Untitled

Untitled.
by: Ian Chamberlin

You fool.
Look out below!
Before you fall again…
You get pulled up by your puppet strings
but they’re easily tangled
by a strong wind from a kiss blown in your direction.
And no, these words won’t change things,
your eyes will still avoid that awkward contact…
What was once the world is now a self destructing sore that comes and goes.
And even now, after everything
good, bad, and ugly,
you sit and think of what was and what could have been…
silently ripping away at the void in your stomach that the butterflies once occupied.
This mess of a mountain she’s left is unbelievably difficult to venture over.
And even when you feel you’re close to the top,
she's there to relieve your fingers of that hope of a ledge that they cling to,
and you fall back into that deep hole.
The net of music and friends will bounce you back up…
But you’ll still be scaling the side of the mountain,
unable to let go…

Eurphoria

The bitter smell of
spray paint,

early on a spring morning.

Artistic perspectives of biblical scenes.

This all leads to
late nights,

tainted with the stench of energy

and the sounds of elephants on roof tops.

We sneak around like agents on a mission.

We recreate epic battles between neighboring castles.

Odd misplaced characters wage wars

for reasons unknown to them

Their lives being
hurtled into

broken pieces, which inflict pain upon the opposed.

No battle wounds yet,

just the stinging of the fragments.

Most of this is
because of an old friend who still remains

with more history now then ever.

Fueling us with things we need not consume

for these events to take place.

Fighting for no
reason but our own sick pleasure.

Up and down on staircases.

Swords flying through the air.

Piercing screams behind us.

The flashing lights of arcades have blinded us,

and now the sun sets in the distance.

With the soundtrack of the ocean,

we wage war in public

and no one says a thing.

Tongues stained with
remnants of the night.

Brains gone completely numb.

The Aztec deity watches over us as we journey home.

As we return,

no one speaks.

We just listen.

Our broken, battered vessel flies down dark,

unwanted,

crowded,

paths to our sanctuary.

More Wars being
fueled

this time by small armies of

fantastic and strange creatures.

We have fallen into their trap.

This place is
strange,

but we feel at home.

We sit comfortably.

Portraits and statues

of ancient gods.

Some still thriving.

Some dead and gone.

Yet their legend lives on

We are too filled and
fueled by adrenaline to sleep.

The collection of monsters does nothing for it.

The broken ship is not ready for another journey,

but we leave anyway.

A much shorter
journey is taken

through tunnels of light and sound.

Again we listen, but not as much.

There is always much more dialogue

between us on these shorter journeys.

As we arrive at our
destination,

we ask ourselves, even now, even before then:

“Why do we come here?”

Though we all know the answer:

it is a pointless journey

simply to cause hell in the simple lives

of these mutated and nocturnal beings

that dwell here overnight.

The rulers of this atrocious land only allow them

to come out at night,

to go against their nature,

forced to become creatures of the night.

Through empty
corridors we walk.

Beams of light,

Fantastic creatures,

heroes, Villains,

all being moved by the mutants attacking us.

Throughout our
journey,

we come across an idol,

wielding his weapon of choice.

He keeps this place as holy and clean as he possibly can.

Still searching to see him again,

we fear he has been replaced.

On our returning
voyage,

home for the night,

we speak of past times and recent events.

Once home again,

we dazzle our eyes with moving pictures.

Some we control,

some we cannot.

They are timeless.

We do not sleep.

We never sleep.

Not on nights like these.

Perfect Sense

And so the story ends.

Shattered and broken at the base of the tree.

Into the soil it sinks over time.

Still later, it is absorbed.

Up through the roots.

Up through the memories,

both good and bad.

The scent of red raspberry

and cheap perfume hold on tightly.

Small sparks going off now and then

making you just sink.

And looking back,

all there is to say is:

“What happened?”

Digging out old albums

self titled, non-manufactured.

select tracks setting off explosions

of card games and foreigners.

Inspirational films that no one enjoys.

Dragging out scenes of ocean waves,

rippling planes of water.

Good times with horrible people.

Far off in late night

phone conversations.

A revolutionary room.

No longer in the time zone,

once more, you remember.

A birthday party,

a life changing night.

These posters tear you up.

You want to go back.

You NEED to go back.

There’s nothing you can do.

The good days,

when things were new,

and friends were getting closer.

All gone in a flash.

All pushed to the side of the car.

The goblet never spills.

It will always hold it’s contents,

as long as you can remember the night.

Listening to music you hate,

with people you love.

Every one out of the pool.

No more swimming.

The glasses are broken.

The smoke is gone.

And you miss it terribly.