declination

drained and damaged, disemboweled, dismayed and digilently dreading destiny

i stood before the gates of hell itself, weeping blood from the empty sockets where eyes once were

burning coals in place of lungs, and barbed wire wrapped around my heart, salivating acid and undulating across broken glass

i hurt

no real words to describe the utter anguish and impossible emptiness that is the only thing that fills this form

a brain that is transfixed on what could have, what should have, and what was never to be, replaying events in slow motion and spotting the exact moment the bullet penetrated my skull, ambiguous hints of potential and calamity vented into the cold touch of space

the sparse misrepresentation of mental acuity and factual indiscretions

it all went wrong so fast, so amazingly quick like a tie caught in a conveyor and the sodden pop of decapitation

mangled and bruised like a bag of peaches dropped down an elevator shaft

trampled upon by sumo wrestlers in a new age special edition blu-ray of stomp, the sound of music but the nazis were the heroes, a musical rendition of american history x

left to float in the lavatory of an all you can eat buffet serving tainted beef

trapped in this hell and missing the pieces necessary to be a whole boy, a good boy, a real boy

geppeto made a sex doll and chained it in the dungeon and somehow my soul was placed within it and he has a razor blade phallic device and all the time in the world

i hurt and words do not have the ferocity to describe the burning pit of mania my depression has become

imagine the journal of the goth kid in high school, all depeche mode and christian death, german philosophy and black lipstick stains, clove cigarettes and you wouldn’t understand, but real

the fetid radioactive wasteland that is my heart and soul will remain too hot for a thousand millennia and never be fertile again

chernobyl ain’t got shit on me

and this is a high point of lucidity, a moment of clarity, i can feel the true darkness bubbling under the surface, a fit of rage and tears, sobbing and screaming at the empty heavens, the sereptitious sounds of silence from the nothingness at the edge of the void

clawing my way to the event horizon of an internal big bang event, neutron s and unstable isotopes of inane disheartening pain

using words to try and give it shape so it is not just a nebulous feeling of vague sorrow and unease, give it form, for if it has a body it can die

if we have a body we can die

but does it ever really end

is death a release or just the casting off of the chains of bitter emnity, or just a rebirth into the blender of dystopia

i wonder, wandering the empty halls of an ever evolving fortress of solitary sadness, madness, repetitive renouncements of faith and love and devotion to the devastating dirge of delinquent detrius

done, blurry vision and vacant adoration for admiration and angular acidity, i acquiesce, acceptance that the blackened end game and astute abhorrent apparations are succint and sterile reflections of self

loathing and longing two ends of the same cyclical knife wound

cutting and carressing, careless crooning song birds of sanguine satisfaction

it hurts

the rabid, vapid, raving declinations of deplorable and assinine assumptions that there is a meaning to it all, that it has any goal except abject torture and pain

it doesn’t

i am a success story akin to sabin arnold von sochocky, me with words, him with glow in the dark luminous paint

my poisoned pen and his radium dials, similar objects of slowly bringing about the demise of every woman that comes in contact with the respective harbringers of the pale horse

in high school i used a geiger counter on a piece of wood that had been home to one of sochocky’s famously painted clocks and the wood was so irradiated it set the counter off across the room

one day my words will be discovered to have the same lingering effect, rotting from the inside, the sad meanderings of an insane man in search of the mythical love, isotopic scratchings the only trace he ever existed

the radium girls of lore and the worshipped ladies of odes, falling apart, slipping, sliding, ever downward through the rabbit hole of madness and degenerative disease

the sharp declinations of worrisome ramblings

out of control

searching for something to make it all make sense, illuminating the darkened rooms with a deadly wave of light

what is the half life of sorrow, can it be carbon dated, i wonder

5 thoughts on “declination

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