what are you going to do when your body's lowered?
alone in the dark with only your past.
blurred vision
drowning in delirium
what are you going to do when your body's ready to decay?
you really thought you were here to stay
what difference to the world have you really made
think again my friend
because it could all change
today actually just might be your day

Picture perfect perception
of what washes
                      over observations
of what we saw,
         loitering over soiled sheets.


We gestated over what we thought
                        was a perfect portrait.
But beneath solid reflections we slept on.

Moths of discontent chew beneath the
        layers of what we dress
                                         our relationship on.
Decaying virtues, they show disrepair of
what you painted. But its eroded beyond
contemplation, nothing is as our sight verses it.

The Garden should not keep its name.
It’s soil is filled with stone,
And weeds too thick and wild to tame.
One lily stands alone.

Her petals like a bridal gown,
She seems to bloom with pride.
A spot of white amongst the brown,
Too radiant to hide.

The vines have shown her mercy,
They tangle where they lie.
She bows as though in curtsy,
When it’s time for her to die.

Her gown is turning brown like mud,
But still she goes with grace.
She knows that soon another bud,
Will bloom to take her place.

doves
decay in gutters;
their ghosts dart
across your greedy
eyes.

Sitting, silent.
The buzz and whir of your new reality
The neverending parade, smiley glad hands
Watch and witness the decay
It won't be long now
Your family
The ones who love you
Forks and knives at the ready
Our daily bread
This festive day
Let us celebrate

Sitting, silent.
The buzz and whir, your only friends now
The parade, white coats
It won't be long now
At least you have your family
The ones in the shadows
Forks and knives sharpened
Waiting silently
For the day

Inhospitable landscapes
And opioid canapés,
Give into grief
And metallic decay:
Your mind in situ.
Moral compasses compounded.

Green grows grey
Far swifter than you think.
In the blink of an eye
We'll see different skies.
A pale blue bloom
Will soon become doom and gloom,
And marigolds macabre,
Perfume of tulip and
Netherworlds of hubris,
Will consume the gold
And the grey.

Except
We're not there yet.
Giacommetti, Picasso and Muller foresaw:
We're all going to be ignored.

Ultimately.

A single state engrained into lore:
Deplorably thick custard creams
With a side of sea bream,
Quarter-loaf multi-seed bread
And half a shilling in the shed.

Unimaginable-
Immemorial.

Pass the headstone,
Don the frown.
The bright brown obelisk of fate
Awaits you now.

I love the taste of fire and ashes,
even the pungent sting of burnt charcoal.
Decaying in gasoline.
Because they were remnants once,
of who I was.