sunset

I feel it in the rage

flowers of rhetoric and intrigue

wiping smog from my eyes

coughing in the wake of some machine

I feel it in the sorrow.

In the tireless wind that peels away the dust from the earth

In the reckonings of the future

As the tireless storm of life

Unravels us all

I feel it in the exhaustion

With bloodshot eyes

Tooth and nail

mechanical and artificial

An environment absolved of sleep and emotion

I taste it in the anger

Like a forest fire

The savagery of my terrain

Burning itself to cinders

Reigning in chaos

Immolating everything

In the tears I cannot shed

切腹

As bells falling
I hear it in the wind
In dreams of calling
where I can come again

as the heart of this furnace
if there was any way
In this land of make-believe
In the dream of the day

where chains are calling
In the gravel, on concrete
my depths remain so shallow
and I taste it in the heat

I argue for the justice
and I change with my gaze
and I've become lost
As a mouse, within a maze

compulse

Dancing on the shores
It is the liquid weapon
That generates the thirst
I can never quench
The Pursuit of epiphany
The saunter of currents
Feel the nexsi
Consumed in the drama of it all
Clear, without being hurtful
I wish to assimilate
This nexus of conditions
Like a grenade
Erupting everyone’s ego in the instant
the visceral part of me can awaken you

yet, they are proletariat
sloven and terse
as we become invisible to one another.
I have felt the desiccation of this rage before
And it plays like a charade
A recurring predictable plotline
Of venom and retribution
I grind at the cogs of our great machine
Rendered in strife
Forged in anger
Where the chiseler of reaction
Hangs like a treacherous chandelier
As I echo my fields
Deliciously seeking to encorporate
the whispers of clarity
have become drawn forlorn
In a house that reeks of urinal cake
Furbished in the contrast of self-pity and self-importance
As children, clustered in fear
at some confusing apparition
some kind of waking nightmare
that challenges their hopes and dreams
conflicting the ethereal places that cannot be purchased.

The instrument of my assention
compleat in its utility
forged in the tides of the temporal
everlasting in its implication
the kernel of such things
transcends these theaters
and I am whisked away in the wrinkles
folded into places that must be unfathomable
consumed in a desiccating fire
seeking to purge you in the flames
licking me like déjà vu
where I write the future,
one letter. at a time.