fotograffiti88's blog: "Written Works of a Druknen Irishman"

Why am I here? Grey matter invaded By violent jackhammers Simple query evolves into Consuming question Pulling me through Mind-field of barbwire roses Enigmatic solutions Beyond my comprehension Offering brief glimps Of the answer To uncanny riddle Formed in the spiraling insanity Spiritually induced frameshift Tribulations of self-inquisition Entropy erases rigor mortis Conundrum remains unsolved

When Tired and worn Weary soul Hidden behind Leather and scars Broad shoulders Carrying worlds Not my own Nerve of courage Feeding swarms of Parasitic performers in Characterized friendships Angelic heart Forgotten and unnoticed In the treads Of boot heels Thoughts wonder To lingering question When will Ancient hands Guided by love Skin flesh from soul Carry me back To start again?

Welcome The welcome mat Tattooed upon My back Bids you to Wipe your crap Upon my flesh And trounce My heart With hap-hazard abandon As you rummage Through my soul Pillage my hidden treasures Rape my self-esteem Burn my integrity But at least You wiped your feet Before you entered And didn’t leave Me with more crap Than I already had.

Wedding Band Feathers of an angel Slice through me Like razor blade ribbons Of a harpy’s song Binding me to the doom Of immortal love and damnation Faustian wishes Granted in perversion By opium house djinns Wizards watch in amazement As imps and fairies Host mythic orgies In my mind The dragon in my groin Breaths fire across The wasteland of heaven Between her thighs

War Photographer Disturbingly attracted By the rancid pheromones Of rotten blossoms Of flesh and blood The writhing swarm Of new born maggots Like baby’s breath And honeydews Click, whirl, click, whirl Violence engraved Grotesque collection Of barbaric atrocities Documenting inhumanity In its gory glory Images too unreal For engrossed public To consciously digest Click, whirl, click, whirl

Value Silent contemplation Sitting here in the throng Alone in thought As life counts down And I wonder If anything That I have to say Is worth the cost Of the ink and paper

Uninspired Lack-luster words Flutter like a dying butterfly To the vacant page Upon dried out pens And stubby pencils This creative soul Abandoned by inspiration Has nothing to give Nothing to say Nothing to add To the massive collection The world has amassed Shallow attempts At being unique At being fresh At slapping the community With something new With something Worth reading Worth admiring Or even worth hating So this is it This is the best I can muster The butterfly is dead And has left a mess Of colored powder upon the page But I’ve seen it before.

The World Lied The world, full of candy coated dreams whispered “forever” in my mind as I looked into her eyes and I loved so much, so deep that I staked my soul on that single word. So sure she would always be there; but the world lied and with uncaring hand took claim to what was mine and took everything from me in a single frame. All I had left was my anger, my rage, my pain and I wanted to impress that image of the broken me upon the rest of the world like a red hot iron searing flesh with a permanent mark.

The Past The past haunts us Like a scorned lover Kicking us in the gut And unexpected assaults Strike fierce and true And leave scars that run deep How many times Are you willing to be kicked How many times Are you willing to be struck From behind by Your own actions?

Sunday Mornings Fingers move Like rabid children Stalking the future Gliding over Ravaged sheets Covered in evidence Of little deaths Like proud battle scars Eyes open to confirm What hands reported From the crime scene Perp has left the building Leaving behind Bloodhound trails Of sex and perfume Double helix stairways Forensic signature I cannot read But well paid For her stories Slow pile-driver Hammers behind Glossy windows Still bloodshot Gray matter mosh pit Throbs to the pounding As the Merry-Go-Round Blurs images of Scattered colored glass That once held Magic potions Which brought me here Sunday morning rituals Shit, shower and shave Bread, wine and confessions Weekly redemption Costing less than Saturday’s sins