Akvarell33

The first footprint is an epigraph. 

Fusing justice, medicine, and theology;

advancing the tension between free learning

and complacent study.

Nothing is manageable. Nothing at all. 

I have resorted to reading the labels

on antibiotic bottles

and shampoo containers:

the detailed excursions lose their radiance  

exponentially 

and my prayers 

are becoming idle demonstrations.  

Almost everything is humiliating nowadays.

Perseverance

will elicit laughter. Mockery,

the child of standard. 

A severed mind suspended 

in bright orange resin, 

the darling of a new exhibit. 

The philosophy of pornography, the eye of the curriculum

and a cyan-hued plate

of the earth 

just another inanimate article

found in an expensive buffet. 

These people are captivated by lists

and bottle caps,

soda pops, and chairs with cold backrests. 

What do you call the phobia

of depths, and the suffocating expanse;

what do you call a flat and crumbled

disconcerted husk

as it leads an orchestra of trainees

in the performance of a borrowed song?  

A lime

in place of my liver

A rhyme 

written in a dim hotel bathroom. 

Nothing is manageable. Nothing at all.

Akvarell27

I have not reached the satisfactory sound.

The keys are too heavy for my fingers 

and when I close my eyes

I hear the tricky chorus

of black and white constituents,

as the two camps have not yet learned to unite as a trickling spectrum. 

The music is quite religious

in the way that it is organisational. 

It strives to be objectively traceable. 

The index finger its favourite authority,

 the process of counting 

is the backbone of integrity;

the perfect white wall clock

the illegitimate parent of my trembling psyche. 

The ambience is conjured formulaically 

and my ambivalence 

toward the ordeal 

is instigated by the alternative dynamic. 

I think I love the gristly fragrance of raw meat. 

My lungs have had too much

of your grandmother’s severe perfume,

I taste nothing but metal and the denouncement of freedom.

By displacing the noise you have left me

with a new division of hymns,

a small army of forgivable screeches. 

a concussion

Yield. An infatuation with ultramarine,

the blackly profound youth with a slant towards distortion. 

Percussion 

the exoskeleton 

of a glamorised hue of vulnerability. 

I prayed for a way with words

and instead 

won the paper stack. 

MY PURPOSE A BLADE IN TRANSIT

my music

accentuated

by the best of my bruises.  

Swan Song

A constellation of bullet holes,

the art of seeing

wrestling with the shadow

of portent.

The remnants of the symphony 

coalesce

and assault my dreaming. 

The irony of this artistry

surfaces

and denounces my meaning.

The little dance:

heels on mahogany,

their echoes,

and rose gold ribbons.

Fashioning delicate expressions-
Theatrical tricks of vibrance:

the embers of any soliloquy

the ashes 

of any ballet.  

Music and motion

the bones of my Devotion.

Humanity finally learned 

to assume loveliness

when Loveliness 

assumed the human form