Grave Gospel

All hail to the pyrrhic vitriol.

Invest in the injection of independent venom.

A high’s temporary grace in bitten ankles,

breaking the arms of armistice in bombshell declarations.

Arguments versus the severity of uncertainty,

imbalanced by bridge diving ideals.


All thanks to the victory of circumstances,

Appeased to the inglorious made glorious.

Induced into be the imaginary reality

where harm relapses are the savior kings.

Cede away the necessary corners to imperial greed,

the self deconstructed imprecisely.


Away to the current light of day.

In slumber now inside the drugged past,

prancing about dreamscapes alien to actuality;

a happy factory prison given false meaning

in the decaying light of dead calendar years,

the best parts repeated to ignore the faults.


Amen cried for the scrawled trails.

Deliverance arrives accelerated beyond time.

Purpose is a six-foot ditch of unmarked renown.

Understanding comes through necessary silence.

Continuation be met with conclusion.

The self destroyed quietly.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

She Will Be Next

Snake ropes operate as vines around an estate.

Inflicted are the faults.

Inflicted are the flaws.

Strange, the way disease becomes our medicine,

diagnosed in scribbled notes and urges for the masochist,

embroiled as we come to be in the fiction of reality.

To find screaming solitude in crowded rooms;

boundless exile read between the lines of forced empathy.


Without a day to live in the shoes of another,

how quickly it comes to be that we reduce ourselves to atrophy

in a seduction by a remedy conflated with the irony:

That which is held behind the shield is what plans the fatal wound.

That which is ignored in the unspeakable clatter of bottles.


Is it inadequacy that plagues the mutual condition of predetermined graves?

Swerving memories collide into the present reel;

trauma’s swinging wild in the blurs of trust and liars,

where all the same are reduced to those to bear the blame.

Is it the guilt of the survivor, clutching to reminders,

collecting cuts from a paper trail of marked wrists and circled calendar dates?


Inflicted are the drifters,

abound in life, placed in a mind unaware,

seeing only the passing glimmer of the model citizen,

losing sight of the dim interiors where the paint peels at the edges,

presenting a structure splintered at the hinges.

What more but another day losing to the struggle,

time blended under moon and sun as if neither rose or fell.

Shifting weather forgets the fair friend under a depleted atmosphere

where clouds are the sky’s absolutes,

and the ebb and flow from rising to sleeping comes only in resolute grey.


Among us all are we all that see the absolute alone,

steadfast in the worry of showing too deep into the bone

where the sad secret of holding on to tomorrow is but a thread of marrow.


To navigate by a landmine society,

it seems strange when the explosions resonate;

a shockwave per decimal shaved off,

concealed in black dresses and shuffled eulogies,

prayed away until another wanderer is pushed to demise.

It bites until being is consumed.

The urge astounds until it crystallizes in weariness,

uncomfortably understood,

betting seconds away as a clock’s hands unceremoniously expire,

as we all find ourselves out of time eventually.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

Did the Forest Ever Grow?

Weapons come undone as a stray glance empties my ammunition.

Armed with rehearsal,

I’m reminded of the cold embrace of insecurity

that possibility pierces straight through

when I dare to place a thought behind your eyes.

An unexplored galaxy lies somewhere out of observation

that no level of telescopic reality can define.

Limited to the infinite thinning tunnel of secondhand guesses,

let reason slip into the wind that sets forward poorly aimed ambitions.


Not a leg to stand on beside the crutch henceforth abused

where I dictate direction to a singular option

based off of the emotion that fails to exit from the boundaries of action.

Flowered sentences sprout the prose the ear salivates for,

ever failing to see replication in how a step forward equals a step retreating;

a wanting hand receives no return;

a plan to silence the silence nullifies all sound.


It’s turbulence in nothingness

with the apparent dismantled,

relishing in manufactured revelations

only brought to form in twilight telephone calls with loneliness on the line.

It’s a sign to be uncovered in quieted inquiries;

the understated aftermath of a carefully unbalanced conversation,

artfully articulated yet blank enough for distance.

It’s a sign to hear in music that screams connected names,

yet come the inevitable skips on wax, I’m fumbling to justify

how your little details are but the sum of their parts

and the tale they spin is what I use to fulfill the empty spaces.


It’s all I already know but refuse to truly know,

and now having sights set on the unsubstantial incorporeal,

I craft adoration for the invisible,

constructing ghosts out of deceased concepts,

living a forever pretend story immersed in allegory

where the meaning I placed into rehearsal relies on what you would never do;

what you would never say;

what you would never see;

but what I’ll always try to make,

for it’s the best I’ll be able to take:

A petrified crutch on a maimed limb.

It won’t last much longer.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

distance is fondest

diet affection

in throes of malpractice

since the new arrangement

tried in the jury of our ill judgement

and ushered out the door hastily,

now knocking aggressively.

could perceive the volume increase

even with flies exiting our minds


in and out of our mouths,

sewing the distrust revolving about.


false truth and four truths,

or pick the harsher route.

no better than Russian roulette games.

don’t spot the difference between lies.

every move improvised during destruction or construction.

save the dramatics for the newer arrangement.

tell me it’ll fix things for real.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

He Sure Did Try His Best, Right up to When He Stopped Trying His Best

It’s a healthy alternative when ingested internally.

It’s not a wayward strike against another hull.

I’m calling the shots to aim the shots and down the shots.

The pain’s a construct I prop up on sinew’s brick and mortar,

eroding into tsunami waves that rise without the grace of prediction.

Weather calls for whether or not it wants to witness violence.

I maim the desired target on the desired time.

It’s a healthy alternative when I keep my hands to myself.


Self-made timeout corner session,

making notes on the new scar messages.

It’s fine enough when you’re not peaking.

Keep those eyes off of my prize.

This tumble is going to cover a lot of ground.

They’ll fail to see so long as they forget to see.

Turn and let the tragedy write itself out of gas,

and the smoke can dissipate as the whispers of remembrance.

Checkmate, No Turns Taken

You scored victory and took up the pen’s shovel.

Strokes move earth to migrate problems into trenches.

Bury it and patch over it with rosery:

the beautification of misery.

What a stunning scene you’d never portray;

a display that great lengths would never be provided to.

The loser reads the history in upturned soil.

Fables are only the imagination of separate souls.

One size fits all fails to fit all

once minds break out of the reign of normalcy.

Fantasy is the wish of the defeated after checking the pages,

realizing the placement or lack thereof,

persuaded to obey the conquistador.

Change of the language or cut off the tongue.

Lost sway with a nature’s touch.

Full dependency on the nurture.

This is the best that could be discovered.

Goodbye to the Beautiful World

It stares back with a laugh like malice.

Rapid-fire grins shot against demand,

straight across the bow at sundown,

prepared to blockade exits in a hedge maze,

thorns stood to be sentries in solitude.

Encased in monochrome elegance around whatever surface,

colorless in the eternal reel of the past,

bending to attach across any expanse of progress

lest its unshakable presence does battle with forgetfulness.


Temptation laced with nostalgia’s aroma,

lacing dalliances in quicksand,

twisting about at the threat of finding where the particles go,

yet alone in desire’s thought to plunge and discover.

Consumed by the weathered discard of nowhere lands,

tasting descension in its bitter embodiment.

Enamored by and kept at the behest of misery’s scent,

matching to the enthralling throes of scratched forms.


The pain is the beauty to understand.

The beauty is the sour grace of going under.

The mangled knee is consequence.

The lesson is in circumstance.


Find it in propaganda tongues taped to billboards,

towering monoliths of the mausoleum to shrunken ambition.

Witness the eras erupting between a smile and the present.

Define the error in sallow cheeks,

dragged down,

drugged to Hell and back,

less color than the last,

less color in the next,

where within withered a will to survive.


The pain is the beauty of observation;

an exodus of being caught in the crevices.

The pain is the beauty of understanding

what happened was the glory that can never be returned.

It will linger but in distance, separated.

The glory is the best

and it has already gone.

~

( ❤ Mitch)


Modern Decay Story

Not closer and no sooner.

Sitting on the curbside of expectation,

glancing back at brick-and-mortar dreams;

all of the stillborn schemes we could never recover.


No better and worse off,

parading out exhausted, familiar jokes,

seeing fate in future dates several steps behind,

where thirtysomething is where life proceeds to halt.


Resting to laugh it away,

twiddling thumbs to whittle down seconds,

waiting for resurrection to roll in.

“Any moment then, any moment now,” so she says,

arms crossed over her chest as if dressed to mourn.


No lower and steady in shock,

losing track of the tiny little mistakes

our mutual avoidance allows to plant within,

until a photograph of affection is a field of dandelions.


Not ahead and not moving,

gilding ignored caution with glory,

professing truth in the art of a modern decay story;

the only value viewed in life from piling hospital receipts.


Caressed to hide it away,

running hands past to thaw stalled blood,

hoping resurrection is rolling in.

“If nothing else, then nothing else,” so she says,

praying to our cynicism that they’ll lay a tree for us.


Glory through dirt then,

when all has gone and been through with,

and dandelions parachute heavenwards out of spring,

scouring the geometry of clouds for an edge.

If they never come down, perhaps there’s a home.

If you and I never come down, perhaps it’s amazing.


Purpose in falling leaves then,

when what needs to be said beyond this

resides in what will never be read by any passing,

but it can never be said it wasn’t there.

It can always be said we were there.


Fell mute to scare it away,

inelegant lips skirting a quiet drama,

staking all on resurrection rolling in.

“When emptied out, then emptied we go,” so we say,

adrift in a cemetery for weeds.

~

( ❤ Mitch)


Sprint in the Stillness

Engulfed in constancy.

The unwritten intangible

prods at pillars.

Flesh trembles at verbal shells,

sawing courage into dust.

Widening eyes versus narrowing trails.

The aggressor blinks last.

A dropped guard at an ill time,

victimized by decision,

in reverberating consequence for indecision.

Dissolved views,

elusive to grasp,

careening for the gutter.

Crumpled paper ideas.

Bravery reflected in razor packs.

Be it only temporary in sleep,

disequilibrated through conversations in comatose,

grinding teeth restraining a nerve,

dropping weapons for rest.

In this stasis,

rendered obsolete in status,

hemorrhaging to spite paper bandaging.

In this stasis,

all dreams stagger.

Poor reaction of careless construction.

Shine dulled in rust.

True indication of complacency;

a conclusion presumed.

~

( ❤ Mitch)


Open Palm to Psalm Zero, Eviction Notice Chant

What a pretty portrait to paint on a Sunday.

Wine red in artery lines.

Wipe it clean over the canvas.

Delightful!

Achieving the dismal.

Becoming dismalism.


Resurrect in a week’s middle to end.

Axe’s grind requires a feast.

Feed the engine the entrails of dreams forgotten,

dismantled surgically in the realism lens.

Congratulations on nothing!

Accomplished the dismal.


Reborn in ash but choking on the remnants.

Phoenix fire remedy a death march melody.

It all is DISMAL.

DISMAL.

DISMAL.

DISMAL.


Recalibrated to perform the ritual.

Liquor up the boys to subdue the round’s impact.

Cubicle coffins wrapped in bows,

tied over in suits and white fence security.

Wine red to whine about in desires for an end’s dead end.

How very DISMAL to say!

DISMAL TO SAY.

DISMAL.

DISMAL.

D

I

S

M

A

L.

~

( ❤ Mitch)