Melancholia 1

Arching Arms Aching

Frigid bitter morning
Will these hostile days never take their vile taunts and retreat?
Raging torment biting my tender mind, gnashing, crushing every hopeful thought
And I, I sit in this decrepit corner, listless
Useless wit, senses devoid of articulate ingenuity
I am withering, wearing my cloak of funeral shadows
Ink-stained fingers screaming in protest, curling like the Eastern witches pointy shoes beneath that razing house…
This bloated desk smirking, crumpled pages, half fed, demand my crucifying
The empty, dusty air drifts into seedy corners that screech my fears without mercy, each time I shift in my chair –
Sinking further into this drafty void, this hollow, lonely nowhere… alone…
Between the light I falter
Webbed, shadow tentacles scratch fissures in this crisp air, and the borderland exhales its oblations –
Provocative demon sliding through the cracks –
Lips wet against my lobe, it hisses in my ear; You hide behind the curtain
I succumb to the rotting in my head, and wander in a wasteland of disease
My mind riddled with tunnels from this spectre, this vinegar worm, chewing ravenously
I am a timepiece leaking minutes, while recorded minutes fade
Disappearing… making a ghost of myself…
There is no voice as warm and sweet, yet cold as mine, licking at my wounds with its acid saliva
Like a bitter herb mulled into tea of which I drink
Each sip a betrayal of myself
I take hatchet to my fingers, for what use are they if I have no words to write?
Even when I’ve written them; They are monstrosities, bulbous caricatures lacking and absurd
I pierce my own armor
Whiskey sours swilled to notes of blue melancholia dappling my mind
No better angels to compel in me a faith when lifes unkind
I take cigarette to gasoline and tend to stagnant poetry
Burning hot, like a dried out scarecrow among parched stalks
Piles piled high, like intestines climbing to the sky…
Dour eyes, ankle deep in this wintry mix of jewel-encrusted snow –
Peering through the frosty glass with baited breath, they caw, these nosy crows
Fingernails tapping on the rim of this nearly empty glass
Liquid fire burns like hell in summer
But its good for aches, and shakes, and worthless dreams
Clink, clink, clink, then take a drink –
Clink, clink, clink, like a church bell promising saving grace
Or, at the very least, a respite from the mundane in this madness
I lean into the keys, so sweetly sensuous beneath these liquored, impaired fingertips
Where are the seething, growling, gutting words? Why do I betray, devour myself?
The ruthlessness of my own thoughts sucks me down bone by bone
These empty months have untangled me, as in the mirror I seek my soul, but find
A reflection halved in two; the human, and the Grendel –
Bleeding isolation, howling desolation
I can no longer speak
Oh… these pages crisp and winter white, yet bare
My voice fades in the air of yesterday
I howl into this nothingness
I howl into this emptiness
I howl

We are born, innocence shining briefly, like a shooting star
My oh my
How the world spins such wickedness into gold
Crushing spirit into lies
Cutting out ecstatic eyes
And then one morning you believe what you’ve been told