Theseus Before Me (a mess within this labyrinth)

Seems easy from the vantage point, held to east by some conjoined
Attempt at consternation – rage within me now – flare of gut and stern
And how just anything may falter. As men around the camp have taught
Us well to not resist, trained us in the arts of systematically say no.
Like age without you now – a dream wherein the name resounds like
David, Alexander – best among my worst in these familiar affairs,
These points of pressure. Tired and tearing from endeavour what
Said happy might retain; whatever they proclaim I must accept,
And to protect myself: I can. It’s the circumstance, I mean – it’s
Historical context. Here’s a visit: there’s a protocol to kneel, to feel
It aggrandise toward these fields of ars telesphora. Sporadical, and
Then: reoccurring currently when: abandoned to the circle of a buzz
It makes, the evils it perpetuates: insurge/resurges late upon this
Frame of mind, this fraught of thinking. Like a costume to the clothes,
Unsought, unwilling – you lay armour to the pose you see surviving
In a testament to free the weight of the world from me. It does not.
All is pointless. Every turn that’s tried is worthless as we hide from
What’s the else – animallike and treacherous – dead with the songs
Of night and all the privilege of someone this allowed to roam,
Thus free to feed. It acknowledges us now, and makes to meet me.
Arms the size of flesh it’s torn, cheap prophecy it rides on – diabolical,
And then: near galloping. As what laughter I find inside me is, first
Choked up, then unleashed. With a sword to the horns if you will –
As it wishes. A matter of pulse if it feels, erratic. Awash in blood.



To strain, or let the palate think itself selective.
As stag in a leper house might do, the act of coming
Clean could come right off you, thrill to the base of
Cut as you spill from the same tense gut you’ve filled
With a liquid pour, fire manifest in restive metaphor;
The best of my tearing urge to play an active role in
Loss – abandon to the sense – learn to keep by accident
As close to the skin I can. This is the all I own; what
Little I still care for. I am not a wealthy man. Still by
The measure of the trade I’ve picked, the interests
I keep in check – some shape of value is peaked,
And offered: in all manner of disgust, this waste.
To res-, or let what’s restless take some way in
Resolution – impressive or, restituting. Danger
Is a dogtag worn on neck, ankle-black in ink
Professing what the message is/could be.
It comes to me now in desperate moan.
Suggesting pain. Demanding sobriety.
It feels like the fix is sure – for him
Perhaps – just not for me.

Yuzi Possedis (a kick akin to relaxation)

Dare I indulge? Or does the absence that precedes me
Clear the space I need to see my path ahead?
Here is body at the surface I’ve prepared, marble-white
In singing praises to a state of vacant mind, these dead
Eyes staring and determined to resist, set fixed glance
On what’s effectively suppressed (or some would say,
Altogether disappeared). It pertains to a fear of choice,
Specific sphere of conflict – wherein devoid of moral act,
The same applies to counteract my plurals in exact,
Demanding singular. You may toy with facts, and you
May toy with the Idea – you may leave a trail of words
Back to the worship I deserve, but leave this decision
To me. Every heartbreak has its story. Victory is made
From what’s entirely a purest thing, surest thinking.
There to indulge – or else to atone – for submitting.


Leatherjaw (the grinding of bones as they expand)

It’s less a weapon than you think.
It’s not quite contemplation in this mode of speaking –
Rather something harsh to touch, robust and unappealing.
It resists this. It demands its definition.
Still by thinking up new words to give this feeling such a
Stupid name I know – the rhyme denounces it my own –
Four letters wrong – and meaning: to command a sun to
Still, this one unwilling to fulfill: his shadow form; unveil
Revealing by transformed – tormented – healing.
As if some ritual of harm could turn this stuttering around;
Provide old sounds to share the reading (as is read) to acts
Of seeing myself stare – loaded to the neck with death –
And wearing braided charms of fiber tear, cable ready.
So that letting of my weight becomes – by ample drop,
In frequent turns – this awareness I deserve to see the
World – through blur and flare – care and stir – nice
And evident – despairing.


Khand (an eastern hagiography)

It happens when the godhood does, by natural occasion.
In the expulsion of myself from self, the tendon breaks as
Sword inflames and I – by manner of prevention – prevail
In ample measure to attend my choice in simple declaration
Of revolt: that I am wont to make – but still is made – as
I take to the pressure of an end that does not come, some
Comfort seen escaping me. My wrists now drawn in ink by
One who sees caress in stab, resistance in this acheing –
Punch and drench in whole of habit kept to feel like, liking
It., or, imagining perhaps: another way to seem relaxed
When faced with this decision. To exist as a man does or,
Chase transcendence down these measures purely for
The thrill of base (if strained) desire. With the hands of
A god, in the blood of a martyr – whatever we say is an
Act of restraint. Speaking less and less. Growing louder.


Anagon (le nom d’Albe)

Under bruised eyes – over orange skies of Babalon,
Converted fields where beast is stirred; old dawn
Awakens. In the bringing of an up to down,
Red to white to brown somehow
Suspiciously reflects the fruits of labour I collect,
Love best kept beneath the belt in basic buckle sheath.
Tranquil, as the fire beyond this wall, the column’s vein
In all we know are temporary temples, methods of escape
We feel predate us.

So kneel that I may worship;
Ravage that I might take.
I am open now. Awakened.
And waiting.


Raw Egg & Psychoactives

6th, as in all acts of worship. Silence drains the walls and draws its lot;
A heavy pour starts spreading – what it means to summon god is now
Just show for other not in hearing to appear, exhaust and immaterial.
Like the sum of fear, and then nearly – determined enough to resist:
The oz it watches over me, makes chap of chafe and handles me in
Mastery, assent. Its breath communicating age in bouts of puff;
Smeared out, and searching. So that where the most would end,
He is beginning – ripe with the breadth of world, the width of
Heart – a size of hold in pointing out: this biblical proportion.
Green upon a devil’s eye, bountiful and smiling. Teeth made
Round by biting down on all that does surround me and, in
Efforts to restrain his thought, bring something like a want
To out into this dark of night, this stuck of being. There’s a
Presence in these words, clearest message in this rubbing –
That by force still feels confusing; by comparison, too soon.