Redaction Artifacts
The Apologist

[Tell Them I'm Sorry]

I suppose it’s quieter now…. You can’t hear the wails enswarming? Well, that’s a gasp of relief for this small room. God, just think of the stress if they’re sated. Don’t tend to the herds at thy gate. All the parlance in the fields – it’s a tempting charade. The guilt gnaws worse in through all the sorry.

So, no, we won’t deal anymore. The pull of the faith, the bait of hope, tore through this road. That clawing outside? Why can’t we simply turn back tides?

Bring the mouths to the door – it’s enough to turn cold. With the hands open palm, it’s the blood that turns cold. I can’t.

Don’t feel like you want to. Don’t meet their eyes. Don’t seem like you want to. Don’t act obliged. Don’t feel that tide’s pull like you want to.

[Fast-Bang Pooper Doop]

Lacking worth, but warming over. Switch on the varnishing tact for rewards. Taste is solely for lords and dandies. Wring out, shine up, the brightest turd in the world.

Take enough to last a lonely ride. Taste enough to acclimate or cry.

Back and forth, grizzled over, after the flavor is hacked to the winds. Wretched but shrugging, a single action. We knew, give or take, that polish lasted a day, tops.

[The Almost People]

We fled this with lurching stride. We fled this, a burst of fire and pride. Running away, no one can turn it around. Fury, sound.

Smoke, it’s all those fires could sow – a prayer to sear the ground – a sole, raw plume in air, set to fall again.

Slowly watching the crash exploding in slow-mo. It went on and on.

Smoke. Alive, its limbs encroach with heaving breaths like bray. The spires rise, cascade, and we’re overrun. In time we’ll dream this way – a backdrop burned into the eye. It only shades how we haven’t won, and how much more to lose in that black eye.

A golem congealing ash into form, filled in like Bezalel. It’s real. Willed up like fire, and to believe every homily shapes its mind. It’s real. It’s real.

Lines of the throngs ignite, and wails fall, drowned. It molted viscous and rank – wrong, yet alive. By morning eyes have coalesced and leached off the light, reeling from qualia’s worst cryptic trial.

So spread like wild, and flash down to soil. New heat wrapped around the stalks. What was once evergrown fuels best, and ends still.

Won’t you forget? Won’t you have had enough of quandaries? What’s lost is lost. In the silence, after the eulogy, renounce all sides, all ties. “I’m done, I’m done.” In the silence, it’s enough to yearn and sigh, “I’m done.”

[Somn 6]

Strutted past partway, a tug on the shoulder. What should’ve been sly fell to the floor. Stricken halfway down, shrugged the remainder. Cutting the crash, sighed to the lights and out.

Slowly shapes, estranged passersby, show revolt with grievance in mind.

A moment in time, and swept up in flight, breathed in the smoke, and feeling exhaust.

Scolded at midday, shook by the shoulder. Balanced in spite of the attempts. Passed out maybe once, then to the doorway. A gentle push, then harder along.

The binding of woes, some alchemical ichor. Down it all, then just wait.

There’s a light by the window. It’s old and it’s dull like the night. We’re here for a moment. Wipe off the proof of our lives.


Breathe it in, and you hold on. Breathe the words. Breathe the words. Write them down, so you hold on. Keep them in. Keep it in. As it builds, try to recall: Pain is real. A face is real.

It seemed just words, yet suddenly whole. I’m confused, awake. I may have faux pas while in the world. Now I fear the blame.

The script took shape, and I’m beholden. The cast has names. Smoke to page; ink to ballpoint; sheets to the air; unfold and crease; evolving shadows.

It seemed just words, yet suddenly whole. I’m confused, awake. I may have faux pas while in the world. Now I fear to claim owner’s fault.

I may have played false, seduced by a word. Just a turn of phrase. Then I felt that gaze. I might have made faux pas while in the world.  Now I feel the blame. Now I’ll own the blame.

Climb. Climb. Own that mountain. Carve shape. Face of human. Statues monumental.

It seemed just words, yet suddenly whole. I’m confused, awake. I’ve made my faux pas, but now in the world, I fear the blame.

[Clapping on the Ones and Threes]

In lines, swayed by rhythmic decree concerning the expired. Sewn ties, thread through homilies. Net worthy. Past as sire. Designing a unison tune for pleasure, we misfired. The movement is still.

Call your children out, hands held. Call. Response. When the flock is small, winning hearts is a straight and simple capture. None to boast.

We sing along – nostalgia we shared. With the beats in common place, the chorus is “us”. Believe it all, the earworms ingrained. When the verses ended, a measure is all we shared.

Something fell behind, and it startled choirs who don’t suffer surprise. With ears fatigued and tired, belt out gasping highs. Off beat, flat, they died. No one feels right, and they’re all afraid. Blame it on a phrase. Blame it on their phrasing. Blame it on the changes resolving.

A song in movements – once you’re swept up, you’re in. The pounding refrain, it breaks and it falls. You recall that you’ve been here, alive with sound. And the notion feels right – the meaning is home. Splayed on the floor now, the tune is missed. When the verses ended, a measure is all we shared.

It’s over. I’m sorry. All over. We’re behind. We’re out of time.

In time, it fades in degrees, descending. But the choir…. Remind me of why we moved so quickly. We expired. What now? It’s all I’ve done.

[Non-Functional Harmony]

Invite you in. Sit back, at the bar stool. A few down, it’s stiller than planned, and most of us shy. There’s a drop and refrain – sharp words, harsh beliefs. A few songs down, I’m wearied and I recant.

And the singer’s soft-spoken, still cunning but empty. It’s enough to be hurt, a thumb in the wound. I should just walk and let it all glance by.

In rhyme, rolling mantras calling on, each time, with the stanzas’ falling hum.

Heaven knows my dirge. I’ve sighed and crooned each verse. It’s over, and played out. I’ll take my hat and bow.

And the singers have spoken, grown cutting and angry. It’s the goal to be heard, a thought from the wound. So I should comply, or think it over? I’m running away? No faith in this room – I should just balk and let it all slip by.

Some in seven, some in nine. Crossed words. Some rhymes won’t work.

Spite, emboldened yet trite, I’m weighed and lopsided. You cannot be hiding enough. I tried, time and every time. Gave up and I’m fried. Now retired, I gave enough.

The song’s healing nostalgia soured. Now it’s merely maudlin. My sole tenor is drowned out. This din grew dischord. I’m bowing out. So no hesitation, swift on our way, or you’re drowned out. No reservations, no encore to play. I’m bowing out.

[I’m Always Fighting Drago]

If the first light left me seen, then by the first strike I’ve been struck. God help me. I’d stumbled upon the crowd, at first, in jest. But I remained, if only out cold.

I once told you my scars burn like hot iron. I’ve endured the day’s tolls, and held my back to ills. But if I’m to bear this load, then let me craft of it the hand that grips my throat.

If I put in all my fears, then at least what’s stored is kept, albeit locked in this room.

Grab hold, and you won’t let it go. I might choke out a phrase that’s honed with bile. Safe journey on you. You’ll run in a maze cut from my lines. A strong word rings out like a shot. I knew its aim would hit the mark.

This golem I’ve made wants me dead. It’s been programmed blow for blow. Surprise–you bought it. Hell, I did.

I need one shape. I need one place for aim: one rock and chisel, hewn into place, and resting atop the thinnest strawman stand.

It seems we’re going anywhere but where I win, or anywhere at all.

Grab hold, and I won’t let it go. I’ve called out a name that’s robed in time. Safe journey on you. You’ll run in a maze that’s all mine. Safe journey onward. I’ll call on the walls down around us both.

A hidden ghost forms, and cleaves right through me; drawn as familiar, drawn to my call.

[Obfuscator Dye]

Just once, stop looking up and stare down. Get a feel for the height, and for its breadth. Quickly, you’ll adapt once you dig in, bracing yourself for the air rushing back.

All sewn up, and thrown from the highest pulpit. No one was awake. No one could hear the splash. Just throwing away sacks of the guilt I no longer desired.

Movement is an art, and I paint every road I walk upon. Meekly, some redact. Not mine. Let these lines converge and refract, willed.

Henceforth, we’re all eyes, some with teeth. Search, gorge, I’ve tripped weaklings for show.

Soft eyes above: once in a while it seems they’re calling down below.

Saved and glowing within your senses, bracing yourself for the air rushing back. Claim now what you’ll kick down. Movement is an art, and I paint every road I walk upon. Meekly, some redact. Not mine. Let these lines converge and refract, willed.

[The Fractal Canopy]

Every word upon its course. Every page a final verse. Each dissolving in their pace. Lifted parts erode the same. None were captured, none obtained. With defeat, all walked away, home.

It seems so close. That’s more to do with what you own. If land is where we live, then where we land is home on impact. To grab a claim and rush to ground: it’s dreamt up by the air, and those in the cloud.

Parsed beneath the foliage. Torn apart and broken down. Sucked into the xylem’s stream. Hidden from the air. None shall be shared or bartered.

Lie your form upon the drift, pillowed on the bulging heap. Burdened by anthologies, she bursts towards the winds. Can’t help but share. All is fleeting.

Fleeting, the feel of crashing through. What gives? Terra, that’s what. The ground swelling down, convex. Falling, I guess it tumbles through, from sight. Ancient. I guess that work all went someplace. But what did we build for?

Cornered, you felt a doorway. Panicked and restless, you thought you’d die alone. Trapped by inertia, you sensed the landslide. But now that the sand shifts you felt a gentle pull, the roots tugging.

Struggle and pull. Becoming the compost heap wasn’t your goal. What do they say? “To stand in the presence of gods is worth all?” You got your wish–entombed with all the others. In time we’ll all of us be equally blotted out. For once, all inclusive.

Tear the box away. Save the wrappings, all. Stare into the shape. Panic at the maw, with all light gone, rushing in, and all weight void. So now what use has gravity?

[Arbiters Meet]

No shape or form; no part, or whole. Mistake the scent. Negligent, I won’t judge those unread or lowly. If they feel justified then I’ll abstain. No sense in baiting the paltry. I sense the dead in their eyes and turn away.

Cleanse all those sins that they couldn’t hold back. Smile.

Well it’s embarrassing when caught, enthused, yet mistaken. Was my mind somewhere else? No, I meant something else. Earmark the passage. Notate every corner. What’s a fallacy? That word’s not drilled in me. It’s not so tragic. It’s been supplanted. You can’t be swayed when all you hear is completely wrong.

So stay inside, angry. Negate the words that move you. Judge all those unread or lowly. Call out all flaws that could undermine one thousand words that could swarm like flies. Like rot, it seems they’re creeping in.

I put it to bed. I know that I can’t fold. I really love all your passions, and how the glue won’t hold. I shook them before with one word astray. When subjects get heavy, how easy the mortar breaks. I know you could just lose alone, but two can overcome as well. More for all.

Preceded by ugliness under the gaze, I couldn’t abstain.

[Third-Person Camera]

There’s a road off the paths down that way. It goes clear onward. With the skybox pitched behind just right, you wouldn’t know, but you could. With the lens maybe fifty yards offset, askew, you’re walking… nice.

The moon’s just a flag for billions, building up the advert. I’d hate to be that simple, yet here we are–a simple race. Are they really there for you? Are you worth being there for? The ego’s needs are simple to satiate.

An arc, maybe just above the overpass. Remote crane shot, it implies the depth, and employs a sweep, inherent in time worn scenes. Everyone looks back, but you can now. Don’t miss your chance to witness you, from the same crowd. Wouldn’t we all love to see the oncoming peril that we all know is one inch right off the screen?

What loss, to only look upon the world from straight away? What cost, to solely enact a plan from meager visions’ space? And lo, exhaust, the stress of choice so ill informed. Entrapped and stalwart, so let the scales recede and sulk away. In view, the light beckons from all sides. Renewed far-sight, ebb and flow now owned, designed.

One view. One choice. One flaw. Retcon your design. Renew your perch twelve feet away, and peer back.

When the bees and the wolves have been paid they might even be less interesting. They’re bred to be so simple–ducks in a line. Buddy let me drop this conceit. I think we can both step off this line. To stand out is so simple from this line of sight.

Who knew, amongst these crowds, you’re not alone? Who guessed, entwined in throngs, you’re a beacon?

And now a glimpse. Maybe you just look good from the left. Self esteem boost: it’s the gift you need to step out of bed. So stride tall in jeans. Everyone’s going to be looking at your back. But you can now. Don’t miss this chance to witness you, from the same crowd. Damn. Who knew? You’re the one; you’re a god, in this light.

[Excessive Convulsive]

Tagged and ID’d. You don’t have to seek it out. No mystery. Who could mistake these blocks all razed by miscreants eschewing any chance of laying low? That’s the mark, the modus. I sighed and did due diligence.

This is the easy mode for the voyeurs and scouts in training.

“Thoughts laced with magma. Diluted lucidic expressions violently erupt, with acidic intentions–bleeding outside the lines, colouring the pages of the mind.”
(J. Klemm, 2013)

Streaks let you find yourself. What couldn’t be torn bends in echo to the blows. Debris let you plot yourself. I’d bet that path maps pentagrams for roads.

Woes let you find yourself. Shrieks ricochet throughout some metadata hell’s parsed charts. Some poor schlub surveyor melts their face, ark-style, with one glance.

This is the easy mode for the voyeurs and scouts. You could only miss this corpse when distracted by those corpses there.

Diffuse the surprise, or catch it with purpose. Disruption’s the ride that bucks off its riders.

That’s not the thunder to the sides. Your wreck of an engine is alight, strewn through these crowded lanes. You shake until it’s ended: a work of art, wreckage like genius blown apart. I’m so in awe of it, yet still I can’t regret what I haven’t the nerves for. Egress on the blast. Godspeed you bastard.

[The Methuselah Tree]

There’s more than wind through here. It’s all mid-stream. Maybe once I’d kept abreast of movement until my nerves ached and dilated in the strain. So now I’ve earned my salt.

Drink another drink that heavy roots won’t hold. Creak, only to branch again, but scorn the take. This blighted a yolk only turns. Stay hidden beneath the earth. In turn, I’ve plowed my salt. I’ve earned my salt.

[Noir Filter]

There’s a clock that you covet. Who’s counting up all the days stored? Let’s hope you’ve earned a score that goes up and up. Look alive; hide your shudder. Was it you that would recall today? So look above like they’re upset you’re not on the up and up.

Tip-toe in. Bash it all up, nonplussed by the noise. “I’m just out, with a case of the shakes. Don’t mean it. I’m sorry.”

Venture forth. It’s blocked. Find a way. Venture forth. It’s blocked, chained. Back and forth, the light dies away. Left the scene unchanged. Only footprints left behind.

There’s no culprits, no one to aim the barrel down and squeeze. So take a shot. Maybe someone near wears guilt, perchance.

An act worth what it seems. A line queued to take it on. They trusted what was imbued. We take a lot on faith here. Too few, their names obscure. It seems they might be anyone.

Here’s more souls. They know me in truth. I’m cut from the mold. Now it’s just us who gave up on youth to be something old. It’s enough to be this fruitless if I’m extolled. I’m aching for meaning as the aches have grown. Who will emboss where we’ve been to, or tend to the moss where we’ve stepped? There’s a film we’ve made that’s overlong. And when we expire, wait for their cut.

Here’s all souls. We’re taken in truth, in debt through the goal. It’s enough to be less than the ghosts who all shunned the flesh and the bone. It’s about to end anyway. Though you may have had more to show, it’s ending. It’s enough to be almost done, perpetually.

See the crowds of no one in line. You were lied to. There’s nihil to reach for in time, or any way else you tried. You won’t control this light once it leaves you. Its life and yours must divide or any worth it loaned is slight.

There’s nihil to reach for in time, but every time you reach feels right.

Now I’m through, and possibly I didn’t offer up enough. I have a pulse for coffers in the end times. Why not? Time is up.


As naive as I’ve always been, I lose my way amongst the din and I give in. The will to try will fade away. I give my life in vain today. I give in. Watch the spine collapse at the first sign of pause. As savages come rushing in they find no flesh worth digging in and I give in. A carrion call for all to see, they gnash their teeth in ecstasy. I give in. Watch the mind collapse, and the body crumble.

Tarp the walls for blood, keep your edge clean. We’ve caught the scent of hunts- now we kill. They’ve pranced in sweetly, and they’ve suckling hide. Now what eager weaklings have stepped, unawares, blindsided?

[Linear Failure]

Nay, nay, set your sights afar. We’ve strayed in wary, but were weary slain. Cries in volumes, bleated strains, caught off guard and untrained.

Now, when the dark was hallowed, they burned the light just to spy the prize from above. And when the stars were bolted just for eyes, you might weep. The prize is no reward.

I’ll concede no hope is won. I’ll concede no opening the only way I’ve known.

I wouldn’t have felt this tired but we’ve run. And god if I had known what we’re in for, I’d hide. The hunt of wills, I thought, would kill me. And which they preyed, I saw myself draped in sheep’s skin, blood crumbs, entrails. So which mark is seized. Which one will faint? I’ll concede no hope if given time.

On high, some kind of word sent down, “give in.” Nay, nay, set your sights afar. We’ve strayed in weary, and were wary slain. Cries in volumes, bleated strains, caught off guard and untrained.

[False Build]

The wandering stranger assaults you with guilt, not with guile.

The spoken word, spurious. It likely wouldn’t push one to sway. With doubtful experience, it plotted us a path that wound back again.

The halls are cavernous and twist the sound as bait. Quickly drawn away, open jaw. Dig the hook inside while we bray.

Now the horns’ blows have carried away and we’re remorseful for the call. When the very life of you is swept away and reverent then what worth have you? The air we breathe is the air we’ll be bellowing. How loud claps the storm? What fury will we swallow away?

[The Apologist]

Bound to kneel. Bound to go awry. Condemned to argue until we die. Bound to feel something more than I. Pulled through stumbling. Can’t you find your way gone?

Thought the bough was able. Thought the height was scale, and the vertigo’s draw would show clemency, not scorn. Plunging comatose. Lost in those dull words.

Bound to feel something more than I. Now we kneel in the breaking light. Respite is fleeting and loss is ours. Let go, now it’s time we fell.

Don’t you walk away. Don’t you walk through a thousand changes. Though the alchemy burns me. I can’t save you, but I would argue.

The morass that we’re swimming in won’t let us catch our breath again and now we’re sunk. The tide that we’re drowning in rises past our eyes again and now we’re sunk

Don’t you walk without stones. A lift without a load to pull you over. Don’t you climb without a hold. Don’t you let go. Can’t you see your days encumbered?

The vast is made of parts. The scope just dots, and we all move the path we’ve drawn. But mine… to walk it is an art, defined by the strong. But I’m unclear this day.

[A Functional Tumor]

The visage crumbled, but ignore the wreckage. It’s worth was loaned.

As with mange brought by the flea, as with stares brought by the gangly, we’re all marked by the path of our births. As with mange brought by the flea, like the call of the unclean, we’ve been pulled, and the only direction is down.

The reek of our kin betrays the stain we’ve hid.

I’m the hold. I’m a mark, a lock. I wouldn’t have lost my breath for lack of a cause. Good god, I couldn’t break free in time from the grasps of stragglers. Grounded and shamed, dragged kicking back through the dirt. We’re all marked. Always.

[Whiskey Sipper]

Step back, put your weapons away. I’m going on alone. In time, as your mercy decays, we’re left to dissolve. If I was suffering, I’d cut the ties that were never meant to bind. But I’m so tired now.

So you’re talking in rhyme. The rhythm escapes you. Don’t ask for more. Forgot all your lines, let it erase you. Don’t ask for more.

Applause has the worth of it’s bearer. The cheers will bleed through with the laughter.

Loose with fast hands, and fumbling into a rough noose. I’ve fitted better knots, but not without precious time. For some jobs cheap will do. Stole through weak locks, and often into a den of wolves. I’ve heeded caution some, but often not every time. For some jobs cheap will do.

Step back, put your weapons away. I’m going on alone. In time, as your mercy decays, we’re left to dissolve. Bind my hands. We’ll settle this.

Let the light, let the fire be forged on some higher peak. When you pass me by, let the flaming torch you carry rain down searing.

This chemical lets me breathe as carefully we plot our wars that never have an ending. The grievances you laid on me, spoken many times before, never were about me.

Loose with fast hands, and fumbling into a rough noose. I’ve fitted better knots, but not without precious time. For some jobs cheap will do. Stole, frequent, through weak locks of passers by, and often into a den of wolves. I’ve heeded caution some, but often not every time. For some jobs cheap will do.


One might still sway on one road, a straight course. So what wreck unfolds a jagged knotted pile?

I don’t even know the way. Was the exit sign just a photograph of mine? When we marked the lines, were we all just drunk?

One might creak and shudder away. Just pave the blood to the road.

There’s no blame without records. No malice, no blame if there’s no past.

No malice, no blame, with no past and no memories’ weight. No malice, no blame, with no past and no name. No words, no deeds. Just smoke to cloud and dissolve.

{ The Ladder }

This crowd: a fleshy lake. The throngs as smallish waves, folds like skin upon the sow. A faint din as spit and speech caw- the rank broth that stews while boiled alive.

“Who are you to cast your net so wide, and deepen the maw? Cannibal, your hooks blood deep in hide. This too shall pass. You’ll find yourself at last.”

Couldn’t anyone else have tried to carve their hold? The mark of hands. Couldn’t anyone else have climbed the bones of old? The bridge of man, its steps cobbled stones from sand. One way mirror, cracked and leering, watch us crawl.

A coarse ascension, a vulgar dream dragged kicking back to the floods. A crass intrusion: the eyesore tower was crashed by swarms… a herd of cackles, a school of flesh that scorns the touch.

“The only face that scorns this fate is ours: self same, ripe to faint. Once down, the stench, the taint. So raise the eyesore tower. We’ll raze the rows we felled. When stayed the hand of storms, down poured the fruit of arms.”

{ Salieri }

I’d promised to go, but now that it’s time, the scene of what I’d missed is haunting me through tattered blinds.

“Lift your eyes from above. Let your life flow out.”

Born from resistance, and plagued by irreverence, the burden of a slow memory’s remnants. Awaken in moments and search for the relevance. The instance fades and leaves me no change.

It wouldn’t seem like such a blow if only minds could be renewed as well as bone, if only years could all be hewn as well as stone.

A burst of color and dismay rends a draped malaise which, maligned as it may, still offers up a sanctum’s peace. A cloven hoof crawls for the hobbled. The forked tongue croaks the call of the dumb.

What passes over when heads are steeped, neck deep, in the drolls cast off by the shrugging arms, the wading mass, the sludge so thick all limbs are lamed? Still we waddle all the same. Cast off all my weight.

“So cast your light away. They’ll shine your light out.”

This bleeding erupted from the sores of wasted gods. The tension was broken by bloodied fists and open arms. The meaning destructed in solitude and fits of calm. Residing in daydreams, you’ll only feel it once it’s gone.

One day, and one chance to fail one day. You’ll never screw this again, so take it all the way and dig through your grave.

{ Fool’s Errand }

As it all falls down, and everything burns, the meek have their day. It seems you’ve found your way down. Slip into this void. This longing brought suffering. We speak in bitter tongues.

A stone is the crux of a wall. Its burden lies in weight.

Lowly, we bask in omens, and dream of what reality was. Beholden to a paradise broken, dream of what reality was. Slowly, we bend so slowly. As we descend the walls that seem so sloped call forth my way. We bend so slowly. I won’t stay or carve my name.

You were tied to the weight of this failure. We sink in through reverie.

In quiet moments I prayed for this day. In weaker moments I rued this day. In desperation I gave way. What would I do to be rid of this? Head down, back to wind, what would I do?

Forget this weight. This day was yours to take, heads down, backs to the wind, beating back the deluge endlessly. We need something to hold as the light fades away

{ Ocean Of Water }

This horizon ties your hands. Pray for mercy as you sink below.

Through the thunder, until the rain falls, we’re alone.

Look at the way she stares. You want to make her suffer. Bury your face in sand. Keep it smothered. Hurry, avert your eyes and hold them still. Dig deep your lines. Stop your breathing.

No words, only sound. Slow steps. Heed no one. No heat, only shrouds.

The elders sway. The cowards fall. They couldn’t find a way. No hope or fear of floating. No one for you to know. They couldn’t find a way.

Through the thunder, until the rain falls, we’re alone. Through the sandstorm, until the soil floods we’re as bone. I’m an island. I built my wall’s stone too tall. Wait upon your shore. Maybe there sails an escape for you.

So you race to the end, and then you hurtle towards another one. So you pray for the wind. Then you race to the end. I’m through counting.

{ Fleshmaker }

A mirthsome gold; these lives you hold you’ll hide away. The lidless casket, the guilded lining, shines in the old light, gleams in the muted bay. These lines have been etched in bone, carved and faded, stretched as taut as stone. Draped across the moonlit base, a mirrorbed reflects the faces bright in the moment, wide and awake with fright. Seared by the scorchlight, lives are worth we’ll trade.

We couldn’t cower too quickly. We couldn’t bear to brave the gaze of the end. And when the creep of flames engulf the all, you’ll swallow them whole. You’ll intake this bile, and you’ll reap what I’ve soiled, what you’ve sown. So have the stilted grown.

Bury me in all the filth and shame, and all the moments filled with them. It’s all the same. I’ll give it away. I’ll taint my flesh and you’ve naught but hell to taste. Tear it away. The rot is palpable. The waft escapes.

The bread we broke sustaining you. The blood, you choked, the draining flu. No sign that anyone knew. Gods you hunger, so tear us wide and eat your fill.

You look so tired. I couldn’t save for you some raw meat. Your limbs are wires, but all I have for you is thawed. You’ll get your means. You’ve earned these seeds. Now when you salivate you’ll bleed. Drawn to the stench of plebes who dulled their sheen to match a hope we couldn’t feel.

This is all we are: a listless gold, the lifeless old, frail in the moment, scared as the eyes reveal their sheen. Be careful what you hold. The flesh has turned, your wretch was earned. Bright in the moment, wide and awake with fright, seared by the scorchlight, our lives are worth we trade.

{ A Long Defeat }

“Scribe quickly your name, and stay to the right. Your script is curved. It’s inclination hooks and spurts as if rushed to the end. We’ll see… This is only a glimpse. Still, you’ve kept your head down. Where are you hiding? And are you weak? Are you afraid? Did you creep each step aghast, skirting shadows, or is it what I seek?”

You called to pound the door with pointed hand, but we would burn the house. We barred the doors with guilt and bone, still we might burn the house. We would burn this house of ill regard. Cathedral eyes were sewn to bind. You won’t storm the house. We would burn the house. My temple, I’ve mortared lock and key alike. All’s buried, naught to find.

What am I now, torn in two? The illusion of me becomes and confronts you. What am I, split in two? What’s left of me will retreat from this empty knowledge. We’ll weed out what we don’t know.

I’ve cut my loss and severed a thought from mind. It plummets like a stone, and glaring back from depths to heights, will torch the night. Retreat from this empty knowledge. Weed out what we don’t know. Retreat from this broken logic. Lost in what we do not know, we’ll weed out what we don’t know.

The road that lay forward was paved with my fears. I tore at the open floor. I scurried away, and down. Call out to the open floor. Call out to the words that bind us whole. Call out from the weighted floor. Call out to the guards before us all. Call out to the way.

The wound was cauterized. Burn my way and throw me off to the gate. Come fire. Come flame. Come home. Burn my way. These days were a waste. Come fire. Come flame. The weight of a sin’s thick fog. Come fire. Come flame. Burn my way. And after all these words I couldn’t break away from its hold. Weed out what we don’t know.

Shadows are fading. The burnt walls are crumbling. The old guard is changing. We won’t look down, where we’ve aimed for. Not before my eyes, but hidden behind my back, and grasped with blood in claw. My soul possessions are scant. Withdraw your hands. I’ve set my share alight.

What’s beneath this? The husk is wrapped; its form flawed. We’ll pry the fingers back each bone from bone, all ashen, crumbled away. False. The rest is soot and blown off. We won’t wait. Fall. What we’ve come digging for is dead and cold. We couldn’t wait for the beatings.

{ Handshake In Your Mouth }

The distant mock of warmth: an aftertaste of the bodies’ greeting collision. You’ll never feel that again.

I thought I saw a rising tide dissolving the streets, and leaving blank shores. I strained to hear the distant waves encroaching, eroding wood and home.

I can’t recall the sound of footsteps, the scent of skin. It washed away with the taste of ashes. I grind my teeth but it’s gone.

As we walk, we’ll pass through the last of night, sick with dust and smiles. The mock of warmth: you’ll never feel that again.

{ Beasteater }

Built on high, the scaffold’s walls are hinged to the fold. The step slopes downward for none. Their aims ran steep. So where, then, must you have tryst? A crane of the neck- your crooked eyes rose to rest where the loft hung.

The weight you’ve sweat here will not lighten your load. It gnaws on fragments of your tired soul. Your line: an arc for progress. Your sky: a roof. Your gate is closed. The way for you is plowed. The cart you pull is culled from your bones.

In darkness ashes coat your lungs. In silence there is only defeat. Wisdom to you now is but a burden. The breeze that broke you came from your throat.

No ire can keep burning. No wrath is wrought by the lowly. A slow step and you’ve only to wait until, claws bent, mind fogging, the next wind will topple you wholly. Cold mire, deep sopping… climb up and pull your load.

The waves all broke, and sovereigns tend the falls. The tide broke, a cloven splash, and sovereigns tend the falls as if rising again and again to be chopped at the knees was a gift.

The impetus will fade with dusk. You sorrel nag, your coat is blood and rust. – See more at:

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