Posts Tagged ‘monsters’

Each morning brings an uneasiness,
A longing fear of peering into that mirror,
And seeing that misshapen carcass,
Like a portal to a world of monsters,
A bogeyman on CCTV,

I see myself,
But is that miscreation truly me?
This is no abstract,
But a very real abomination,
A brown haired accident,

Each glimpse at the mirror,
Is fingernails on chalk,
The portal remains open,
Blue eyes like the abyss scowl back,
A hide blemished and spotty,

That foul visage still watches from the glass,
The other me,
The me I wish I wasn’t,
And I avert my eyes,
Dreading the next time I see that mirror,

The reflection smirks.

So our council of folly,
The hollow authority of our isle,
Open their mouths wide again for our daily rice,
Drenched in the sweat of labourers and nurses,
Taken as if it is their sacred right,
Our gratitude for their incompetence,

This old island is sick,
A blue scourge holds dominion,
Riddled with deaf worm-like things in suits,
With brown envelopes enveloped into their forms,
Finances put to foolish and wanton projects,
Folks held to ransom by foul ferrymen,

We weep at the tax office and county hall,
But those councilmen run out the back door cackling,
If the white cliffs begin to crumble,
And the foundations of our island splinter,
Will they still accept our sweat as thanks?

Life is a long dusty road,
We all know it in our being,
It is a foregone conclusion,
Built to test and vex,
Winding and windswept,
But it’s a road of jagged nails,
Bent and mismatched by travelers before you,
Karmic spiderwebs and societal roadblocks,

We walk it in agony,
Our boots split and feet skewered,
Each step forcing out more moans of pain,
Yet we march on,
With a pace set by our heartbeats,
Ashen-faced yet galvanized,
This serrated path cannot stop us though,
Nothing can stop us,

The end of this road is a cruel joke to some,
Our reward for our torment,
I fear there is naught but a red sun,
And a doting incinerator at the end,
Yet we march on,
Life trundles on,
Nails cannot break our spirits.

There will come a dark day,
As the candles grow delicate,
And your body finally feels lifes gravity,
When you must solemnly discuss,
With your kin and comrades,
About which kind of death you wish,
Ordained is the schedule,
But not so the modus operandi,

Do you run and yell impotently?
And be torn from the mortal coil by scythes force?
Do you have your time stolen by plague or happenstance?
And need to be carried beyond the styx by lifeless hands?
Or do you meet him calmly at your windowpane,
Take his cold hand and expire to the night?
These things must be prepared for,
Death is always approaching,

But will it be as a nightmare or old friend?
An ordeal or a release?

Every day I seem to witness,
With drawn eyes,
News stories that make me seethe,
Built-in inequality,
Bankers in the slaughterhouses of Wall Street,
Political duplicity,

Impotent old men upon the beaches of society,
Building sandcastles in imperial styles,
Houses of cards,
With sands of ground-up people,
Little voters at the bottom of the ladder,
Each spadeful shrieks in dissent,

The sands mount tall,
Kept strong on designs of grim architects,
The castles are patted down with manifesto lies,
The old men cheer as they rise,
When will the tide come,
And tear these foul empires down?

You hear her humming,
Bayu bayushki bayu,
She is hunting you in these trees,
Wood axe thirsty for gore,
Driven on by some unseen deity,

She is coming,
And the hum continues,

Cower in the dark,
Or within some closet,
Head in hands,
Quaking in your boots,
Watching horror movies in your palms,

She is coming,
And the hum continues,

Run quick my friend,
Lest you trip and fall to her axe,
Or receive a hatchet to the spine thrown,
And her lullaby shall continue,
Bayu bayushki bayu,

She is here.

From this moldy pulpit,
I preach to you all,
We’re all inmates remember?
Of this world on the edge,
Of a social construction of normality,
Rickety and ill-maintained,

But I posit another way,
We take over this asylum of a world,
We as freaks are the future,
We’re an army of little weirdos,
Weapons of paintbrushes and lyrics,
Brothers and sisters in straitjackets,

We laugh loud and proud,
We listen to what we want,
We wear what finery we wish,
Anarchy in our identities and pronouns,
We may be eerily strange,
But we are more joyful than you can imagine,

We are our own culture,
The inmates,
Eccentricity is our standard and battle cry,
So let’s be the madness we embody,
Don your clown makeup,
Stand up and be yourself,

The world shan’t know what hit it,
And we’ll keep giggling.

A continuation of sorts of ‘Kabuto’.

Kneeling by myself,
I meditate in the morning rays,
The scent of last nights sake still on my lips,
Glancing to the floor before me,
I sight my trusty blade coated,
Each blood drip whispered of victory,

Strewn around me eviscerated are demons,
Negative oni,
They beset me in the twilight,
With claw and cynical words,
Unaware of my training,
I follow bushido now,

My new virtues are my strength,
And my katana follows suit,
Loyalty fell duplicity,
Honesty decapitated corruption,
Compassion cut down cruelty,
Courage disemboweled anxiety,

Once the deed was done,
I reflected upon my newfound ethics,
My positive armour and virtuous kenjutsu,
Evil will no longer bring me to my knees,
I’m a warrior now,
A samurai.

Who needs society?
Who needs normalcy?
We are not sheep,
No woolen coats here,
We are greater sapients,

Let’s be misfits,

Wear clown makeup and bright shades,
Dance unrestrained in paint,
Sing your favourite song off-key,
Whichever madness makes your little soul breath,
Live for yourself,

Live as a misfit,

Give mundanity an aneurysm,
Make that cruel pulse flat,
Let it die off,
Our souls wish to be unconfined,
They wish to dance among stars and zephyrs,

Become a misfit.

I’ve had enough,
Bile rises in my gullet,
Sick of the false prayers,
Golden cathedrals looming over the serfs,
A mistaken license to look down on others,
All began by him,

Weary of a so-called god,
Held aloft by old gothic spires,
Who is either evil behind a facade,
Offhandedly unwilling,
Or incapable of saving his so-called children,
So wrathful my hands grip his ivory throat,

Lightning licks at my arms,
But I persevere,
No more sermons,
Angelic flames scald my hands,
But they hold fast,
No more decrees,

My hands do not let go,
Until the divine lights leave his eyes,
And his religious larynx is crushed,
The angels and cherubs shriek in lamentation,
And fade into nothingness,
People can hear humanity once again,

We are our own gods now.