He ripped himself out by the roots
and planted himself in my hands.
I held him as gently as I could
but no matter what I tried, he withered.
So instead of watch him die,
I put him back in the ground.
I’d rather have nothing
than something I can’t keep alive.
Infinite stakes; infinite pawns
Infinite cradles; infinite lawns
Infinite messes and infinite spills
Infinite torture and infinite kills
Memory‘s meaning and meaning is mind.
The burn of the shadow that you leave behind
Even hidden in lies through which no one could see
Still made smoke and made fire that left scars on the tree.
casually blowing off the dust of dreams
clearing cobwebs left by vague visions
shaking away fragments of feeling
replacing it all with new nothingness
a nothingness worth more to them
than the seeds of everything
remember this tomorrow.
it’s not exactly a note for you, or even a sign.
are you getting this?
it’s here, being here.
remember this tomorrow.
it might not even be a transmission at all.
are you out there?
it doesn’t really matter either way; it’ll still be here if no one ever notices.
but then again, maybe it won’t.
Yeah, sure, whatever. You can associate me with some kind of magical sign.
But rules are rules: I get to define what the sign is.
I won’t be as basic as the black cat was about his sign. There are more entertaining ways to make you uncomfortable. (Hey, I’m a cat. What do you expect?)
Here’s your dumb little sign: whenever someone sees my shadow, that means they’re trying to fabricate an interesting experience for attention.
Have fun posting about that on social media. Ha!
he wraps cold coils around your shoulders, believing they’ll hold you safely in place
while he unravels his organs to wrap and warm your shivering bones
though they’re not shivering with cold, as they seem
let alone any cold that could be warmed by the cruel unraveling of a soul at its own merciless hands
but until the bones can cease to tremble, on and on the string is pulled
woven of sinew, muscle, pain and fear
stretching on for miles and years
the story of a life in an endless strand of flesh—
a story you must now protect.
what functions have been sourced beyond you
buried under misplaced trust?
every rule laid out before you:
what you should and what you
everyone that came before you
built their cities on this crust
now their roads and towns define you—
they demand that you adjust.
we watch for potholes in the road
and every time, avoid them
and at each curve our pace is slowed
to cleanly steer along them
we neatly stay within the lines
and never veer across them
avoiding tickets, tolls and fines
by knowing what will cause them
we drive so safely, and so well—
a pity this road leads to hell.
the line won’t break unless you think it might.
so just don’t.
you might think it’s possible that you’ll think it might.
then it definitely will.
definitely don’t wonder if you might think you might wonder if the line might break.
in that case, you may as well just take scissors to it directly.