All the coolest kids are pretentious cunts

(the youngest of the old, which means I wrote these...about a year ago? Oh god. Bully me a lot, mmkay?)

The Pilgrim Begs the Mountain

I cast it off, like a bad dream
I cast it off, a plea
to empty heavens and a hollow hope
that this wind, this bristling wind
that tears away my breath in angry clouds,
drags the words from my mouth like some
sick leech that gluts itself on ancient air
and offerings to the sky,
will take my words from me.
I beg for quiet minds,
for eyes that show nothing
of the lives reflected within their scattered
irises but which, like quiet water,
carp-filled pools of desperate calm,
will merely show the world’s reflection.
I watch my sickness seep into the hills,
draining like some infant stream
into obscurity, where it will be distilled,
preserved and handed out
to those who come here looking for gift or sullen curse
(either one’s an openness,
a voice that won’t be silenced,
a glance which cuts deeper than any penetrating stare).
Will my hatred be absorbed into the earth,
where grass grows crooked roots and trees
cast shattered shadows in penance for my wrongs?
Can I ask inanimate eternals
to suffer for my crimes?
Will the water travel backwards if it’s forced to pay my time?

I press my fingers to the dirt,
the soil sodden, thick with rain
and evident foreboding. I beg
to see these things as merely images,
as cells and clear chemical lines.
I do not want the shadows,
do not want the ghosts beneath their skins to
creep into my pores and nestle in my flesh
like the eggs of some malevolent worm.
My face is cool upon the rock,
its jagged edge’s imprint
pressed upon me and I (want,
hope, pray to) believe that it may take my
sickness from me, may cut away my stunted tongue
and leave me, clean and pure and empty,
with no more visions, no more songs.
I could be happy with illusions,
my life fulfilled by empty lines.
I only long to see the pictures,
no bloody fingerprints behind.
I cast it off, like a bad dream
I cast it off, a plea
to empty heavens and a hollow hope
that this wind, this bristling wind
that tears away my breath in angry clouds,
drags the words from my mouth like some
sick leech that gluts itself on ancient air
and offerings to the sky,
will take my words from me.
I beg for quiet minds,
for eyes that show nothing
of the lives reflected within their scattered
irises but which, like quiet water,
carp-filled pools of desperate calm,
will merely show the world’s reflection.
I watch my sickness seep into the hills,
draining like some infant stream
into obscurity, where it will be distilled,
preserved and handed out
to those who come here looking for gift or sullen curse
(either one’s an openness,
a voice that won’t be silenced,
a glance which cuts deeper than any penetrating stare).
Will my hatred be absorbed into the earth,
where grass grows crooked roots and trees
cast shattered shadows in penance for my wrongs?
Can I ask inanimate eternals
to suffer for my crimes?
Will the water travel backwards if it’s forced to pay my time?

I press my fingers to the dirt,
the soil sodden, thick with rain
and evident foreboding. I beg
to see these things as merely images,
as cells and clear chemical lines.
I do not want the shadows,
do not want the ghosts beneath there skins to
creep into my pores and nestle in my flesh
like the eggs of some malevolent worm.
My face is cool upon the rock,
its jagged edge’s imprint
pressed upon me and I (want,
hope, pray to) believe that it may take my
sickness from me, may cut away my stunted tongue
and leave me, clean and pure and empty,
with no more visions, no more songs.
I could be happy with illusions,
my life fulfilled by empty lines.
I only long to see the pictures,
no bloody fingerprints behind.


The Author of this Work Is Dead


The man who invented eternity
shares my sadistic sense of humour.
Why else would people look on eyes
desperate with the fever of dying,
on hands now hooks whose ravenous claws
bury themselves in flesh and beg for brief extension,
and proclaim them immortal?

The man who invented eternity
plays cruel jokes on embittered eyes,
tells aching souls embittered tales
of how a man's not dead if his name's still spoken.
But the whispered voices and scrawled, blotted words
of history will only say,
"The author of this work is dead -
you have no need to speak his name
He will never hear or recall
the prayers you offer in the night
while his sad music plays,
nor see the tears that scar your face,
those jewel-slick trails that stand in place
of words inadequate."

But the man who invented eternity
weaves sweeter lies, a false and fatal hope
for old eyes determined to take
every breath they battled for.
There's a gleam there, but it's not of life.
It's a sickness, their fever burns bright
as their shrivelled frames
grope clumsily towards immortality with
clutching, pleading fingers
(pale as bone and fragile as ash,
scorched by some internal fire
which drives their futile continuity)
and they screech like harpies hellbent on remembrance.

And the man who invented eternity
leans forward through the ages
and writes on the new-turned page of the present
those immortal words:
"The Author Of This Work Is Dead."