In The Depths Of Silence

Perhaps our tomorrow shall keel over,
drag its death into silence; whispered words,
but for now I will strike souls into life -
deadly configurations of language.
Poetry, it's scorned, I think, by dead eyes
as sparkles of freedom gather conscience,
it's a wonder any of us survive
in this helical state, where shapes revolve,
jewellery grins, the skulls are on wild lips;
ready to kiss the steam of yesterday.
Tomorrow I'll dream of suicide, crash
bricks of mad thoughts against the scenes of love,
for now though, this haze of disorder will
scramble across the notions of bad gods.
　
Poets don't care anymore other than
for their own goals of red recognition -
and here I sit and sleep in delicate
throes of - alive in a wasted battle.
Where are the visionary aspects in
spirits? Are we so bloody lost we scream
with imagination's derelict warmth.
There's no one left to bite our crayon wings,
flap your embarrassment across decay
while I, me, you, dissolve in pornography.
Tweaks in a matted world of illusion,
we spend time locked in escape's buttered cream,
and never think of the day yet to be.