Every museum has a basement; every mind has a locked drawer. Welcome to the smoldering remains of Planet Obscura’s regrettable verse. Here lie the ink-stained whimpers and rhythmic glitches that were never meant for the light of day. Handle with care and please… Burn After Reading.
COLLECTION 01 - Logged at 03:00 during the Great Static
What "X" Equals
SPECIMEN NO. 090 - A
driven mad by this aortic tickle
a flutter away from my windowpane
i am where you are breathing
waiting for the exhale, so that i might live
in the clutches of your iris
on the edges of your skin
silent footsteps of you echo
in the stifled space between my ribs
i lost communication with the head
now a stranger is whispering from my chest
in a tone i can remember
with a voice or maybe whimper
so forgotten, yet familiar
a ventriloquism
it speaks with logic's tongue
like it holds the conscience
voice grown demanding and deep in timbre
every day more impatient
each night the constant droning
my head kept out by incessant buzz
all it ever says is your name, over and over
like the answer to a puzzle
the solution to my wonder
what X equals
Chasers
SPECIMEN NO. 090 - B
like the sound of the sea
the sky too has waves
of liquid alchemy
and royal blue
the god of the depths
lifts his mouth to the sky
to kiss his watery death goodbye
and pass communion with the sun
his will pulses forth upon
sun, moon and tides
intricate dances
forever and forever
when the stars terrace the night skies
winds whisper precognition
in the next messiah's ear
it is their feathery voice i fear
while the asylum is thin
we run wild as sin
when the sea gives chase
pirates, thieves, exiles
congregate in churches and brothels
havens for all the shipwrecked of the world
when the sea gives chase
and the god of the depths
questions the god of the sky
his reply?
indifference to the plight of mankind
marionettes or victims of chance?
destiny wielded by their own hand
the skies are silent
we're written in invisible ink
on pages called centuries
given lives at least half our own
Bookends
SPECIMEN NO. 090 - C
No need to hurry
Fraught with excited motion
Our time is at the bosom
Newly born
Not an old man
With an expiration date.
I would wait millennia
Maybe I have?
One night in the wedding bed
One inch shy of the precipice
And moving forward.
If I dive in
Will you pull me down?
Placed beside your crooked crown
That I will set up right again.
I am your everything and you are mine
Doubt is a charlatan
If he reminds you otherwise.
Time in our pockets
To unravel as we see fit
Book ends that hold the universe between us