Here in the Mortar

[Class-Punk]

I recently finished some “prosetry” and decided to repost it from my blog since this part of the board hasn‘t got as many posts.

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Here in the Mortar

Trigger hands, no trigger head..

and councils of constellation,

and antonyms-- poison-doused tongues,

no more unity, while men with better ciphers

fade and disappear

to synthetic clicks and pounds.

Pound for pound, lethal formula bagged

crushed bones and pseudo-stardust

swallowed whole, gaping halfway out

the throats of ugly, uniform eyes,

but its nice

to see a smile.

Hidden trepidation mocks the surrounding environment, the fear assumes its rightful position as a result of inflexibility in greed; so truthful as to be so rightfully surreal. Eluding if not subtle, as the breathing mysteries it produces, trigger hands, no trigger head.

Holding hands with gods, till cancellation's bright color drips to handleless, red-handed; from every thieving heart, a looter's run for a soul, triggered red where murderer's murderer is crossbred. Dungeon authorities speak from the dead, "This is not the wheel that stretches your limbs."

And the darkness is so potent now,

so satiated with hatred and fear,

the collapse of the cards and spines,

tokens and birthrights, checks for repetition,

vestiges of the lost and insane,

a gesture towards the face for a funeral,

the underground laughter of adolescent pipe-dreams

wrapped up in this, the game continues its role,

wrapped up in this, but never a part of it,

and never apart from collapse

while on the wings of unknown systems,

the algorithms soar on their final breaths

clogging utopian sewers, dancing with the rats,

negation and vague necessities blurring on

with the story's ugly beauty;

each beginning is more real and superficial

than the last,

the clay falls off and the flesh hardens,

no search for symbols nor safety.

And when the odds and rules

crawl across fantasy worlds

built by bricklayers, out smoking-- will be eventually,

something happens other than rust.

Where old, unsafe death

cannot steal the subtle shine,

the preludes of aging things,

something happens,

here in the mortar.