Frankensteins fetid heart

 

We were so young,

inspires images

of flowers on a bright day,

but gravesides by dead light,

is a better fit, they would

later say.

 

You said you'd

hand your heart,

if I'd change.

 

So, I did.

 

I removed every

emotion that day.

I tore them into cobwebs

and threw them into the wind,

also discarding the glimpses

of sunlight

that weaved

through me.

 

I shaved my head,

those long locks

now left matted

on barbershop tiles.

All that mattered, I thought,

was to be in your whirlpool

as it swirled me up.

 

But this was not enough.

 

Your own distrust,

and those evil looks.

The words that cut. I severed

connections to all that I loved.

But still I was never

a dish you'd serve up.

I was left in the kitchen

with the flies feasting on me.

 

So, then I started to cut.

 

I removed my nose, replaced it

with one that you chose, I chiselled

at my cheekbones,

until they were sunken

and I was left bruised

and bleeding, I removed my skin,

and sewed it into something better fitting,

something you'd be willing

to be seen sitting with in a daydream.

 

But it wasn’t enough.

 

So, I removed

every day

that I'd laughed,

 

replaced them with

memories

implanted

in my head.

 

Then you said,

that I wasn’t the person

you fell in love with.

I was left just

 

a fetid heart

gurgling under

the spotlight.

A symphony for the singularity

 

At the dark end

of the street of time

the universe busks

carnival songs

to the swirling

clouds of darkness

that descend.

 

As the ringmaster

spins the last

of the plates

of day.

Letting

it wobble.

 

Before

 

Falling.

 

And crashing.

 

Breaking into fragments

and blowing away.

 

And when you

close your eyes

do you sometimes hear

the clashing of cymbals?

As symbols draw themselves

in archaic script on the

canvas of your mind.

 

If so,

then maybe

it has seen into you.

Hollowed.

Clawing at the

unspooling walls

in the interstitial void,

between yesterday

and the day forward.

 

And as it all fades to black,

A haunting melody,

a harpsichord

churning your

every

memory.

 

The being at the

end of time.

His swirling eyes,

looking deeply

into the cosmic stew,

his view,

a thousand planets

colliding.

 

The cataclysmic collapse

of all the atoms of this cosmos

into one singularity.

 

And you

 

just a dust speck

in the eyes of madness.

 

As silence falls.

Soundscape of chaos

 

In the silence

of a crashing

 

d

   a

      y

        d

           r

             e

                a

                  m

 

                       There is still one that sleeps.

 

For his story

was never complete.

History always repeats.

 

His horrors not final,

his creep not fully

etched into

your still warm grave,

where your bones weep

as the demented beasts feast.

 

For in the silence

                              there is a noise.

 

A sound

             that

churns

             the air,

turns

             your stomach

with fear,

              stirs the atoms

that cluster

              at your feet,

yearns for you

              to hear.

 

For when you hear,

you feel,

and when you feel

 

you

 

fall

 

deeper under

his spell

 

The hum

 

was never just a noise.

It wasn’t just a

catastrophic kaleidoscopic

soundscape of chaos,

it was a tearing of hope,

a moment of loss

as you walk in its echoes,

like a fog descending

or a mist that rises.

 

The hum is the god of all liars,

he mimics the day

by painting the night,

and he is

the fear

in the eyes

of children

too young

to speak

of the sights