In memory of Bukowski

A mesmerizing moment,
Like a sudden guess,
Quickly steals away the
Breathing assurance
Of what is true,
As if to believe the
Thief in the night,
Stringing together attention,
Like a bow to
Fire flames from the shadows.

In the after hours,
With no limit,
And a full belly,
Knowing what to say
Philosophizes the aesthetic of
Bringing death to life,
Summoning innuendos
Of trickery, allusion,
Proudly jesting double standards,
With tales of the dragon.

Bestial guts,
Like the sword slayed,
Hung out of the pitch black,
Fabled fortune,
Directly dissected,
With haughty puns,
And inconsequential laughter,
Like a barbarian mob,
Hallowing hell for the slaughter,
And a graven summit.

A poisonous heart,
Affects fallacy of
Heathen ritual,
As its merrily conjured,
Entombed reasons
Feast on infatuation,
Like flesh and bone was
The chewed fat
Of a cannibalistic,
Bloody chin.

You could never decipher,
Betwixt the cover,
The tone and inflection,
As proper confidence,
Since unseen,
Transpiring serpentine secrecy
Showed caskets beneath
The intoxicated,
Hypnotizing voices with
Fermentation, rot.

The core of the castle,
Was about to give,
As inside the chasm,
Amazing manifestation for
A sudden collapse could
Fold the walls to
The gravity of a foundation,
Like hidden claustrophobia
Came to plunder, as
Fear takes over.

An obvious fate,
As the enemy invades,
And everything falls,
Along with the unsuspecting
Guards on watch,
That were fixated,
Which perfects flummox,
Demonic superstition,
To come galloping
Unto one's perdition.

I shouldn't of come here,
not tonight,
too many mouths
that guzzle and gawp.
I want to sweep them with the buffet
into black plastic bags,
smash bottles into faces
slit several throats
with one coria graphed kata.

The rat has only just finished.
It wasn't content with three days
gnawing inside my muscles,
now it wants me to rot,
watch it run down my legs.

There's a resonance behind the bar
each liquid surface trembles.
I feel like a hunter breathing with the stag
as the optics rise and fall.
Then he's gone and I'm left with shredded
beer mats and soft drink labels,
enough confetti for a church wedding
or bedding for family of field mice.

The door opens and lets in
the outside.
I chromatograph the scent
of a thousand stale nights
wrapped in a cigarette smoke carrier,
trace elements I pick out and assemble
until I have that one drink
that isn't going to hurt anyone.

 
Pestered and pursued  
by unknown foes  
A topsyturvy land  
where snakes can have horns  
and cows can have fangs.  
Night'mares' where the day's stallions  
make mountains out of molehills  

A chance to witness greek mythology-like creatures for real  
For dreamland tis a place for the unreal and surreal.  
 
Those hair-raising scary scary dreams  
beset with horrified silent screams!  
 
We do try to interrupt nightmares, pinching ourselves  
With relief wake up to see there aren't any horrid elves.  
We also try to interpret dreams filled with mystery  
But gifted dream interpreters like prophet Joseph  
Are now part of biblical human history  
 
All in all, dreamland's fascination  
for extra-ordinary exaggeration  
and tall-tale imagination  
 
Where myth and legend come to life  
An amalgam of fiction or real strife  
 
Where assorted monsters of the mind  
reign supreme in that REM sleep of our kind.  
 
Yet on the other hand the wishful, wistful sweet sweet dreams  
where fantasies form mirages bordered by fanciful seams.  
 
Where castles in the air that humans build, float gently down to earth  
only to shoot back up unto nowhere from the awakened one's berth.  
 
In dreamland a pauper girl can be a princess or fairy fair  
for daydreams extend into the night and linger on there.  
 
A quote I took to heart and it to console all and sundry  
'that if your sweet dreams don't come true, don't you fret  
for atleast your nightmares didn't come true either,  
so just heave a sigh, by and by.  
 
Every night let us all just fly away and escape  
And lo behold  the extraordinary world of Dreamscape.

With a rusted metal spike,
A puncture is made
That lets a pressured breath
Escape it's ironed cage.

With a brother spike,
the spine is crumbled.
Each vertebrae screaming,
with a cry, that's muffled.

Another sister spike,
takes a victim of the throat.
Stifling your voice,
spluttering and mute.

A final mother spike
tears into the heart.
Contracting it's muscles,
clawing love apart.

You can hold the spikes
in your body like scars
bottled up, waiting
to let it all start.

But eventually the spikes
will begin to bleed
or rot with rust
or stop a route of life

And you'll have to face the problem
you left dwelling in your chest,
you can always keep it in,
but letting it out is best.

Even if that means,
you'll bleed until you die.
You would rather delay the inevitable?
I can't see why,

when you'll bleed anyway.
You'll remain in pain.
You can always keep it in.
Go ahead.
Rot away in shame.

 

Don’t try
It may imply that you’re giving yourself some wiggle room
In case you fail
There may be some obstacles too big to overcome
Therefore it questions your dedication
Your determination to get it done

Don’t half ass it and then expect to get great returns
Nothing special comes out of mediocrity
It is as they say, you reap what you sow
And if your mode is to be average
You’ll never stand out, if you know what I mean

I guess the important thing here is to be honest
Do you really want to accomplish what you set out to do?
Taking all the unknowns into consideration
Will you get discouraged if things get too complicated?

All bullshit aside
It should be noted that when you say you’ll try
It’s like a passive voice command you communicate to your brain
You say you’re sick and tired
Stuck in the same rut
And go back to that cycle until you finally decide to…
“Go all the way”