Relentless

The beat of life pulses through me. Relentless. Lights flash through fog, and some dance, while others see monsters and run. Relentless. It chases those who run, haunting their thoughts. Relentless. I will never let you go. You will always stay with me. Relentless. The fangs of summer will come down and envelop you like a letter that says both goodbye and afterward. Relentless. The skyline of the city is the profile of my face. Relentless. Say goodbye to the axe, and come with me. Relentless. Lens flares overstated my point of view, and my eyes will drill a hole into you that will sink into eternity. Relentless. Grinding and gnashing of eyeteeth, sharpened to needlepoint speed. Relentless. Vibrations of color and sound enclose and display a dancing figure skater. Relentless. Does nothing make common sense to you? Relentless. I am falling through the dark into the next era of life, and I like it. Relentless. One thing into another, another day, alone together, sharp lines on a cutting skateboard. Relentless. Pulsing through me. Relentless. You will never go. Relentless. Go ahead; go away; far away in another dry land; as far as the eye can see; the apple of my eye; a poison apple. Relentless. It will never stop. Grinding my bones together, crushing my life for the elixir of the young, mortal gods. Relentless. A laundry line turns to flat line: white lines sear my flesh, holding me back as I champ at the bit. Relentless. Black and white and grey turn to red. Relentless. The end is inevitable, invisible, immoral, irrelevant, irritant, insidious, incredible, insipid. Relentless. 

My First and My Last

Can anything really compare to pure sound? Waves of emotion washing away emptiness like the flotsam and jetsam of my brainwaves, influenced by the rising of moons circling worlds other than the one I live in. Nothing will prepare you for my mind, and nothing can. Dystopian eras rise and fall in the realm of the Empress, and she wisely decides to let time take its toll. Her Guardian, the King in her heart and the Prince in his world, chases away the sadness like the wind chases the russet leaves of autumn, while the Lord of Foxes sees all and partakes of nothing but the best the world has to offer, included in nothing while influencing everything. The Emperor of Dragons, while a Lord in my land, my mind, guards thoughts and hearts from evil, though not the darkness. And the last, the quiet, the simple Healer, content to stay in the background, content to never stand out, but always there, always watching, never judging. Paramount importance means nothing, when my world flies as straight as the shaft of my arrow. Hands emerge out of the darkness and stretch out, imploring for help, for mercy, for blood and food, for souls, and I turn them all away. A straightjacket of iron envelops my thoughts, but it is one of my own devising. I need it, when a stray thought can pluck a stream from the flows of time ad matter, flinging them out into grey space, or ravage a world, splitting it in half and hurling it to places I would not wish anyone to be. Ever shall I remain, while my blood flows in another’s veins, and never will you see the end of it. My worlds are without end, and they are merely the gemstones in my crown, my coronet. Imperial and eternal, mysterious and ethereal, strange and familiar, haughty and distant, suave and slick. Such a way with words, and so sharp at times, you could slice yourself in half without a second thought. Neverchange everchage: the ocean, the desert, the caverns, the face of the moon. Winding through the lives of others like a ribbon threaded through jammed machinery. Look, make notes, but don’t remember: save your memories for things that you can understand. Things no one can understand will be shown to everyone in their small lifetimes, and some will break the barrier down through sound, through scratches on an old piece of wood, through art, through athletics, through anything, but the majority will see, and forget. Neverremember Everremember. 

Just a Room

Curvy and straight, black on white, bright on dark, contrast and compliment. The circular patch of dry-wall on the ceiling is white washed, with a steel rim and steel flush lights. Rough stone gives to smooth floor tiles and overhead glass. Striped purple walls and lightwood doors dare each other to look out of place. Couches and sofas follow the curve of the carpet sunk into the tiles. Long beams of dark cherry wood run above us. Flush wall lights look like they are dripping rusty metal bubbles. Spotted trumpet like-lights hang suspended in midair from the ceiling. Flashy black and white tiles line a counter topped with smooth white marble. Tall red chairs line the counter, stretched against the black and white divide in the floor. Odd placement of sharp and soft objects, juxtapose and parry. Never really knowing what will come next, which mad fancy of the designer will impose itself onto the physical world. But it is easy to walk out, of course: it’s just a room. 

The City Never Sleeps

The city quickens, its breath speeds up. It gazes on the sun, coming up over the horizon. It is not fully awake – it will not truly awaken for hours yet – but it is starting to become more aware. The city never sleeps. It might lie silently in the small hours of the morning, but it never sleeps. There is always someone awake in it, flowing through its veins, and as long as even one of its denizens is awake, the city never sleeps. When it becomes fully conscious, sometime around noon, the pulsing crowd drive and walk around, and the city sings. It sings many songs, but mostly of its giant heart. The city sings, and shouts. It shouts of advertisement, whispering quietly on a bus bench, yelling on signboards, and screaming aloud in vast banners draped over its bones, the buildings and tall towers. The city shouts, and as night falls, it begins to change once again. The city is alive in a different way at night: it pulses, it dances, and it whispers more than it yells or screams. Its pulse pounds at a party, and sighs across sleeping buildings. As long as one person is awake, though, the city never sleeps. And there are always people who are awake in the small hours of the morning, the people who keep 24/7 stores and restaurants running, the people you never see. They will be gone, in the morning, with other people to take their place. But through it all, the city sings, and it shouts, and it pounds with its own pulse. The city never sleeps.