2017 Anthology

2nd | @cosmicae

tw: some gore

of course, the town was evermore desolate
and people's eyes skipped over the speed limit signs
doing their eyeshadow while driving
and the stop signs emoted what seemed like a sigh evaporating into the
fake night of closed doors. lord knows
why i am still here
lighting cheap scented candles
socked feet up in the air, stomach down(ingots of pain, but that's okay)
taking shitty pictures of the transitioning sky
even though it looks strangely edible(do they want to taunt us?),
not being to capture the colour
because, simply put, perhaps this curse's treasures are only meant for our short lived pupils
that dilate over silly things
and midnight swings
with fear atop madness;
it seems that i have forgotten where we have come from.

dear jude stands like a pruned rose
thorns plucked out, one by one,
the plucker making sure not to strip any green or flora.
so innocent,
he stitches his heart into his lungs;
he's quite eccentric, to say the least
and apparently his livelihood depends on a few words covered in liquor and candy and blood.
poor jude, don't open your flesh up
and let your wine stained sunset of innards fall into the hands of someone
who will play with them like skipping ropes
use those slippery guts as a leash for their dog(not wise)
wear them as a necklace
with their expensive clothes. dear jude,
learn to be afraid
of pretty girls and
their chanel perfume
hands slung over shoulders
(just pretend they're choking you)
because you fall too hard and fast
for those little angels
those terracotta dolls
with eyes that flicker too quickly
intentions that never last
and plans that go by too fast.

dear jude,
how much you've grown
from a saturated sunrise
to an almost dry sea. it seems that
too much perfection
(you're more of a silver boy, don't you agree?) and being hopelessly docile,
goddamnit, jude, you piece of fucking shit
you promised that
too much wind wouldn't bend you over
and then made some horrible
comparison of yourself to some tree that was spindly and the colour of a parsnip
where old gusts wouldn't let you down
and where the sun grew up
and decided it was sick of us.

(inspired by "hey jude" from the Beatles)