wailing-fungus

Yesterday the last person in the world died. He was alone in the dead of night when it happened and funeral for him was not able to be arranged. There was no one who could to take care of such business. Nor there anyone else to mourn for him, or even bid him farewell, for the rest of the world had died two days before. It's quite peculiar when you think about it. What could have killed 5 billion people in two days, when it always thought it would take years? I know why it happened, I'm not sure they did. Though it was known, I have the feeling they would have denied and refused to believe that it all happened because of a tree. A couple o

his days are only inches long running away in rivulets sweating from his forehead ink stains crumpled paper running away in rivulets the air becomes stagnant with petty words ink stains crumpled paper he has his heart inside a song the air becomes stagnant with petty words making buildings fall apart he has his heart inside a song it was what he said making buildings fall apart he dreams of paper-bag faces it was what he said waking up scared and lonely he dreams of paper-bag faces sweating from his forehead waking up scared and lonely his days are only inches long

grey skies crying on my paper, an obscene reverence for the bird of cold wind, flying among powerlines rain falling;  static white noise around a tree, (safely under) thunder distances as water cracks the dry earth and the face of a boy made of wisps of carbon. rain never falls without effort Because we are all sinners. under the feathers and beneath the wings there are mites. Rain (falls)& drops as drops of memories of taste and the smell of wet dirt reflects a city that wraps itself in purple, to celebrate the days of October where time was stopped at the center of the clock by a bullet and the childre

dylan oh dylan dylan like a broken day of a thousand words dylan without a name through years counted dylan like cracks on a paper plate dylan with stuffy eyes like sepia portrait dylan like a glimpse to a past he had let go off three times three times, three times my dylan he left, he left, he left my dylan and the world became nothing but a skeleton with birds that were skeletons of waxy plumage and the leaves were skeletons of green & chlorophyll the world was changing: like the rain, seeping all through veins the world was new again was becoming once again but he never left (i think) he is still fragmented

Outside: the world grows old weary and each day time brings distant wind that weans the world away like spider webs just before my eyes or has it always been so? Inside: is always warm, is always clear like water puddles against soil, clear refreshing tainted soil  thar feels clear like water. The world is inside out, is suspended without news of an alternating view; slowly precluding the swallowing of, by the metabolic inside. While the tree outside, browned and blown drops its leaves. No one marvels, no one cries, instead they cry at themselves Yearning for more that what could ever be dreamed, something

she sighs, and looks outside. he cries, 'cos the needle broke inside her mind eye's vein. bruised angry colour, screaming mouth that has been gaping for years. dry sand weaning, an eye stitched shut with a needle. the same needle, that broke inside when he did. she sighs, forgetting the taste of being alone. drifted through the air, full of rubbish grimy and vacant. like the thoughts, of a sleeping world's dreaming. and looks, outside the newflanged window. and cracked outside, is an apparition holding a guitar. peel peel peeling, away like flakes of skin underneath out nails. saving kisses, for the dead. and as he do

My generation was born out of a plastic womb     prefabricated by a corporate god, just like every generation. Bald, this god was. A creator of machines with a circuitry that matched his own. God is a machine too, who forged inside all generations an unquestioned conventional apparatus to ensure their security in a heartless world he created. And with every turn the gears told his army what to accept. What to listen to. What to believe. What to worry about. What to do. My generation has no angels to look up to or demons to fear.     Just machines that thieve the human spirit. Just machines stuck in a single framed mentality that wil

What I learned from the Mexican twilight was more knowledge that what any book could ever hold—it taught me that the colours drain, and die and turn off like fireflies—this being told to me while I was the passenger of a junket travelling at 2 lifetimes an hour—more than what most shadows get to live. And it breaks me that soon enough at dawnlight what is now a new world of ruins and desolate architecture will still be a place where the indigenous women with the morrales full of nothing—like their lives, like their stomachs, like their minds—would still come and sit infront of commerces listening to everything with their big brown eyes--for