Author: Pisceanesque

"It's not from within that I emerge; it's by emerging, that I am truly within." www.pisceanesque.com

THAT SKY (HAIKU)

There you were: that sky,
that breeze, those fluffy white clouds.
Now, here comes your rain.

KEYBOARD ASSASSIN

I have
once more
jailed my vision
splicing diamond-cut thoughts with this
cross-bred and violently bleeding doubt that
feeds from the stomach and shreds the sanest of minds

It is here this rampant indecision
squawks in wordless tongue, lashing
its disposable fancies
(arrow-tipped precision)
at my shaking core

bowels emptying
alongside any creative thoughts of semblance

Now all that is left to bear witness: a sweaty palm or two
– and silence –
as the webbing of my fingers um and ah
hovering like midnight fireflies
over the speech-impeded womb
of my QWERTY keys

And, inside, I hear laughter

WRITE ME BACK TO LIFE

Piece by formless piece of me
compose of new desires –
write me back to life before my hope
deterred
retires

Inflate my heart until it finds itself
in soothing flight –
sprout for me the wings I need
to beat its rhythm right

Expand my lungs to fill with life
and bleed this void no more –
to breathe ambition in until
it seeps from every pore

Expression-fill my written words
in storms to self-empower –
for in this silent wash of time
perspective leaves me sour

Find within my shadows
proof of flawless, lustrous light –
elucidate my purpose
forming day from cloudy night

Write of peace, a balm
to heal my bleakly fractured power –
a vision
rich
to seed and plant
and soon – I hope – to flower

Inspire my eroding soul
with passion to ignite –
a reason to awaken
fresh
with fervour to incite

Harmonise expression
to unlock what I admire –
write me back to life before I
sadly
might expire

UNTITLED (HAIKU)

I have lost myself:
too many words left to write.
My void grows timeless.

THE MOUTH OF SILENCE

Fluid,
the mouth of silence
while the drowning poet
writes to starve the
mind of words

SPOKEN WORD WOMAN

You might not like to see my fat jiggle, or my butt wiggle, but this body has carried me farther than your giggle ever will.

It might not thrill you, but I’m a no-frills woman who takes what she has and makes with it her own – and lets not pretend, I have more than you know beneath these clothes. There might be rows and rows of dimples and wrinkles and obvious freckles (that to some might be cute) but under these puffy cheekbones is a skeleton I call home, and it’s not yours (thank GOD), but it’s worthy of knowing.

It’s your loss if you choose beauty over brains and heart and THIS thinking mind. I might have a long way to start to be someone you’d find yourself watching through blinds, but I’m a damn sight better than someone without the courage to stand wherever she lands – and if that’s behind, then that’s where you’ll find me. That’s where I’ll sweep my floor and make my bed, and, with pity, watch YOU instead to discover that not everything ‘pretty’ is worth uncovering, or owning, or smothering with pride, because, for those with eyes WIDE open, there’s nothing worse than a soul smashed and dried with a hole that leaks powdered ego, nor the upper-class battering eyelashes of a pointless romantic who would rather own lavish belongings than dance in her heart with far less than what she ever dreamed to start with… and woe to all if she ever had to depart this earth without her heels and her silicone breasts and her lipo-suctioned stomach and thighs beneath that little black dress.

Woe is me for laughing at such perfection, unimpressed.

The truth of where I am in my life, and what I have, and how I give it all when I can to others is what keeps MY story so grand and worth more sand than all the beaches combined, although, in this body, all that matters is INSIDE, and not sun baking, or swimming, or shopping, or dining, or making up lies to refine me. I am THIS, just what you see, and if you don’t see me matter-of-factly then I won’t miss you, exactly.

Oh, and what I also won’t miss will be wishing I’m something more than I am which is smaller than my clothing size – but still ‘too large’ in your eyes… but that’s YOUR lie because you’re controlled through the media and told like a child what you should want and should need – and, furthermore, you are blinded by greed, and blinded by fright, and blinded through – God forbid – actually SEEING.

I ponder what company you will be to yourself in your house or your mansion with nobody else (all alone)… Maybe not now, but just wait for a while and you’ll age, and you’ll moan, and you’ll wish you were at home with your path and your decisions and your personal mission… and I’ll envision (through my second sight: a premonition) a TRUE vision of you enslaved to your fantastical and ‘brave’ dream of nothing but perfection; of washing your life of mistakes like erasing infection… but it’ll all be fake… And, sure, it’ll be your cake and you can eat it too, but don’t go waving it in MY face. I don’t want any of yours, no matter how hungry I feel, and regardless how poor.

You are a disgrace. I don’t need a cake to celebrate my present state or my coming fate. Nor would I offer you a bite from my own plate. The less of you I see the more I satisfy me, and my larger-than-life conscious mind will be FULL for eons more time, which is far, FAR longer than you’ll ever, in your ‘right mind’, be privy, or one day, ‘destined’ to find.

Now that’s a party in my opinion – perfect, infinite, and exquisitely divine.

NORTH SOUTH (HAIKU)

Magnetic vision,
quite the purpose for searching:
two hearts finding one

CHANCE TO TASTE (HAIKU)

Crawl to hungry arms:
inside, the love that builds dreams –
taste the chance to fly.

US LIKE CANDY (HAIKU)

Something greater (pain)
– dangerous to both our hearts –
eats us like candy

ATTACHED (HAIKU)

No strings more attached
smothering fate with kisses
than tasty white lies

SNUG (HAIKU)

This new vacancy:
the walls fit snugly around
where you last had not

PIECE BY PIECE

Bit by bit I’ll build you
until you forget you have no form

Dream by dream I’ll make you
as I pour your cold to warm

I’ll catch you in my blooming petals;
soft, the ground, my arms will be

Piece by piece I’ll fill you
yet, in truth, you’re filling me

Night and day I’ll ripen you
and grow you where you stand

Strong and proud I’ll mould you
while, in truth, it’s by your hand

Time will pass in moments
long in pause, and in-between…

yes…

My thoughts alone might write you
but, in truth, this need writes me

THE JAILED FREEDOM OF WRITING

Sour, my attempt to write –
the flavour lost in every bite.
Undecided words, unheard,
but seeping out, expelled,
disturbed: a self-invaded,
cornered bird, un-winged
and clipped from flight,
while

I rumble with poetic temper,
my bleeding soul,
in part, dismembered,
blank, un-whole, alone,
distended –
my belly full of passion,
yet, my appetite untended,
and

expression jailed and flawed,
dissolving quicker than it pours –
a vat of garbled, bubbling
troubled thought
that rivals typed impression sought
to pillage mind and spill from core.

Scored, the days it takes between,
in floor and wall,
to key the lock that binds
this isolation door,
ancient finds arising
in my lust for seeking more
and more –
buried words upended
with surprise, and unintended,
for,

from I, the Jailor,
baseless accusations rise,
lashing, fast, acidic wind
that primes the rhymes I tongue within,
and
never one to coat my words
too thin/too dry/too weak it seems
(by definition) I resist
to drown (at best)
or leak,
while anchored here, existing,
with unflinching frozen speech,
but

the accidental draining of my
purpose-tended bed of prose,
is waiting hand on foot
with sweetened
suicidal pensive throes,
as I,
with mocking rows
and rows of written doubt,
release, in lines,
my stomach
churning through and out
demands to hasten
one true last and final shout,
so,

this filtered care
that stains my lungs with ghostly stare
and soaks my throat
as vomitus
as stinging air
that leaves me rendered,
flailed and flared and wounded,
brooding, undeclared –

through THIS
the words escape,
an icing on the freedom cake
all cherry-topped, and cut, and baked:
a timeless meal to share
without the food to waste,
the friend to taste,
the key to exit,
smitten,
from this solitary mind-induced
persisting empty prison space.

POSTERIOR SUFFERANCE

This night carries me,
blinded,
in the back pocket
of dirty minds and
shabby dreams where I,
flat, and molded,
press against this folded denim,
warm and splayed with
arms outstretched,
longing,
for another day, but

what if I turn my head
to over-peek the top
of these fraying jeans instead,
grasping threads
to keep me still within its seams
– will the exhilaration
of watching where I’ve
just this moment been
allow me inspiration
– asleep –
– awake –
to boldly look,
clinging to the back end of
these thoughts that write me,
penned in ink:
a pre-determined book?

Perhaps I should just
– winded –
forward face,
ignoring the sour stench
of this unmoving,
walking,
waking race,
stalking through the darkness
in a covered veil
at quiet pace,
destabilising future steps,
accepting this acquired taste,
processing my obsessive needs
and bathing clean my crumpled face
in chafing tears that fear progression,
awash, alone,
in one more nightly session.

Devoid of light,
hear, ye, the theme:
this narrow, stunted, damned depression,
the fabric of a self made bed –
this
bottomless pit without expression
unstitching dreams of fortune
as I swelter, melting hope
again,
apathetic,
white of noise,
inside my broken head.

MOTHER AND WIFE

Bear witness
for in this river of flesh
I carry souls ashore
where countless numbers of
babes become men
become monsters, and then
become thrustly
and greedy
and desperately famished of reason
but too fat with ease, and
too brittle and fractured
of heart and of sense and, thus
absent of care
to repent or ascend
but instead
so depend on their
wafer–thin skin to protect
their descent
into watery storms
– into tangles of nets –
– into womanly curves –
and the blue, blue eyes of
breasted streams,
ungodly fresh sin,
and purposeless dreams.

Bear witness
as I birth these farmers of filth
who strangle the earth while
I patiently wade in the knee–high abuse
and the ocean of seed
to stand watch by their graves in,
where the no–longer–babes
(the sailors and cowards and bastards that dribble)
are caught in a wave
made of stone and soil (crippled)
and anchored and drowned
without sight, nor intent, but just
passage of life
for a time once less lived
due the freedom I
selflessly lost
but to generously give.

Bear witness:
I swell with the waters of life
– the mother and wife –
for an endless such blight
yet, still, I exist
swept aside
and, despite.

THE SOLD SOUL

It slips
– this new surrender –
past the rusted locks and caution signs
and crumbling roads of cul–de–sacs
and vacant lots
and open tracks
to freedom:

where conundrums play and secrets huddle
and bodies lie
and youth decays
– retired past expired days –

Engraved in time
cocoons and shells and nests are hung
and quartered for a chance at love:

the way ahead receding,
half behind and part enslaved
(a mask of promise worn from sale of soul to lucid grave)

And
– like an avalanche –
it falls in quick pursuit, this
multiverse of filthy guise
with liquid paths and dangerous eyes
and ruby coloured blushing cheeks
where
every lover’s heart of sponge or stone
descends to meet
while
heating for another touch
beneath the fraying sheets

And all the while
– in haste, not glory –
time, undressing moments as it passes,
flies away,
incarnate instead as flesh (again)
with wings that only beat
to re-transcend and scar
and mend
in pounding, swollen, rhythms
C
L
A
W
I
N
G
for the warmth of distance
**ROARING**
for a hurried end

So,

spaced between the
t i c k s and t o c k s
of darting pain
and thrusting cocks,
of cunts aroused, abused, and shamed,
a silence, near, deploys again:

the ever-caged
and emptied song
of lustful shame
and mouths and tongues
declining, fast at last
to go
from whence it came
to soak the mind
and strip the soul
and blur the lines
of time and toll

buried

in surrender, whole

KARMA

sometimes
mistakes are forever
and regret is the undercoat
that primes your life

perhaps foolishly
on the surface
it might seem calmer
(karma)
to forget the original dream
than to colour it over with
shades of new intention

when all you want to do
is bleed the red out of your eyes
until the copper rusts your face
and runs finally clear –
a dried salty ash
the only pock-marked
stain on your bloody canvas

the minimalist collector
your highest bidder

APEX

In the peak of a moment
– at the very point of desirous recognition –
one exists in the present
only to fade into the stillness of
hungry impression;
to fade into the memory
of what might never be again.

Temptation: one’s new master of control.