The course of virtual realities
Held steady streams in glistening purities
That belonged to deluded deities;
Their wrongs, unacknowledged.
Because their temples
Must have been of
Superior import
Than those considered to be
Lesser; inferiorities
Being duped by ignorances
By their own arrogances,
Spittling at their own
Transfigured transgressions.


Blindly They’d Follow

Single minded entities
With masochistic inclinations
Laden with sorrows lashed out;
Leashes, held by ownerships.

They pled for destruction
Laid in their wake.

Knowing it’s pain,
They go back running,
Referring to it as naiveté.

They’d amble in the unknown
Rambling about affected pleasures
Within weighted sparsities.

Pulled out identities.

“Well, I hate bad people”
“What makes someone a bad person”
“Well… if they’re masochists..”

He and I

He makes empty promises
While his words
Wile away and say differently.

He believed that he’d give up anything
For love; almost anything.

Then, as fate would have it,
The day came
When he’d have to face
His true reality.

That day, he threw away
What he swore he’d cherish
Beneath the sycamore tree.

That was the day I threw away
Those fuzzy things called love
To preserve myself.

How I can be; I know,
But he,
He didn’t.


O, if only hollow beliefs were tantamount to knowings,
thou wouldst not hath hadst to froth
in what were the gasping spasms of thine own inquiries.
If only hope were:
– with margins
– a Ritalin efficacy
but for naught doth these discordant pleas occur;
falls on life’s unhindered ears, unheard or unconvinced,
but what difference dost it make when tis but the same.

How doth these wayward flames
hath frost in it’s stead.
If ‘twere that teleportation devices
hadst cometh in our time, o
what frolicking couldst hast incurred,
as our chitter chatters would fill valleys
around the nigh of unveiled sky stars
til the eve of the eastward sun’s reprise,
unless the dullahan did decide to cease mid ride.


Corroborated values taken in accordance as proof for a possible fiasco
Of recounted occurrences inside the chimes of our ardour.
Sickly renouncing worth from those that could be called the judgmental
Inside the collected numerical visions of the pusillanimous; staggering.
Horcruxes of souls stuck inside a chalice, diadem, diary, ring, and locket;

Inside the erroneous odes of evidential realities and questionable posthumous yore.

Still an Illusion

They, wrapped up in distressed linen cloth, standing
By canterburies of incorporeal prints
Tried to hold onto throes of intangible realities.

The same bandages didn’t console those pungent airs,
That forebode unmitigated fairs of disbelieving fears:
Promontory offenses on useless appeals of time.

Their loves built towers up on wide hollow fields
Ridiculously validated by dunes of instability
While overtly knowing the futility.

The piece de resistance: a diluted menage a trois,
Fineries reduced to relativities as filthy insectoids raided
Their tarnished crafts of mortifying indulgences.

Thinking their hidden flesh decaying underneath
Would provoke disbelieving holds of noses,
Whilst they’d run and click their tongues, a tut-tut,

While wanting to believe they could be loved; a grimaced hilarity.

So They’d Bet

Yellow sea memorandums,
Writ by enumerated acrostic methods,
Profiled with evaporating ball point pens,
Recorded methodically in tandem,
Sum up to zero absolutes.
Crumbs settled in bottled up rums
From chrysanthemum reductions,
Slid onto rows inside sad emporiums
Within decadent mausoleums
Decorated by faux skies inside planetariums.

Petroleum fires extinguished
Near truth battered lies,
Succumb to escapisms
Fueled by those seeking freedoms
From under the thumbs of scums
Called lovers, the originators,
Stewing in padded vats of bacterium.