Captain

Saline spirals through decrepit veins of a lecherous Captain

Longing to obtain certainty, on a search for sanity,

To become only static and stagnant 

While placebo effects took their toll more than effectively 

Forcing everything he finds down his trachea

Some sort of deplorable self-medication

A means of obtaining acceptance of himself

With his raunchy speech and lazily flailing limbs

His incumbent gut, 

It all held a trifling air

Holding onto all lost providence, 

All possessions born into his palms,

By him, for him,

With striking similarities to the sears on his forearms

Cloaked by some colloquial rags,

Vibrant enough to be seen across several seas

He was fervently endearing and utterly indiscreet in his bustling gait

His tattered old flag heralding exactly who he was, 

Represented all he aspired against, conspired against, 

Remembering some utter illusion of wealth, 

Of a throne of which he fled.

Where rubies adorned his head.

Nothing was rightfully yours when it came to living through an ongoing tempest 

An orange sky by dawn and pink by candlelit skies

So inane and mistaken in any luxurious life

From ships to alleyways you walked,

Completely drawn and disgusted, 

There was no place else to be, 

No place to dream

Affluent in his head

Truly trudging in shallow waters 

Delusional prosperity hurtling toward fifty coalescent possibilities 

A function of overwhelment with overlapping incoherence 

If only all emotion wasn't so scarce, so deeply buried,

Located beneath the frontal cortex, 

Far enough to inhibit itself from surfacing

Intensity took a dive with serotonin.

A mildly concerning hoarder of misery,

Still kept in a jar far out of reach. 

A plank allocated to such insignificant space just above the ocean,

Just above the salt you've bathed in, grown up beside.

Glowing, bursting with unrightfully place prophecies.

Placed between the sweat and calloused crevices of your feet.

Discerning whether or not it's a suitable position for you to blow

Captain, stop your thought, your contemplation.

Hold your unwilling stance

Coupled with belittling glowers in no general vicinity

Through your dirtied hazel eyes,

Salty from an unconscious existence.

Nostalgia comes pouring from the glands of a senile old man.

Learned and forgotten, dismembered and ungracefully pleased.

Blessed with an insatiable urge for ash, fallen from his fingertips.  
When in the end all that came was perplexity and a mild feeling of deja-vu.

unfinished

You're quite the compelling speaker with that barrel down your throat. As if I were an insidious scavenger awaiting your final heave of existence. To throw your body against the grain, into my estate, pouring fluids down your desolate, frozen throat. As I breathe fire, falling heavily against the nape of your neck, with the imagination of a vindictive delinquent, burdened and condescending, your trachea rests between my teeth.

Even Smaller

Where the utter interest of it all is gone

Misplaced or elsewhere

Left hanging onto mere reminders,

Suggestions of disapproval, disrespect, 

Glances, acts, 

Sanctions were already placed, heavily

The panel at the back of my mind means nothing

The lump in my throat, obsolete, 

Cool and heavy has become lukewarm and soused in saliva

Leaving my taste-buds with metallic memory

Tendency to Tangents

The comprehension, threadbare

At a purity of heart

Hailing nothing but tomorrows

When nothing stands today

The perception is wretched,

And the man is bleak, 

Standing alone,

Mutters to himself through insipid lips

Fizzled out, a product of a dazed generation, 

Speaking to the ground, 

For where are the listeners when hearing isn't sound?

An absolute certainty rests high on a shelf,

Foreign and forgotten,

Feigns all answers, 

Weighs all opposing and concurring options, dispositions, 

Without grasp, without stilts, 

No maps in sight

This boy lacks in all but attire

And you could swear on any beginning-

He'd lost all real sense and identity 

Alone and stranded, endlessly bare,

Stark, raving mad

To a horse-drawn self, downtrodden,

I hadn't recalled a word from this morning 

Small

A tragedy full of bullets 

Sick with decoration

With adoration held in lockets

Nothing he could help,

I see it in myself

A mirrored image

Fractured ribs,

Where remnants smeared the floor

My dreary mirrored faults 

An Illusory Composition

Frightening, how coherent thought can cease,
How encompassing discrepancy and demise can be.
Let it be
Turned around and turned into a lack of something
Turned into the man governing my idealogical process
Of where to- How to-
The fluorescence gleaming from the upturned palms
Upturned, backward, headstrong,
A fearful fist of salt into your eyes
Shaving all truth from your knowledge
All possibilities yielded to a purely bureaucratic source
Given no reverence,
The forearm is called upon, 
Before we begin, I'll need to scan your numbers

Failure is

Nothing came to mind, set assail,

Take me back- the lives tangled in grey,

Kept at bay,

Withering beneath mistletoes and cannibals

Knocking at my door.

Distant, echoed voices so mawkishly dreary-

They'd never escape the mind, 

The utterly perfect audacity 

Wrapping itself around the thoughtless,

All showing itself on the blood-stained tissue later in the day

Remnants of the night prevail

Entailing pails, collectors of the sky, 

From the holes punched in the ceiling, 

A once-made good investment, 

The trickling continues, an interminable mess,

And the droning flood replicating every movement made by fingers.

A wish to never be collected. 

An emaciated span of time, 

A span of time becoming so collectively void of coherence.

The room is three feet high, 

My face is underwater,

As density increases, my ships sink further.
As I remembered nothing was intact.