empty moments

Have you ever experienced those brief moments, or perhaps not so brief, when you are confronted with complete emptiness: a deep dry well with an inaudible, tautologous echo menacing against your ears. Nothing can assuage your anxiety, comfort your obscurity or fill in this unwholesome gap. Indeed, all that you are offered is blank space. A place to write of your new life, your old death; your perpetual death, and unborn life; your sunken chest or your sunken eyes. Then you exhale and exhale, but nothing emerges—the sky suffocates. This feeling, both physical and metaphysical, burns in all directions, which doesn't really matter, because you lack any sense of direction. It's all fallen cities, people without emotion walking against one another.

You’ve developed such a fixation with nothingness that it has painted over everything—one colour, one large brush stroke, one large gap. Memories in a tattered sack splash across the canvas, leaving nothing, not even the dead fly at the bottom of the well.

You yearn for it to end, but yet it continues to spread like dark wine on fine cloth.

clarity

I think of how to fling my arms around the painted sun,
long enough to dry the rain drops covering the seas,
find referents for the signifiers divorced from their signifieds,
rock the world to sleep with a single lullaby,
plant lilies on the moon

but in time for me to slip onto the isolated cloud
who moves with prosthetic wings
into another world--a better world
between the hills
and the invisible souls of dead soldiers,
without wooden boxes.

A quietus clear as a rain drop.

...

A petal amid the ash-stricken leaves may spawn a different memory.

fall memories

Staring at the piles of fallen, forlorn, ash-stricken leaves, beyond the pale walls of my room, it becomes difficult not to turn to the rigmarole of melancholic thoughts of our past living(s). These thoughts cautiously slither and slide their way, time-travelling into my present reflections: To think that without this memory I have nothing, but because of this memory I am nothing.

But, what if by a slight, thin chance this memory was fabricated—my imagination unscrupulously playing cruel tricks to pass the time?

Yet, whether this memory belongs to something real beyond my imaginary landscape, it becomes real nonetheless. It has penetrated its way into my very being: spreading over my mind and body; stretching over mornings and nights; crawling into my veins; stamping my soul with a lucid, pristine, immortal memory.

shadow

the shadow of hallucination constantly runs from the tip to the pit of my sundry dreams—hollow, long, lithe.
sun dried, moon filled.
the deeper the dream,
the longer the shadow
veiling the secret
of morning.

reality

I had to dream of it to realize it was all senseless.

long nights

We worked into the night: the fans, buzzards, drums, notes, and half torn stories were all piling up in one great frying pan. The smoke began to rise between the pages and the notes, and we saw our thoughts before our eyes—colourful and glowing with ghostly excitement, yet discordant. All we could hear now was a desultory vibration, bouncing from one ear to the next. Our names, simmering in the distance, became unintelligible, and in those passing seconds we knew one another by our glances.