A_Raindrop's_Pulse

Twilight always leaves me slightly mystified and horrified;
it’s hard to explain why but has to do with when my dad died.
Time cannot choose between the light and eventual darkness,
a hesitating dance between these two perpetual pseudo-partners
and an alliteration that offers a personality impromptu,
and no matter what I choose I always regret what I hold on to.

The only reason that this rhymes is so I can keep a sense of order
in a world that lacks all purpose, a river without water.
I don’t know why I’m writing this but I guess it’s a confession,
a reflection on my choices and inevitable life-lessons.
Melodramatic? Maybe, but I could never really tell,
your situation’s just as real as your own heaven, your own hell.
And don’t you dare tell me that we create our own reality
because who would choose a horror over a fucking romantic fantasy?
Yes, I will sound angry because I feel I never had a choice,
if it was ever offered to me it was in the form of inaudible white noise.

Maybe I chose the white noise over a clear, distinctive voice.

This is why I refuse to believe in spirits and in souls,
and choose to believe instead in matter, atoms and black holes.
It’s so much easier to blame this failure on unfortunate biology
than to blame it on an accidental divinity obsessed with misogyny.
I chose to trust my head more than I’d ever trust my heart,
because the latter requires another, and that’s where it all falls apart.
That’s why I became obsessed with intellectual ostentation;
so I could cover up and hide from my emotional degradation.

I’ll probably live my life alone and have myself to blame,
so yes, I’m my worst enemy and it always turns out the same.
You don’t need to remind me of what happened two years ago,
trust me out of everyone around I’m the one who fucking knows.
You can only try to guess and attempt to interpret
but I can guarantee that I know you’ll only manage to usurp it.
I can’t help that lovers’ words are always too few and indifferent,
that I can’t erase this paranoid and irritating imprint,
or that I’m horrified that every word is untrue and a lie,
that there’s always an end or apathy towards that which is implied.
That I struggle for their affection because I’m empty and alone,
that I cause impatience and disaffection to be sewn,
that I always fall into the same sad habit
of wanting everything and being upset that I can’t have it.

Maybe I’m selfish, and I can’t even grasp it.

I hide all of this fear away from my loving parents
because I’ve put them through enough and I know that they can’t bear it.
So every day is a facade with a smile and excuses
that cover up the blades in my third drawer, all my nooses.
I’m morbidly afraid of being abandoned in eternal twilight.
It wakes me up at four in the morning and keeps me up at night.

I can’t even write anymore because I’m out of energy.
Please don’t reply with relations and your sympathy.

I once met a girl by the seaside,
out on that jutting coastline across this road.
She was beautiful… Is beautiful.
Her eyes were a deep lake of azure,
our deep lake of azure.
The days passed as dreams and in my dreams I saw her still,
and when I wasn’t dreaming she was my dream in motion.
The moon and lake shone bright and full those nights.

I once loved a girl by the seaside,
where the sun catches the ocean at just the right angle.
She was perfect… Is perfect.
But love’s nature of inconsistency exists no matter what,
and the lake began to dry up in her eyes…
It hurt to watch, helplessly throwing water in from my tears.
But no matter what I did, I couldn’t cry her a river…
I couldn’t cry her a lake.
The moon and lake were beginning to dim.

Trying to live without you is a paradox,
since without you, life loses its new-found context.
I can’t smile back on the memories…
I never wanted you to be a memory.

I can’t move on because I can’t live a life in the shadow of these memories.

I once lost a girl by the seaside,
where the ocean roared and storms were violent and cruel.
She was everything… Is everything.
Words slowly became weapons, and her eyes had dried up.
Our deep lake of azure has dried up.
The days pass as mundane blurs, and I still see her in my dreams,
the kind that wake you up and don’t let you fall asleep again.
Everything I see and do has been tainted by her memory.
The moon and lake are cold and lifeless now.

Girl by the seaside, you never cross my mind,
because that implies your momentary absence.
I still scream your name out to the sea,
and write our names in the sand…
Even though the waves wash them away day by day.

Girl by the sea, I’ll always wait for you,
out on that jutting coastline across this road.
Now matter how hard it tries, a centipede can never be a butterfly.
No matter how hard they try,
and no matter how similar they are,
you were my only butterfly…
Are my only butterfly.

Until my voice fades into silence,
I’ll scream your name.

Come.
To the blooming garden of Eden.
Look at the bees, the rabbits, the birds,
the gushing river, the bursting seeds
down there in the fertile soil.

Taste it.

The dissonant duet of the moralistic mockingbird
and the calculating crow
travels along the curves of Eden’s hills.
The river is starting to froth, and the trees begin to moan.

Lick it
gag
drip out

Please, let’ just have dinner in candle-light.
I just want to be able to hold her
without the lamb’s blood crimsoning our white lotus.
Please, I just want to trace patterns on her hand
without the goat’s eyes always watching from behind the orchids.

Slick
saliva
sloppy
goo
faster
scream

Watch from behind the apple tree,
as Adam and Naamah lay in sin.
Purity’s murder of crows choke the light of the sun,
whilst the unnerving trumpeting starts to signal
the temple of Solomon’s destruction.
And the sinful seed is sewn.

Welcome, to the burning garden of Eden.

I’m so sorry…
No matter how much I wish to just
have dinner in candle-light, hold you,
trace eternity on your hand…
Its eyes will always follow me.
I’m so sorry.
The truth is hard to

swallow.

Cherry blossoms shyly carress me
as they’re tossed about by apathetic attempts of a breeze.
Stumbling towards eternal rest and clarity,
they begin to sink towards the inviting soil.
They’re tired
Their candyfloss hue has been drained
and their skin has been hardened and creased.
The moon sings its indifferent lullaby
as the petals finally reach their desired grave.
They’re happy. They’re certain.
But again the breeze ressurects them,
and they’re subjected to another hopeful falsehood,
with promises of bliss in eventual rest.
I hate this uneasy breeze.

My sweaty palm grabs one of the petals and I run,
fighting the nausea and holding it back.
This stubborn snow reflects a naive fool
and slowly steals the colour of the cherry blossoms
as the sun lurks out from behind the horizon.
Everything is a sickly dissaray of oranges and pinks,
and I throw up from the deceitful flashbacks they bring,
reminding me of times when I’d count the stars,
knowing that I’d reached the correct total.
I protect the petal in a glass box
and pray for the hourglass to be tipped upside down,
even for just this one virgin of innocence.

The glass box shatters in response,
each shard a past tear that dissapeared with the gust.
The petal is plucked and again innocence is tainted,
the final performance of the unwilling waltz with the wind.
The blossom stops and bows,
and this time, the breeze leaves it to fall.
As it lands, it gives a sigh of relief,
and the sky cries with me as it wilts.
I scream as I look around,
taking in all the futility that blooms
in this shameful garden of delusion.

Perhaps I can’t stop the breeze,
but I’ll stop the cherry blossoms
from ever blooming again.

This elusive and lukewarm sense of self
that echoes between the pillars of truth and perception,
trickling from my hand like a loved one’s ashes…
One day, it will end.
Right now my foetal dream has no form,
but is merely a shadow in the cocoon of my heart,
with lacewings wishing to be illuminated by the sneering sun.

It will not suffer the tragedy of the butterfly’s lifespan,
or take the form of a river which dies into a stream,
weakly pulsing through a deciduous forest’s virulent vein.
The swaying sands of the scorched expanse sigh,
“It is better to have loved and lost
than to have never loved at all”.

The answer to that lies with
the paraplegic Cupid.

Look up.
See the sparrows slowly circling in the summer sky,
the harbingers of love’s lamentable tides,
winged hangmen of a passionately intertwined tomorrow.

I don’t know if I’ve met you yet, but you’re so beautiful.

Standing atop that isolated, skeletal spire,
with your shadow ominously distorted against the sun,
it proves that joy and sorrow will always lie too close to one another.
In your hand you hold a pomegranate,
the key to the Paradoxical Paradise.

Systole of September,
Diastole of Decay.

Once I have climbed the spire’s walls of ivy,
and join you on the dizzying summit,
my foetal dream will hatch, spread its lacewings
and embrace the ever-expanding sky.

But first, we need to kill the sparrows.

And please, please…
Throw away the pomegranate.

I’ve been looking for that love found in a lake of azure
with a fluorescent Venus in its crystalline reflection,
where two lovers share their first kiss underwater.
Where aster petals are the stars of the water’s surface,
and firflies faintly illuminate the sky with orange,
and the harp’s echo of their ballade resonates,
“je pense que je suis en amour”
in the key of E-flat.
They sink deeper and deeper…

Where in each other’s eyes they can see
a poem of parallel footprints in the sands of time,
and around the lake grow glass evergreen trees
to pay delicate tribute to the sapphire roses
as they whisper in serendipity,
“ich denke, ich bin verliebt”.
They sink deeper and deeper…

Where the entire scene is kissed by ambrosia’s fragrance
whilst a future is sealed by interlaced fingers.
Parched grass, leaves of crinkled copper,
parades of snowflakes and processions of blossoms
shall all hear their heartbeats’ symphony of A’s and C-sharps
as Eros sings his sultry soliloquy,
“penso di essere annamorato”.
They sink deeper and deeper…

Pursuits of the heart yield only companionship,
but in searching for a friend, one will find their symmetrical heart.
I should never have looked for that love found in a lake of azure,
because in the end it has found me.
Now, when I open my eyes, I am safe to say,
“i think i’m in love”.
We will never stop sinking.

No more of love’s arrhythmias.

Look at all the smart suits clapping in unison
as they exchange tepid, formal pleasantries.
If those faces turn left, you will see Thalia laughing;
if those faces turn right, you will see Melpomene weeping.
Look at them march to the monochromatic factory in uniformity,
the ignorantly narcissistic sadomasochists.
Whilst waiting in line, they peel away the flesh of fingertips.
Fireflies without their lights.

The Mona Lisa watches in the way that she always has:
unflinching, unnerving, unfeeling.

You, with those cold and faulty eyes:
you carved compassion from your skin,
so I sliced sympathy out of mine.
Yes, I know not everyone is like that,
but then give me a reason to be progressively persuaded.
You constantly hide behind immaterial justifications:
age, experience, maturity, acceptance, understanding?
Don’t make me laugh.

Your hesitant hands are the reason that
dreams are only that: dreams.

Morality has hanged itself from the seventh rafter
with the rope of indifference which you gave it.
Justice screams as she’s humped by Apathy in a barn,
whilst Order and Control lick their cracked lips.
The perverted pleasures of group-rape.
Compassion has been castrated
and now slithers back into Hope’s uterus.
Repetitive miscarriage.

The sun is nothing but a deceitful irony;
why illuminate a world obsessed with blind following?
The reason that the moon and sun never rise together
is to remind us that one will always dominate.
Possible progress will always be drowned
in the woeful well of hypocritical judgement.

Have you all gone deaf to the forgotten fact?
“Truth is never found in numbers”.
Humanity’s season of spring floats down the River Styx,
whilst its echoing threnody eventually fades into nothing.

That’s right, little girl, as you walk down the pavement;
there’s a reason that dove is being decayed by ants.