Waiting

It's getting late, but I remain.
Confusion smothers the harbour of repugnance.
I must first deceive you, before I can be honest.
It is not that I am testing you, for your worth,
but my fear of falling deep into tainted affections.
An infected affection, no-one can triumph.
This game is for mugs, and I'm a muggy, muddy mess.

Question

How can one define interest?
Not in an economic sense, but in an attention based way.
Am I receiving interest because I seek attention.
Adult behaviour is simply that of a child, without the streak of inquisitive nature.
The fear of inquisition envelops inquisitivity.

Theory

I have spent money that I did not have, on drinks that I did not want, to not have fun that I didn't want.
Technically, I've been successful.
Realistically, I've been pissed.

Ownership

Not even a blur, just nothingness.
I must become a detective to myself,
What have I done?
Perhaps self loathing is not the best way to reclaim memories.
I must attempt to be the "good cop" within retrospective files,
A new person, changed by events that I cannot remember.
Oblivion comes with it's upsides.

Bow

Wake up and savour the freshly ground despair.
Greed driving refinement.
Not even rats can compare to the vermin that we have become.
Meritocratic torture for the lower echelons of man,
forced to be, to bask in the luminocity of monetary delirium.
Slaves to our own system.
Spread the inequality,
Injustice is a God given right.
A flag is, frankly, advertising.

Bruise

His face, blue with cold meaning, blackened with ersatz zeal.

Investment

Aisling back and forth, the faces of delirium.
Which fabrication will you paint yourself in this time?
Distort yourself in the name of beauty.
Comply or be ostracised.
Snub this putrid ink.

Workshy

Malignant malingerer,
Curse this cursed curse.
Take over an undertaking.
Subsist, sub-syst.
Just a drain on the drains.
Being down winds me up.

Potion

Poisonous rotgut, we return to you for invisible memories.
It seems that if a person has some sort of major emotional wobble, they are required to have a major physical wobble too.
Libation for liberation.

Unexpedition

A lonely poets friends are simply words.
Friends, one would assume, that do not wish to harm me.
A serpentine tongue corrupts, envelopes my sweet consort.
Nothing is sacred.
My anchor erodes.

Slumber

Lethargy pours from my pores.
Once again sleep haunts my diurnal course.
Ditzing in an evening and languish through the day.
Why must I be a magnanimous species?
 The life of a feline would seem fitting, slumber and self interest the pivotal traits.
Not that I am gracious, but I have never heard of a heavy-handed cat, possibly because they do not have hands.
Perhaps I would be more stable on both levels, I have never heard of a sociopathic cat.
I've not heard of much, have I.
Ears for whiskers would be a fair deal.

Humanity

Tiptoe around civilisation,
distract yourself with a crumb of frolicity.
The gunfire has ceased.
The masquerade must end.
Overthrow your governing mask.
Quell the lies that smother us people.
We must be a paragon for the past.
Lift the umbrage,
Apothosised by the decayed.
Stand tall, in truth.

Quickly

An uneasiness has wormed its way inside me.
Truth blurred by the suspicion of assesment.
Must I change myself once again?
My metamorphosis is futile.
The stains of my character cannot be cleansed, at a time where I am needed to be at my most aseptic.

Pyjamas

Clothes that I once thought were fit for a king, are now thrown on with disgust, not even fit as pyjamas.
Where is my pride?
With such pride-losing abilities, am I thankful that I am not a lion, but the paroxysms of despondency persevere. 

Lazy

A day of hypothetical planning and self loathing.
Insanity lurks, waiting in my calender.
My pain is comparatively lower,
the singletons moan,
"I'm so lonely"
They have never experienced loneliness, only too much hope.

Apologies

I appear to have missed out a day of writing, this weekend.
Alcohol and despair make good partners.

Droop

Mind misery,
the throb of solitude.
My time is saturated with insincere buffoonery.
I spend my days being something which I am not.
Coifed by a false mien.
The fabrication must be removed,
but who will I let scrutinise my values?
Or will they probe themselves, in a search for truth?
So many possibilities, fear thread throughout.

Cogitation

The void between need and want is always growing.
Do we return because we ought to, or because we must?
I cannot promise secrecy, for misconduct is a greater fear than mortality.
Procedure encompasses judgement,
I did not seek emotional refuge in a rulebook.
Mechanical empathy is not a craving of mine.
May you renounce the fallacy of inspiration.

Over-illumination

A date has been set within my mind.
Exhibit, in writing, an end to this gloom.
However, I lead forth with necessitation, not appetite.
Apprehension and suspicion,
I require beatitude be prescribed.
I beseech of the viewer, an end to this deference of life.
A light at the end of the tunnel, perhaps?
I expect that I am to become snowblind with such light though.

Scale

A pain behind my eyes.
"It all hangs in the balance"
Thank goodness for fatalistic gravity.

Mr A

A bright spark,
sprites, lights,
enlights and enlists,
the twist of this missing kiss,
cursed to disperse,
disappear, the fool in king lear.
Adhere to a dear, dower worth an hour,
to the seer, laughs he, "ha, 'naw."
Peaks and troughs,
"unique?" he coughs,
whisked off on whiskey,
which he witched "Will enrich thee"
Slurred sir stirs and girds,
stares at girls,
stomach-a-churn.
"Not long 'till valentines day"
he's thick as clay,
happiness disregards dismay,
may this day,
purvey a misery,
for Mr A?
The smile,
it fades,
hope, as hair, quickening grey.
Yet ideals remain,
stupidity knows no shame.
If love is the game,
he has lust it.

Surprise

 A lingual misplacement,
conclusions unforseen.
A passing comment, with an unexpected effect.
People are but dominos,
Emotional, irrational dominos.

Beige

Time constricts the flow of ideas.
Only poor attempts at anti poems are left.
If a poem is just me expressing myself in words, then even explaining to you that I cannot write, is a poem.
A paradox of pretentiousness,
an a priori mindfuck.

Half

It is impossible to learn anything if you are tired, except perhaps the value of sleep.

Global

A deluge of tears,
Ethanol answers my hate.
Shunned and eschew,
is such renouncement a sign of things to come?
Plato is my friend in such hour,
may his timeless work ruminate and spew from me.
For motivation is my technique.
Wish me luck. Two thirds of that sentence are words that don't exist.
My plan is fallacious.

Yawn.

Sleep deluges an erratic frown.
I wait for the morn.

Aves

Twitching, yet witching,
Fibrillations of a quondam identity.
The mad hatter,
yet prospects shatter,
jaegered by clipped wings
shit-erpon by a flying metaphor that I cannot cage.
Expressing myself through words is less useful than birdsong.