This

Feebly mined membranes hosting
The what was called the deranged
Arranged towards sentences that
Dragged on for decades, a rebuttal,
A retort of sorts that we’d resort to
Resting at a temporary plane today
To deign to cast judgement on
Characters in plays that depicted
A vanity in vain, utilizing facts ingrained
In the subconscious as a solution to
Identities invariably birthed and grossly gained;
A stain in a history of our own choosing
In choices made again and again, words
Estranged in their origin, wanton avoidance
Manifested in appearances moralized in
Definitions of sentiences that consisted
Of nothing more than a mere pile of
Flesh and bones, simplified in deprecation
Then exploring existentialism as though
It were novel or even relevant

A detachment in mirrored dualisms
Conceptually intermingled in fibers
Ambiguous lessons taught, faded
In the background, conclusively
Deciding wired connectivity in matters
Passing through inks seeping into
Another existence, like the earth and organs.

Eintagsfliege · Dominik Eulberg

His Humming Smile

Baring perspectives of affected empaths, effectively in kind,
Tepidly relates effervescences in unraveling adoration proclivities,
Debauched Freudian principles, defunct because of errant
Callings in competitiveness, combativeness reusability hills
Daring to explore a psyche, yearning to lose, low key, nothing.

You Are My Natural Selection – Ernesto Schnack

Pissy Bagels Dance & Hum

Deceasing forces of some numeric reality recollections the
Heavens once counted, elven silks organically grown; sway,
Severing dualistic perfectionisms in ponderings, they stand.

Melding – Marika Takeuchi

Zeroing In

Speeding down, the road racers,
Lights, blurring past, indiscernible
Opportunistic hijackers taking advantage
Of weaknesses in telecommunications
Up in navigation lines prompted by hackers,
Stole freedoms that belonged to just one,
Still stalling, disoriented, unorganized, afraid
Of vapors that would vanish in visibility,
Engrained in wooded memory with unpolished
Swords, rusty and rustically themed,
Unable to cut or chisel something discernible.

Then dawn:
Drawn daggers repetitively
Carve with the same motion until drawn in.

Peace Makers

Spectral stars a sparkle softly in alternate quantum
Foams surrounding in a flair, together, they listen
To wind chimes in atmospheres, crystallised sun
Catchers flare perfectionistically, noise always having
Been stuck at values in being effortfully understood
In plasmic affairs, divided by nonsensical possibilities,
Micro aggressions unluckily existing in taught loves,
Worthy worlds built on cursed established premises
Born in hominid planetary systems with orbital rings,
Pushing back matters in anti-gravity fields, shaping
Histrionic acceptances of slick dreams in sicknesses.

If Inside These Walls Was a House (Instrumental) – EPICA

Countless

Possessions itemize supposed to be’s;
Mean derivatives of order or sense in numbers,
Lettered for whores, supposedly, more towards
Calculating directions to a smorgasbord.

Living in obsolete faith and trust,
Scrambling to find meaning in “it must”,
They’d contemplate errors in lust
Filled encounters, while not meaning
To make so many, countless, in horror,
Giving away, perhaps, a bit
Too much.

Up On Rockets

On a rocket ship in a far of place
ln a galaxy, twinkling constellations
Illuminated a finite outer space.
He says, “Quickly, pace
Yourself with hurried steps, now
Enter, immerse thyself in frigid
Waters, erst I wilt not be there
Up on the edge.
Let us give fate a test,
Whereupon thy resurfacing,
An embrace, touch upon flesh,
Awaits thee, as thou hast seen
Upon thine own discovery.”

She says, “’Twas but a painful venture,
A comeuppance full of fitful unpleasantries.”

He thereupon leaves, on a pod
Despite her pleas, into the vapors
Of Mercurial X, joining floating debris.

Their Offering

Sturdy men in space suits
Too far into labyrinthine spaces
Listening to reverberating cues
That were, perhaps, in cahoots
With strangers being others
Building passageways, altering routes,
Forging doubtful minds, lost and grasping,
Gasping at misdirected gravellings
Where paths taken prior dissipated and changed.
Leaving attested fates to the unknown
Tasks in what they could author.

Every Thing

They always flew,
Flying high, and higher still,
Much before they knew
The where in the thrill,
Within the supposed knowing in a query
Where they counted each and every
Truth in all recounted stories,
Never really fully comprehending.
Reading comprehensions, then delving,
Perhaps, a little too deeply into outer space.

Any More Good

Crafted pinwheels of patterned papers
Whirl slowly by the dawning of sunsets
While the winds are a gently yawning
Bidding weavers weaving loose blankets
To count their knotted silvered threads.

Learning what was worthwhile while
Tending to a craftsmanship just to adjust
The visual aspects of what wasn’t any more
Good in any way then what they’d had
Before they could speak of the significance.