The Bird-Merdre Bridge...

I sometimes walk under this rail-bridge
On a sidewalk spackled with thick-layers
Of bird-merdre from feathered nesters above
The cars whiz past me with amplified echoes
& trains trudge-along causing violent tremors
The birds all flap their feathers in futile frenzies
At these perpetually perturbing passing sounds
Before they return to their roosts and perches
And its all right there like it is everywhere

The trains return to their stations time and again
Just like those dirty pshyt-spackling birds
The cars go here and there and always home again
Just like those circle-chirping feather-flapping birds
And I walk right under, and next-to, and over it all
With the cargo-clamor rattling and resonating through my bones
And the aural-automotive atrocities agglomerated to my footsteps
As my mind flaps and flutters in its futile furies
& the fallen fecal-filth I tread through sticks to my shoes
While I traverse the terrain between one nowhere and another
and I'm the same there as everything is everywhere

It's all just scattered pshyt and futile flapping
It's all going around in the same circles over and over
and getting nowhere else without taking the same pshyt
you walked out of right along with you
whether you go right back to your nest above it all or not
It's all the same clamor, and clatter, and chirping, and chatter

But then there are those few times
In a few of these very same places
When you find yourself somewhere
Or on your way between nowheres
And there you find everything is missing
The trains and their tremors are elsewhere
The cars and their clatter are between commutes
The birds have all flown away or been chased off
and the rains have rinsed away the spackled-pshyt
Then and there in all that abysmal absence
You find something so austere and obscene
That you can neither stay nor leave
Because your shoes will chase it away if you stay
And if you leave it will never be there for you again

I think that's why it's the same everywhere
All those fine places we try to stay must leave us
and all the places we leave are stuck to the bottom of our soles
or are lost to us before we ever get there
For all our dreams of fortuitous flights through sparkling/soaring skies
We keep awaking to some bridge above our own fallen feathers and filth
Where every local motion is a locomotive commotion

We can never stay
We don't know how to leave
and we don't know how to arrive

One day I'm going to learn to fly
and I'm not going to pshyt on everything beneath me
and I'm not going to perch anywhere near the cars and trains
that go from one nowhere to the next along the same paths
One day I'm going to fly away
from this bird-merdre bridge
and all the futile feather-flappers

Until the day I finally fly
I'm just going to practice proper flight
I'm not going to chirp and chatter
over the tremors and traffic
I'm not going to flap my feathers in futility
I'm not going to pshyt on everything below
So that on the day I finally fly
I'll be able to leave the bird-merdre bridge
To really leave it
and not take any of its pshyt with me
To properly arrive at someplace proper
and be able to stay there too

One day I'm going to learn to fly
And there will be no bird-merdre bridge

Cold Feet On The Coals Of Hell...

Walking along
However wrong
With cold feet
On a burning street
Coals roasting against the soles
Holes melting through their wholes
With a smoke-singed sinister smell
from these cold feet on the coals of hell

Which steps had gone so wrong
How are strides misled so long
As feet still walk along
Each step so ever wrong
While coals still callous soles
Of these evaporating souls
And blisters coat these feet
Still cold despite this heat
Their steps still cast as if by a spell
That curses cold upon these feet
Feet frozen upon the coals of hell

Where else is there
What sight beyond a stare
Just as uncertain as unaware
Without care enough to dare
Tread on and not away from this
Reaching no grounds to later miss
With nowhere left along the right of way
Only melted glaciers of fire-lakes today
Where cold drips from frozen soles
That waste away on aimless strolls
As strides curse footsteps where they fell
Upon these cold feet on the coals of hell

Far too dumb or cowardly still
With no want to fuel a lack of will
All this nerve that cannot feel
All face lost and turning heel
As coals still melt the soles
Burning holes through souls
While no force can attract or repel
These cold feet on the coals of hell

0.0 Precursor (Caustic's Opening Chapter)...

Something in this world has gone terribly wrong with me. If I had known what it had been I wouldn't have decided to have demeaned myself by having written these words. I have only resorted to words as a desperate and perhaps final attempt to have understood what it is that has gone so terribly wrong.

These words should not be misconstrued as anything other than an infernal investigation of my insidious existence. These words have not been intended to have served as a confession, an artistic expression, or anything else a soul might deceive itself into having believed. If anyone aside from myself should come to have read these words let it be known that I did not write such words with any intention or consideration regarding how they might have been received. All of these words will have been mine alone and they have only been intended to have served me.

I had decided to have used writing as a means of having explored my quandary because of the fact that writing has long been dead. Since much of my existence had been so heavily involved in death writing had seemingly been a naturally suitable method for this existential-exhumation. Had I not already understood the role of death in the course of my existence writing would have been as useless to me as the words above every grave have been to the corpses beneath them.

My reasons for having discerned that writing has been dead haven’t been wondrously ground-breaking or elucidating. I’ve not been the only entity to have walked through the tunnels and corridors in the catacombs of this world having searched for meaning and found but words. Many more eyes than my own have buried themselves in the pages of the great or so-called-great novels, poems, and essays to have found nothing greater than the silenced echoes of the unutterable dead.

My entombed-eyes had seen how all the writers that had ever existed with any degree of talent or potential had been plagued with death. Their lives had been no more than prequels to their obituaries and their obituaries had been no more than a summary of their death. The writers all died having thought their words would have lived-on and that their deaths would not have been so desolate and vain.

Their words had all decomposed just the same as they had. Some of them had festered longer than others but all of them have gone to rot. There had been some remnants of words that other writers had necromanced and attempted to have resurrected or conjured into their own words. These necrophilic-possessions had been no more than injections of embalming-fluids to the marrow of their literary-skeletons.

As their headstones have crumbled and the ashes of their pages have vanished in dead-airs all these writers have only decayed in eternal oblivion. The words of all these corpses have become the antiquated ghosts of decaying sentiments. They haunt only the cadavers that have long been dead despite all these spirited words.

I’ve already understood that my own words will have been no different. These words will not have lived any more than I and I had never even been born into this world but had been delivered undead. With these words I will have but gazed into the face of my existential decay so that I may have glared back into this void of death and dying. If I am to have died it shall not have been without the horror of this grim scowl having been reflected. 

So let these words be known for all that any words have ever been. Let these words be doomed to have become the self-proclaimed death-rattles of but another maligned corpse. Let it have been known that even as these words had been written I had either been dead or dying. Let anyone that is to have looked upon these words have been forewarned by those terms that have been engraved above the catacombs that shall have forever become host to my dissolve-

“Let no one follow in these footsteps, lest they become their own”.

When I Was small...

When i was small
every little thing
was a big deal

An ice cream cone
could make my day
A new toy could
entertain me for ages
A small compliment
could define who i was

When i was small
nothing substantial
amounted to much

A house was nothing
but the place i slept
A car was nothing
but a way around
A job was nothing
but a tiny chore

When i was small
everything made sense
or didn't matter

The sky was blue
and i could play
If i skinned my knee
i could finish playing
before i got a bandaid

When i was small
everything was close
everything was within reach

My friends were
only a phone call away
My dreams were only
a wish or an extra chore away
My every delight
was at the edge of my fingertips

When i was small
i'd dream big
and live small
i'd play hard
and work playfully

The bigger i got
the smaller all those little things seemed to be
as everything substantial amounted to much more
and less and less made sense but more and more mattered
until it all seemed so far away and out of my reach
and my dreams diminished
and life was too big
and it was too hard to play
and there was so much serious work to do
And I had grown out of everything that used to fit so nicely
And I had wished that I could've remembered what it was like
When I was small

I guess sometimes less is more
and more is sometimes less
i should have learned
to grow with greater gratitude
and not just increased magnitude
I should have appreciated what i'd known
When I was small

CAUSTIC...

NOW AVAILABLE!!!

Something in this world has gone terribly wrong. Having been delivered into this world undead an unnamed narrator recounts its existential dissolution in order to determine what has gone so wrong. It may have had something to do with the narrator's origins, a Kuru epidemic, the Vory's coercion of Empyrean and Revelationist global systems, or any number of things.

Available on Amazon in kindle and paperback
Also available in paperback on Createspace.

All the Birds Will Sing for You...

Born into this world alone
Ventured out all on your own
Found a face and found a home
Nestled in your chosen throne
Watched as little birds had flown
Without the need to hide or roam

So at ease in every where
Always with that peaceful stare
Beaming back at every glare
All your long and wild hair
Tangled-up without a care
Beyond the joy of being there

All the birds will sing for you
Grass will grow and sway there too
Winds will turn the sky to blue
Clearing clouds that rained for you
And all the birds will sing for you

The magic of the sounds you made
Remains though all the echoes fade
Many wish you'd longer stayed
Despite all time or how you'd greyed
Before you'd gone into that shade

All the birds there sing for you
The way you'd always asked them to
They'll flap their wings and play for you
As grasses grow and dance there too
The birds will always sing for you