Graveyard of Glory

"I see murky projections, whispering my name in the dark abyss"

---

Graveyard of Glory

// poetry

Dreading the death

Of a silver haired man entrenched in regret,

Did I breathe to the fullest?

Did I profusely bleed passion or conveniently mediocre bigot, blood let?

I see murky projections

Whispering my name in the dark abyss,

It’s a whirlwind of wills like an Armageddon,

Misgivings jeering at me with a hoodwink and a kiss.

Draconian though it be, the desire seems sweet

Like chocolate to devour, like whipped cream to beat;

On a seat of intelligence I intuit,

My intuition a magic potion of complexity in a dream.

The mercury tips behind the limit in my eyes,

It’s scarlet, I’ve gone too “farlet” behind a “starlet”,

A nosebleed in a lecherous partnership deed,

Did I feed on my desire or desire on me did it feed?

Ensemble, cake crumble,

As I mumble: “End this dark escapade”;

I find a spade to dig deeper into my soul,

Crests & troughs, my circadian rhythm,

I digress from one desire tossed into the fire. Insatiable foal.

Second, Visions of a Lion

That skips like a Deer,

Behind frigid beer there’s

An icy tear on the can that I’m holding.

I’m folding my card

In this gamble I ramble I tumble I “tamble”,

I’m slurring I spell “bamboo” “bamble”,

Vindictive monk trampled me, I now wear a bangle.

It’s a fetter! It’s a shackle!

I can’t run in this graveyard;

Galloping steed there are open graves,

They seem to “intercede” taking the lead, I’m debarred.

Chasing me from the front oncoming truck-load headlights horns blair as I bleed,

I’m running into the eye of the storm;

Where I’m from like a pendulum oscillates

navigation,

I’m missing in my bed at the “deathly dorm”.

Translucent thoughts, my grip on fleeting time a buttery knife,

My momentous messages into a diabolical gutted dot com.

It’s a cradling gravity, magnetic, a bed of bombs,

I’ve been pursuing the ether while the world’s trapped in bubblegum rom-coms.

My hope regurgitated resuscitated,

The four winds, the expanse of the skies

The sky is the limit

That I look down upon, More time flies…

In this scintillating sheen of the material realm,

There’s a shrouded graveyard that abides,

The magicians & spirits manipulate the optics,

In this vehicle of incandescent hallucination the unwitting rides…

Beware of the Thought-Police,

What you see & don’t are both true to those disloyal eyes,

I’m still looking for the door out of the graveyard,

An ever- franchising demoting snake stationed before your highs.

My thoughts a puzzle, as I guzzle

The warm fuzz-le they’re spraying on people like flies

With a nozzle, in their bosom my thoughts braided

As they graded the A Major artist F minus coffin “laid-ed”

A Mass System sweeping, slapping back,

The beauteous minds to the graveyard of mediocrity & defeated thoughts;

Berating the dreamers to never dream,

The learners to never glean,

Gouging out their coloured eyes for every grandiose scene

Crushed their souls like a cash crop - coffee bean.

Most of the marshmellow populace sprawling between

The lowly basic needs bifurcations of Mr. Maslow’s pyramid

Encumbered with punitive rebukes to aim beyond the two

Artist sans canvas never self actualised, it’s factualised, bolted under-lid.

Penultimate climax

It’s now a slabbed plateau,

Not a pyramid.

Interlude

Thoughts bitten, shoe smitten,

'Propaganda & programming' Make believe, bullshit

Sprayed by bullets, they’re all murdered…

Those culturally unfit, ailing from a blasphemous “creative fit”.

(Woki Tokie)

Roger that! they ecstatically exclaim, “Mission accomplished.”

Snuck away from my prison bunker

I still elope with my thoughts

I prance, chance upon my cascading visions in a creative trance,

Blanketed smoke-screened pillows my-scapegoats that they shot at point blank, at-glance.

They yelped, “Master, that ONE Creative Nut-job got away”!

Climax:

In my exile, romancing with my fate

Circumventing the creative graveyard living outside the very gate,

I propelled my vision away with a decision,

It’s better at the edge, it’s never too late.

Artists they abate

While I’m sauntering with my wife & kid

Always a splendid time,

For a fuzzy family date, reward to the intrepid

I’m still alive, my soul still dwells in my creatively glinting eyes...

My friend, exfoliate hesitation & apprehension

Death comes to all but the conformist “Daily Dies”.

This is a Blitzkrieg, on the thought police.

——

The thought police expect everyone to

Open eyes, uneventfully live like a blip in the breeze

“Eat shit sleep repeat.”

Blurt out some inebriated mumbles,

Speak vapid indistinct dialed down chatter & die a clown in this controlled circus of a besieged pyramid of needs.

By a looming spider of propaganda and a sinister penchant for total control over performing arts and thoughts.

But me? I’m no pushover, that’s one thing I’ll never be.

In a constancy of purpose, autonomously live through eternity.