You see these shoes?
Cheap leather and cigarette-stained lace,
Sickly green and beggarly lemon,
Their oversized and gaudy visage inspires mockery,
And rightly so,
They mark me as a punchline,
An unfunny slime of a jester,
Shuffling through life,
My garish shoes applauding my languor,
Each plod as a joke not too witty,
Inflict your pity upon me if you will,
Or laugh your guts out,
I am not your entertainer,
I’m just a clown,
Let go by the world.
This time of year,
The suns hand grows more distant,
And the nights spread further round the clock,
All blood chills at the realisation,
The land once again dons her ivory dress,
And tiaras like frozen stalactites,
An ice queen crowned anew,
Blizzards and bitter rain as coronation melodies,
The winds rise up in rumpus,
Servants of the wintry monarch,
Blades firmly pointed at us serfs,
Guffawing and scratching at our cheeks,
The ice queens rule shall persist for months,
Snow and sleet as her bishops and viscounts,
A frigid stasis holding the world,
Under cold iron fist.
I find myself too close to the frontline,
A contest between two flags,
I see flames encroaching on the horizon,
The heat grins upon my cheeks,
Scalding like impending doom,
These highlands are a no-go zone,
A board game too close to a fireplace,
The stage of a ruinous romp,
The two flags converse here in mushroom clouds,
Talking points at destructive decibels,
Airstrike arguments,
And howitzer handshakes,
I dare not linger,
These men in high castles care not for the little guy,
They propel uranium darts at this wasteland board,
Collateral damage upon their tongues,
Before kissing above the carnage they wrought.
That prevailing miasma,
It hits your eyes first,
Injected by longing gazes met,
Washing like a tsunami to your heart,
Insidiously at first,
Veins burning in the passionate causticity,
Propagating in your chest and thoughts,
Euphoric over time,
An addiction like any other,
Racing pulses and endorphins,
White-hot and devious,
A venom taking its course,
Destructive in the end,
As toxins are wont to be,
Culminating in cardiac collapse,
Your heart split like a vase,
Shards lost in love letters unsent,
And those same eyes bleed aqua in turn.
You see this creature atop my shoulder?
This fiend of mana,
This decrepit homunculus,
This breathing effigy of a devil,
Neither feminine nor masculine,
Something akin to an insect blended with a raven,
Be not afraid,
For it is beholden to me,
It is my familiar,
My arcane assistant,
Summoned to support occult exertions,
Clutching my nape with bestial claws,
Its feral eyes help seeing mystical patterns,
Its hand able to weave magicks beyond mortal ken,
As abominable as this thing appears,
It was created to serve,
To aid,
A sorcerers best ally.
I find my minds eye is clouded,
Marred by ocular madness,
By the squiggles,
Shapes appearing like a vinyl,
Little lines dancing about as couplets,
A disco in my vision,
A riot before me,
No colours,
Just monochrome,
They silently play tag with my focus,
Frolicking away before I can make them out,
I seem to have a million friends in my eyes,
Or is it my imagination?
Degeneration?
Insanity finally seizing control?
Like our frames of flesh,
Our souls can sustain dents and cracks,
Harmed by barbed situations and jagged tongues,
Our essence bleeds out of these wounds,
Manifesting as turmoil and angst,
Our internal peace shattered into fragments,
Like flesh they can be knitted anew,
Our nirvana of vitality restored,
But the tools are very much different,
It is not the demesne of the mechanic to fix,
The workshop lies in our own minds,
Meditation and self-love are the utensils at hand,
It takes perseverance,
Listening for the hurts of our spirits,
Taking needle and blowtorch to each wound,
Incense and peace and shadow work,
It’s an ongoing inward pilgrimage,
To get back to ourselves.
Death haunts the depths,
A manmade shark,
A machine of war fathoms down,
In the cold below,
It is on the trail of prey,
A cyclopean eye guiding the way,
Stalking those unaware seals of steel above,
Merchant ship or frigate,
Following the reverberations of their iron lungs,
The word is given,
Doom is silently unleashed at knots,
And once the hunt is over,
And the prey is scrap metal,
Fade like orcas into the dark.
They call me a beast,
Better suited to the wilderness,
Out of sight and out of mind,
Poking fun at my snout and feral grimace,
And my growls of nonsense during dialogue,
Derisively patting me upon my bestial mane,
It’s true that I feel lesser,
I’m subhuman,
Flea-ridden,
I stumble across societal rules on all fours,
I’m a flawed simulacrum of a man,
Despoiled by minotaur horns and lizard eyes,
It’s not possible to tame a wild creature,
And my pelt isn’t worth mounting,
So leave me to my slavering and howling,
I’m hardly domesticated,
So why not run free?
I am a beast after all.
WorldofHarley 