;
through days trailing nights of half-honest,

moronic,
worst forms of self-help:

the drink, the drugs & the meaningless fucks.
Finding then failing to hold onto love.

An endless mire in which to wallow,
& cover myself in the mud.

Carving a semblance of meaning
by short-selling future living.

Scavenging for real or former feelings
to feed the worms that never stop eating.

Desperate grasps for hopeful moments,
for some sweetly fleeting comfort…

This is what it is to be in pieces,
to be comforted by your diseases:

these interchangeable scenes, these
dislocated repeating memories,

hoping for something beyond me,
for protection by all these words,

but all along I was wrong:

words are no protection at all.

Bipolarity in Post-Modernity Part i

Solidarity

The grass is no greener on the other side,
no matter what they say
& stomachs like ours can’t digest it anyway.

Whether we’re more poster-children
for just another trend
we’re still just children.

I guess that’s why its so easy to hate
& why black and white look better than grey.

But easy doesn’t leave a trace,
can’t keep that fear at bay…

the fear we’ll all either feel at the end
or can’t keep away every day:

not one of us is exempt.

Whatever consequence
you want to call god or
karma or claim as the fault of others,

only we can face the danger of freedom;
only we can fight the terror of existence,

but I cannot do it alone.

So

will you join me?

The present absence

A present absence expands & contracts,
hollow at the core as
                    thin thoughts
convinced that words
can poison internal organs
                    collapse
into a pool of stagnant water
where no light survives.

The days
                    fold & fall away
leaving only the faintest trace
of what once
existed…

                grotesque
& never-ending,
a thing somehow still alive, like
                a zombie
convulsing on the floor
in a room
with an unlockable door;
the Will conflicted, torn
between hatred
of daylight & fear of the night
bringing tapeworms beneath the skin:

rip them out, one by one
until the arms are nothing more
than wet ribbons of red;
            tattered remains of flesh
draped across bone.

Then wake up
                    alone
without hope
that this will end the way it always does:

new meds, new promises

& the slow return of memories that always
break your fall;

                    the pale shimmer
of phosphorescent ghosts.