Everything is black.
Torn apart between the seams
and broken beyond the recognition
of a mother’s eye, a heart beating
neurotically stable like techno music,
and alone.
Silence roars like helicopters over the breaking
of twigs, like dreams, cracking
and crumbling like a hot mist that blinds you
until everything chokes up in the back of your throat
and rusts blood red as you spit sorrow, and disgust,
and gears out like chewing gum, and it all conglomerates
into a giant mess of ugliness; slow and sticky and static
because this universe is breaking down.
Then there is nothing left to break and its dead, still.
Wax sculptures read your mind with eyes of infinity
and nobody wants to care.
They just smirk and drip black tar from their fingernails
and pretend to listen to the silence between the screams.
Then the drums start to kick
and the band begins to play an angry chord
and the stars run away from the blame of it all.
They tremor and pulsate a finite rhythm
and you realise that everything ends
and its ending.
But the mirror cracks and a leaf burrows out of the
rubble and sits fragile and triumphant on top of its brothers.
It takes one breath and the clouds explode
and everything is beautiful.
