Dark Poetry Prose Poetry August 3, 2004 Dark Poetic Prose

08-03-04 tuesday 9:59pm

i wrote this. nothing more. this fraction of a whole.

can't listen to myself. nor anyone else. it's all just useless noise. no sounds make sense.

i don't want to wake up tomorrow and see that sun again. and have to think those first thoughts of the morning.

i can't be bothered with making it rhyme. or any of that imagery that makes the mundane seem special.

it's only a little while longer and then. just a few more verses til the end.

08-03-04 10:33pm tuesday

chase the rhythm. yellow and infected with all the words i've never spoken. they build up there. they fester muted. and ooze out as the bandages begin to loosen.

ride those clockwork proofs like published images. airbrushed magazine memories with perfect skin and void of all blemishes.

burn the pages. paint the skin. even the briefest hours stretch eons farther than your greatest expectations. they caw like crows. black and feathered in hollow bones. they dance like moths too near to the flame. that hand of death pulling them close.

ink the darkness in red pen. remembering how it once seemed so important. cage the night in memory's wire baskets. chicken coop fences trying to hold stallions inside them.

feel the receptacle empty in your grip. and hungry lips asking more. watching the river bed as it is drained. from rapids to stillness. what else can i do except try to replenish.

rapids high and white toss riders out of their skins. but that's just what i wanted.

every syllable tries to avoid. but is draped in. every night defends itself from within shaky walls built of fragile promises. it doesn't hurt anymore. but this emptiness is more a weight than i ever expected. there's nothing now. but somehow, nothing is worse.