top of page

Compromised Consciousness

Unwavering sleep, which I forge out of depths of my own hell

Gingerly lies, to all but self. Putrid kennel,

‘Dare I join the beasts?’ Is but a question to all whose hearts, it beats

Tender night, to veil my love for the blossom of day

I hate the frost, late dawn, though my one true dark love can stay

Junkie veins… like roots of a great mahogany, turned lumbered, freshly processed

Imbibed into my psyche

Conveniently sized, covertly despised, effective in none, but only all.

My conscious, compromised

And so, with fleeting feet of terror I make for a last escape

Slithering out of its grasp on me, the church bells tell of relinquishing

This rotten mind you gave me, formless shape

Of dreams forgotten and life lost

The sky is forever blue and knows no dismal accost

Unlike you;

I have cursed you, murdered you, for you to bud again

Through cracks of permafrost, you plunge

Like a horrid sickle with its razor edge

Wretched infliction, you’ve bound me to this ledge

Now there’s days in which I gaze upon a white sky

It tells me the seemingly permanent is merely illusory

You remain conquerable, however sly

Michelangelo’s calloused hands are that of mine

My work’s cut out for me. I am an artist

You are my art. Despite my hate for you, I fall apart

In only the most convenient of ways

You sick addiction, you are my endless maze

It is that spectacular night sky that, shameless, spread before the eyes of the Lord, lures me to all the corners of the cosmos that I've yet to touch, bound by a sense of child-like innocence. It is

Carnage, carnage. My soul wants carnage. My mind wants bacchic excellence and my sacrilege demands a justification. What I desire, however, is my total condemnation. A form of arithmetic christening,

Innermost part of my veins Like an oppressive regime And Ceausescu's palace a mere analogy for my mind Empty halls and redundancy… No clear skies tonight. Darling, there are no clear skies tonight How

bottom of page