Amaranthine; a blog of original poetry

 I see the wind bend a skyscraper, As if it were a feather Fallen off along with all other buildings, From a giant bird called civilization... Tired... Flying around for all these years Looking for a tree that won’t break under its weight, A mountain that won’t become dust under its claws. Of course, it can sit on the ground, But it’s too dumb to think of that. Too many feathers have fallen off... And it’s a joke why the bird doesn’t notice it. Too many feathers have fallen off... That the slightest winter can kill it. Then we’ll say the winter was harsh, Not that we were too naked To enjoy the snow...

  Once I ventured into a cave And tripped on a skeleton With a worm in one eye... The flesh gone... All that remains is this skeleton Rolled up in a bundle of veins, With tender pink flowers And pores Through which the blood leaks out. I look deeper and find the heart.. Green with moss Grinding against each other  like rusted gears. Working each other to non-existence.. The skeleton is alive Yet knows not even its own heartbeat. The skeleton is alive, Yet without life. They are two different things...

  A mountain stands With a baret of smoke Hiding the fact that it is a volcano, And can froth out liquid fire anytime. Then there are these climbers Who want to climb it, Who’ve made up the peak They’ve never seen In their heads... They’ll climb And climb To the edge of the crater With frequently jumping flames, As if a demonic whale Is jumping in and out gracefully, Splashing it everywhere. Disappointed, The climbers will place the flag on the edge And leave. And when they leave, The froth comes out to devour the flag And the world. They better make it to the ground fast.

  I descend the Chapel stairs And see a bouquet on the ground; Stepped on.. The flowers fading, And the white ribbon loose Like it’s been tied around a bundle of hair Once lush and pompous. I descend the Chapel stairs And see a bouquet on the ground Thrown there in such violence... The petals falling like tears of parting; Tears due to some broken cup not glued, Some quiet note on the piano, Some hole in the wall That lay unaddressed... Covered up by a beautiful painting For the guests to see... Never repaired, Never realized... But always there.

 A quiet view atop a hill; Cabins, The smell of soil without rain, The steamer hooting through the winding rail, Crawling in and out Of the tattered blanket of the mist, Sewing together the tattered scene... A quiet view atop a hill, Lending itself to a noisy mind, Free from the noise of the world... Now forced to look into the inner abyss And see the wolves bring down deer With a bite to the neck And a bite to the belly... A fight for both, A feast for one... Now atop this hill, As quiet as the scenery goes, The quietness is noisy. I wish to go back to the city So that I do not even have to acknowledge The abyss exists...

  I bow down And they place candles on my back. I feel the dripping wax Biting me like spiders, Then melting into my skin Like a massive iron ball Sinking into tar, Leaving a cluster of hot bubbles Left alone to pop; An ember, A Flash, A last word spoken in a language invented on the spot... I bow down And they place candles on my back. And I cry in pain With the innocence of a baby Left alone in the woods, Forced to look at bats and the glaring moon. I cry Like an old man behind a crumbled wall, Crouching and praying for dear life. I cry And they don’t hear it...

  In a fight... Being hit on the head with an oxygen cylinder, I see darkness... Then I see light; Trees, The sound of birds, Running water... A waterfall swaying in the wind Like a transparent curtain of silk Slowly joining the water below Where the mist floats and spins and rolls... I see a beautiful woman approach the water. She looks up, She smiles... And I look away with a stone in my heart. I wasn’t prepared for it... No man ever was, No man ever is... In a fight... Being hit on the head with an oxygen cylinder, I see darkness... Then I see light; The doctors all around me With their green masks And unreadable eyes...

On days like these when I feel lonely, I don’t think of myself in a crowd. On days like these when I feel lonely, I think of myself Alone in a cabin Amid the soft snowfall And chimney smoke; Not seeming to go up, But staying there, Growing round Like a pot-bellied genie. On days like these when I feel lonely, I think of myself sitting by the fire, Humming some obscure tune I heard on the radio... With the dog lying at my feet Like a flat tire... His eyes acrylic... His snout twitching As if the warmth is a fly going around him. On days like these when I feel lonely, I think of myself Alone in a cabin Amid the soft snowfall And smile at myself. And for those looking, They’ll see that my eyes are acrylic as well...

 I descend stony steps; The light of the streetlamps melting Under the rain polishing the stone. I descend stony steps With a broken heart, And blurred vision... Forgetting my umbrella somewhere. It wears me down.. The water unites my eyelashes Usually spread apart, Into dripping lips kissing nothing. I descend stony steps And see more stony steps, Probably leading home... More probably leading nowhere. I descend stony steps; The light of the streetlamps melting Under the rain polishing the stone. I melt too... They’ll look And never find me...

 Walking along the railway tracks Holding a hand; Rotting... With the green veins turning black, Smelling of burning meat And liquor... Walking along the railway tracks, I met a monster; A monster with rubbery flesh, With bubbles of yellow fluid Popping...flowing over my arms and shoulders Like mucus from a dragon’s nose, Keeping me stuck on the ground; Keeping me stuck in my horrible reality... Not able to escape, But forced to see As burning people run around, As bridges melt away, As everything dies but me... I was lonely and I still am. So when the fires subside, Nothing changes for me. Walking along the railway tracks Holding a hand; Rotting... With the green veins turning black, Smelling of burning meat And liquor...

 I see a slice of lemon in a glass Poked with a straw, Turning round and round... Drowning in its own fizz... And becoming the fizz; Slowly grabbing onto the edges Like a man going down in quicksand, Getting hold of a twig.. Then flowing out the brim Like little bubbly monsters, Turning liquid on impact And becoming directionless... Filling up the room from the ground, Knocking down the glass And breaking it Before it is devoured by the water... Melting into the water... Never found again.

  We stay in a house together; A house just beneath a waterfall... The first storey flooded and abandoned For many years... Living upstairs, All packed together... Living off swallowing each other's breaths to fill our stomachs; For the windows are open And the air is free. The windows are open But no one jumps out, Afraid of the rocks And rushing water. I’m fed up. I go downstairs, And they call me stupid. And stupid I am, Because I don’t know what I am doing. I go downstairs And dip my toes in the soothing water. Something touches me... A fish! All these years and not thinking of it... We are all dumb... And I’m a dumb man who got lucky.

 I’m a young man Drunk... Dreaming of this beautiful future Through technicolour screens In my skull... Looking back at me, Blocking out the real world; A place bright enough To conceal the dull neon lights And crawling shadows... A place bright enough To blind me, To put me in eternal darkness. Instead, I prefer these technicolour screens Looking back at me Within my skull. I prefer these technicolour screens That will blind me... But much slower Than the real world can. Someone knocks at the door... I’m now in the real world.. I’m now blind...

  The sun going down; The light will soon get red and dirty. But for now, It’s golden... Flashing on the gentle lapping waves Petting the shore, Getting it ready for the inevitable night. I see the gentle lapping waves... And a butterfly Trying to sit on the sand... And the wicked hands trying to drown it Again and again. They are still golden But the colours can no longer be trusted. The sun going down; The light gets red and dirty, And a black and yellow wing floats on the ebb; Dead Yet unsinkable.

  The yellow lights necklace old buildings; Buildings with fresh graffiti And lines of dog pee. The yellow lights necklace old buildings And look out of place with everything else. I look at these walls And hear a dull ring in my heart. Somewhere... A bull is being slayed, An aurora borealis is being ignored, A whale washed ashore is being photographed And never helped back in. Somewhere... A dancer stumbles, The music goes off tune, The top stops spinning... The yellow lights necklace old buildings And look out of place with everything else... Like an old lady with too much make-up, Spotless Yet still ignored And ugly...

  Snow, Starlessness, The sighing wind... The flakes fall like dead leaves of the autumn, Being cradled to sleep as they fall By the invisible mother that is the wind. Snow, Starlessness, The sighing wind... The flakes fall glittering like winged diamonds... Beautiful Until they fall through the light of the streetlamp. Then, there is so much light That they don’t wink at the night anymore. There is so much light That all subtlety is lost... And they fall within the triangular beam Kissing the pavement  Hiding under the white blanket. They fall within the triangular beam, Coming to rest not just in movement... But glitter as well...