Femme Fatale

When I speak in confessions
I don't speak for the art
I speak so I may understand the inner fog of agony
that leaves me spellbound and vexed
I speak so the shattered can relate
I speak so they can take it with them
when the soul dissolutes from beneath the grave

These harmonious words
narrating dissonant times
were bound to gestate
and burst forth, illustrious birth
from the haven of my unrest
It was a wretched undertaking
to assume I could hold counsel
between the molten contradictions
of my self imposed necrosis
and idealist innocence

To even think I could regain
wisdom torched by the magma
of a billion vapid years of meaning
and three sinful years of dementia
To even fathom a life of slumber
rested health and inches on my bones
a pretty face that gleams with diligence
razor sharp acumen, a jagged moxie...
Just projected glimmers.
Instead, I grow more emaciated
lose more flesh to the flames
losing more time to the days

These things that cannot be
For reasons I don't know why
will electrify us
the nation of cemetary children
who cannot escape the coils of penance for our sloth
who ravage their mind, body and spirit as they watch themselves suffocate
who divulge operas of agony before receding quietly into complacent suburbia
who sacrifice the musings of eternity and thoughts of nothingness for cookies and facebook
who will be unknown martyrs
by sinking into the radioactive lakes of New Jersey
claustrophobes breathless underneath miles of insects and dead plastic
by sprinting to the sky to be free and boundless
amongst a brisk tornado and atmospheric music
reaching new levels of sonic ecstacy

they will electrify us
negatrons in our bloodstream so that
we, the people of the macabre
will gain back all we've lost
and continue to love
the black haired girl, the indescribable goddess of creativity and guile
She's my very own femme fatale.