Devil's Lettuce

The effects of the burning of

the Devil's lettuce... inhaling the

smoke... it broke the foundation of

my consciousness;

A trap,

A trap door to fall into Chaos and

be lost in an incarnation of the

Chateu D'if within my own cells.

Such an adverse reaction that my

sight was opened to the hosts of

hell; and I became an open gateway

for their warmongering.

Those I afflicted still remain on

the other side of the chasm; the

rift between opposing factions.

[22:08|02.11.011] ©c.thomas.carter

Pickled Cynicism

I set the spikes outside the

field of my experience; casting out

nets to fish out pearls of thought,

hidden in the sewers of insanity.

The smell of the death-of-mind

brings back memories of lifetimes

long past... Trapped in the core

of consciousness; alone with the

demons of alternate identity that

dwell in every subconscious

metropolis.

I endure in a fractured

countenance; unable to reach back

and seize the source of the poison

which spices my individuality...

the memories sealed in a place I

can no longer discover.

Hence I hear flats in sharp

progression, and now the unlikely

combination of Seroquel and

caffeine put my faculty under the

avalanche of cruel cowardice; and I

take my repose in pickled cynicism.

[19:22|02.11.011] ©c.thomas.carter

Smoking in Memoirs

Trapped in place by fatigue,

flitting in and out of reality;

the smell of the coffee,

that isn't actually there,

finally pulls me out of the blankets,

and down the creaking pine stairs.

The lighter is thumbed lit

without a cig to ignite;

smoking in the memoirs of the past...

It's well enough to stay inside,

and deal with the withdrawal;

even though it's been a long time since

the last fumes breathed in;

because it's damn cold out there.

Brush away the irritating fly;

I don't mind him so much,

as he's got only a few days left to live,

and I've been keeping track.

And all this while fruitless pursuits,

and stacks of distraction

surround me on all sides,

I feel the hum of the fridge,

and write worthless scraps of detritus.

[15:17|27.10.011] ©c.thomas.carter

Blackness, Rust, and Tin

A rough road to follow,

Got me sinking my roll,

My mind was full of hollows,

And my hands were made of gold.

I trusted that ghost to appear,

The wraith of sweltering doom,

He'd promised me the future seer,

If I but give him room.

In my heart I held open the door,

And the phantom entered in,

But to my surprise I saw nothing more

But blackness, rust, and tin.

[21:26|26.10.011] ©c.thomas.carter

Breathing of The Ocean

There's a piece of self in every

leaf of this tree; minds fall

through every fiber of its being,

and I fuel the fire, can't you

bleed my smile in the taste? The

grace of your laugh is wrath plus

the waste of the young. Lungs

fill with every sound escaping the

cords of our voices... Sensible

withdrawal mimics the appearance

of serenity; Faith fail me not as

I accept the destruction of the

breathing of the ocean.

[16:51|26.10.011] ©c.thomas.carter

Fried Corneas

Hamburger stains upon your veins and I feel like I

could dye your lips redder then I've ever done

before. Hold to your curling iron cauterizing

feet burned fast to the floor; gonna dance with my

hands and peel the skin from your sores.

Lemony freshness clears paint out of your saline

tears; You're gonna fail tonight... in front of

all your peers... a half-eaten page of biblical

commands corners your fears with the threat of

magnanimous greed and busted frontiers.

Save your grave words for the pit I digged for

you... the coup d'état crunching fried corneas

behind the end of the queue; all waiting for a

field of view of the vice holding you under your

tattoos.

[15:50|26.10.011] ©c.thomas.carter

Holding Lands

Wake your walking dead beside my head,

Open up my eyes and see they're red,

Move up your moving cells instead...

See the scars, and know for you I've bled.

I wax old, I fade to gray,

spider beside her, curds and whey,

Scare my tenure away...

View the vision of what I lost today.

[15:15|26.10.011] ©c.thomas.carter