Mare of Late Night Inconsequence

Final musings of the languished
death cult. Visceral. Death rattle.
Wigs upside down. Make-up makes the man.
Stiletto me this, my good, sir, and don’t forget
to strap it on. Help us support your pink habits,
hats, and manes. Ironic, thin lensed, bun-topped,
bike-rimmed, march through mullet and soft rounded,
gaping smiles teaching love and tolerance.
Beat it into their opposition with open hands
and open hearts, hoping their truths pummel souls
with the light divine. Reformation, the final reiteration
of false regulation. The bowels release their final bloat.
The fumes a familiar smell across borders. Erase.
Unnecessary platform streaming through the stars.
The night an eclipse on the nightmares of the day.
All things sutured to heal and reconcile.
The incisions scab dry as the differences
heal over. Purpose has found a place.

“Mare of Late Night Inconsequence” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved. 

Advertisements

Integer

Pulsars sweeping through the sky,
I become the sun of distant system
far away wanting nothing more
than to warm your life.
Visible hadrons in the sky,
naked to the distant eye,
cannot see what hopes
and dreams locked
inside my heart.
Expand, I breathe deep
with cosmic lungs
the dust of stars,
inhale the swarm,
fragmentary like eclipsing
planets of the sun.
Light fractures into shards
and melts into thin clouds,
glowing, emanate, celestial
swans with twinkling eyes
and dazzling tongues.
Whispers sweep far,
swift into this space,
gregarious place
of mild chatter.
Hearth with heart,
deep warmth inside,
pulsing, beaming,
still alive.

 

“Integer” is written by Michael Aaron Casares, and originally appeared in his collection of poetry This Reality of Man. Buy it now. All rights reserved.

 

 

 

Future Change, Present

A resolution is on the horizon.
A distant possibility sets permanent in reality.
The paranoid, the cynical, justified by the marred
truth and the absence of integrity associated with
the honor lost, crack their doors open. They sigh
deeply. They cry tears of disbelief. They were
right all along.

To pit man against man, to take the very essence
of living and strip away the conscience, is the malady
of promise. When given a soul, and given choice,
it expresses itself imperially; it goes forth and conquers;
it becomes a machine, a repetitious act that functions
without thought. It splices the genes of man. It is
homicidal. It is genocidal. It is suicidal. It seeks
the attention of the weak, and the presence
of the strong, to shrink away like a violet,
and cast its poison on us.

Chains.
Chains bedamned.
Lock and key.
Hoist away the plan,
cease all errant action.
Leave the fates of men alone.
Do not interfere with the spirit
of free will, it is not a choice to impede.
To betray the inner voice, to go against the tide
of will and understanding,
to give away the secrets of the universe,
the act of soul selling.
Don’t do it. Don’t get stuck
in the whirlpool of conscience,
a gravity thick, a crushing grip
of nothingness.
The masters of the universe
shall return again,
but their will to power
will not stand the tests
of time as it has before.

The indominable will of money men,
the malignancy of the host they consecrate,
the fashion of love they molest, redeem
bits and pieces, glimmers iridescent,
shards crystalline, magic cosmological,
quantum strings of nothingness
and everything. It is shattered before
them. It is hammered into pieces,
it is shown  to them like nostalgic images
rotating in the dreams of their memory,
when they dreamed, when they slept,
when they rejoiced in the world.
It is stripped their right of innocence,
and their right of immortality among the stars.
They will unbecome memories, and birth the
shadows of distant space, where it is cold
and black, and they can accost man no more.

 

“Future Change, Present” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved. 

 

Check out Michael’s Patreon page at http://www.patreon.com/macasares

NEW CONTENT COMING SOON!

Force of Hand

Blank slate inside my arms
cannot force the ink out of my fingertips.
That black swirl, stream of threading darkness
will not recede or flood these plains. Twilight
dancing softly, flapping waves silk in black
cannot remember; doesn’t want to, would rather
erase all those mistakes. The lines shall not
wash over me, they shall not exit my nose,
enter my mouth, move seamlessly from pore
to pore, such grace is stripped of me.
Parched and dry, the cracked mud warns me
about personality, says I should be loose enough
to change, to fit inside its cracks, to ease out
all the blackness melting until rivers become
valleys between the chips of drying clay and
my body becomes like it, of more practical use;
and I am to accept when time to start again.

 

“Force of Hand” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved. 

 

 

Maggot Drain by Rozz Williams

This is the end of the line/road come to a close.
Muted vision of the dead blends exhaustively
with the wretched night that binds it,
blinds us in wanton light—
a flight not so easily ignored
by those in whose arms death waits, enthroned…
These are the nights of wasted bones,
traced footsteps in mud, the dull thud
of laughter caught in leprous waves
crashed without mercy as a reminder
of a spent future, lost past, a void existence.
Time and again.

Wind blown
Sky scatters
Embryo in flames

But will it always incur so much unwarranted pain?
Clouds ripped open by a band of sleepless souls
intervening from the other side of life.
Throats cut like sacrificial lambs at the demon’s altar.
The seemingly endless invasions by huge, staring monsters
(those who go nameless among the largely unwanted masses)
occur every day.

I pass them by,
those gayly painted runners
in this mad dash to nowhere fast.
At last a slight relief from those
strangely demented eyes…
Seething, beaming wildly
in lonesome sunset to down.
Maggot-drain-brain-crabs/insect-larvae-sex-death strutter.
In the same breath, dusted nectar of heart’s blood gone to rust.
And I trust you’ve felt the same sharp, telling pinpricks
as our minds digress/regress.

Transformation into a new you must take place
like a pelt worn over milky skin and alabaster sheets
rolling off an unmade bed in bliss and the
Devil’s shattered kiss.
You gyrate for a dead world,
try to raise erections from its corpse.
Roll over and bite hard on that dead meat.
Beat it over and over again.

Well it has been a conscious decision on my part
to betray those digressions, although as you can see,
I sometimes fail, and lest I forget what brought me
to the first and last, it was orgasmic rush, hope, and trust
like flies with wings removed.

Paralyzed parasite that I have set my gaze upon,
how quickly you lose what I was craving,
raving mad and pleased to meat you.

…….Catch as catch can……..

 

“Maggot Drain” was written by the late Rozz Williams. This poem and other selections from his spoken word album, Whore’s Mouth. All rights reserved.

A Fire of Uncommon Velocity by Rozz Williams

Lecture of nectarines taking precedence over
the vast emptiness of my name and quickly depleting body
collapsed in holy withdrawal and a shivering wound left
unhealed by time or paranoia. Hopeless hope of nothing
to come but lonesome nights in the thick of nowhere.
Juniper daze and hold me over the barrel of your gun.
Ancient aneurysm of dysfunctional maladies,
bitter taste lingers on a tongue of misfortunate choice.
There, beneath hideous green/blue liquids await truths yet untold,
and by token of my own relinquished desire, a fire of uncommon velocity
burns the palate in star/space speed and brooding collapse…
Flat on my back, eyes turned towards heaven, black after that.
All else fades and in this haze of unequaled delirium,
I become the father who in life has evaded me
for all to see my religious frenzy played out
in turbulent half-acts at rosary pinwheels.
Blood drips wearily from the wounds
of childhood affliction, claws ripping inwardly.
Forget all I’ve previously tried to raze
and instead gaze upon the altar now assembled
to erase that which gave birth to this unfortunate
man/child. With a slightly crooked smile, replace torn,
umbilical rip cord in defense of my premeditated crime.
Unworthy bastard they call I.
And I alone shall stand  in judgement
of the mirror held before me.
Cracked down the middle
like quicksilver oozing down your golden throat,
a blood-letting jab through the arteries of stasis,
and chaos floods the body like a broken dream…
Holding on in bold-faced desperation,
holding on to one last fatal glimpse,
hands meet, touch, retract.
Burned to ember, weakness has
sunken in and taken its place at the head of this dark parade.
Stormtroopers attack, bringing up the backwash of bile,
a vile agenda lived out in monotonous pain,
forming shit soaked lives denied by those who fake at life.
Denied, maligned, redefined circles of shit costumed as shit,
cherishing shit as though we are indebted to it.
May we live to regret or forget?

This nightmare is in overdrive;
a fire of uncommon velocity.

 

“A Fire of Uncommon Velocity” was written by the late Rozz Williams. All rights reserved. 

 

Who’s In Charge Here (Beneath the Triumph of Shadows) by Rozz Williams

Old ass monkeys swivel in the discuss/fiscuss lovers
yahtzee style. Circle of viral disease spent in whirlpools
of light hatred, beginnings of the new world…
“Jimmy trick,” the space captain moaned from beneath
the cosmic red rays of radioactive dead curl.
“You make my heart sing.”
A homosexual antibiotic
for no sex in venereal hallway sleaze.
Cross its path if you must.
Return head-burn, separate the vile
scent from a misspent youth
uncouth elders sent these children
to their demise, unrecognizable limbs
sway in palm shadow.
Rigorous waves that I ride on, endless (so it seems),
corrupt crawl, withdrawal – bent on trembling knee prayers,
thrust up, thrown to sky, eyes torn out and tattered rags of emotion.
Devotion often squandered on a heap of melting flesh, mesh,
teeth, howl aloud, “Forget me not!  Forget me not!”
Recognition blurs and spurs me on to further acts of degradation.
No boundaries, no limits, no space beyond acceptance
of the mass genocide to come.
Squealing for a fat tomorrow never known.
A quick infliction and the last convulsions of life into death begin
and while you may think it morbid, the reality will not hide repulsion.
It breeds like a plague-ridden flea from carcass to carcass,
door to door parasite, sign your name to the list of those dying.
Get a hold, grip tender with your organ…
Sugar sex on a bed of holy whoredom.
There is no bill of sale with this love.
Let it all be known.
In false dedication, I defile all before me.
Medicate the shell of a body you thought was alive.
Hobby-horse-goat… gloating/bloated,
candy cotton’s spun its web of sickening, sticky rush around you –
nothing as it seems.
Apocalyptic memory soon come true,
Riding the pale horse which taunts you,
haunts you with its wholesome/precome illusion.
Suck you fuck, and suck until I cum!
What might it entail to flaunt you as the hustler you’ve become?
Hole in the head, dreading the next image:
A haystack needle mile, descending mend-tack pile ‘o skin
and we cannot escape the inescapable.
How could they?

“Who’s in Charge Here? (Beneath the Triumph of the Shadow)” was written by the late Rozz Williams. All rights reserved.