Tag Archives: kingdom hearts

fondant hexes for the moon-spurned ;

[Written on 15/5/2017]

sun-bled compass } . are you- –

i’d sooner have you bleed the blue

off your gulliver eyes.
{ – where the fabled little flutter-flux gambols free—doesn’t it
just scream ‘decapitate me. . c
ut me into itty-bitty halves-   -and null-slivers h..a…hah

i’d like yo
ur hadean blade in me 
pleas e– –

x x x

….. x –  – you’re a madeleine, i can
see. just two carousels and a humming-grave off from
the oven.
{ there are twenty-three more cobalt-birds
laid there to caramel oblivion- –}

maybe dawn will poison you there-   -before i do

the darklings in my hallways told me so but i can’t

wait to do it myself because you asked me to you did

to carve a nice shark-toothed accent into those little vanilla-arcs of yours

with nails from the Harlot so you can scream your cherry-chords dry of ideals if you want

just so you would-

and here you go again – – f* #$ . . hoarder, hoarder with a halo-smile, die 

; : –

(i wanted a sweet death too.)


vanity askew

[Written on 28/7/2015]

Before the mirror, a figure stands,

still as anything as a pondering arises, veiled like a bride in an illusion of subtlety,

its gown appended with strings upon which new riddles cling,

their weights growing like a spell gone utterly wrong. 

Utterly, utterly wrong.

[and in an effort of appeasement, you tell yourself.
this sorry excuse of an existence simply cannot be—]

The sheen is no match for a gaze,

sculpted with the minuscule workings of a divine craft,

gilded with a care that has long vanished,

from what he can hope to fathom with the unruly knots that clutter his mind,

knots drenched in whimsical splashes of chaos;

this recklessly crude contact one of a tragic finality, for it is after these collateral collisions—

—that the chaos becomes. It becomes.

Supplanting the hollows once reserved for hope’s offspring.

And this, of course, is—

[who he is,
not that damned impostor—]

He wonders if glass is capable of hurting,

of airing cracked, strangled pleas of ‘stop, please, stop—‘

should a crack just — so very unfortunately — explode across its crystalline shell.

And perhaps more, he tests the notion with a spark of boldness as he lunges—

—and the cracks spread their reign, the triumph of their conquest marked

with a spider-like insignia, jagged shards budging from the loosening of levelness,

from the overthrowing of a uniformity that has mocked him for far too long—

[and he smiles,
in spite of those jarring crimson stains,
and the translucent shreds that peel stingingly in place of skin—
he smiles.]

Victory swells in the hollows where chaos dwells,

now accustomed to the permanence his warped spaces have so generously endowed them.

And it is only in these hollows,

that his satisfaction blossoms free, spurred on by the kingly facades of pride and—


[and he smiles,
because there are no tears now, and the gospel truth is that he sheds none,
and now this scheming, vile, mirror
is finally laid to rest.]

And that is what you get.

A snarl as crimson pools, rapid as it drips. 

That is what you get.


Summary: A hitch in the meshes of a malignant programming — or perhaps, less likely than not.

Notes: One-sided Vanitas/Ventus, chiefly inspired and featuring lyrics by MY FIRST STORY (‘CHiLD -error-‘).

[Written on 2/5/2015]

// you_never_looked

 /     at    

/   me./    : ‘ )  

// ??

xksldkv  w  hyy y     _  .

Something’s struck him, all the while he’s known him.

It comes in flashes — brief, fleeting, though inexplicably daunting in each hasty, crude arrival, wreaking havoc on his fraying consciousness–

Fraying… that’s right. It seems as if he can scarcely think lately.

It’s even harder when the words he once commandeered so effortlessly — with all his sinister indulgences and lyric-stained puppet strings — run amok, pouring dangerously out of line as something crashes in like the apocalypse.

Every twinge that rumbles in his–

… hi_s.

[…. heart… yes, one of those… he… does have one of those… right–?]

As tarnished, blotched and utterly irreparable as it is–

Every twinge that rumbles on is a sign that he’s losing it.




  __ _ y o  _ u . _    _ .

Generosity breeds resentment.

— The irony of this seems laughable, and yet, it pulses through him, undeterred in its fury-driven raid, ravaging like a forest fire.

It consumes him, it becomes him. Because all he can see–

— is him smiling the way he does to every worthless, writhing creature that passes him by.

Repulsive, isn’t it. Cheapness at its finest.

And he waits for the accursed ache to dull as he plows through the insults, the barbs, the scathing verbal blades he’s held in perpetual reserve, like an emaciated specter — hunched, crooked and dragging pitifully through the infestations of a riven, cognitive wasteland.

[How dare he how dare he how dare he–]

::_   YOU ___  NEVER  ___  LOOKED  _  AT > >   __  _ me.



The memories cave in, crumbling into a frightful splatter.

Like blood, very much like blood.

It’s the prelude of a chapter of self-destruction. And from here, he can amend this.

— This error.

The error of a recalcitrant desire, one that’s spiraled out of his fallaciously impeccable control.

–what control?–

He is seething, barring out the weak-willed wishes with every last shred of his rent ego.

He’d never known it to be this hard.

because   _      you   _     h at   e   _  m     e.           : ) 

He needs him.

So much.

And this propels his self-loathing to a cosmic height–

–What? What are you

talking about?

[A venomous sneer.]

This is a mere game.

Amusement is rare to come by, after all. And if I can make him want me–

–I said no.

I’ve said this before, haven’t I?

I don’t care.

I don’t care I don’t care I do n’ t  __ CA RE _ w _hat . _  he _  th._inks __ .

. . . .

// I will never need anyone.

// Believe me.

. / / . . please  be_lieve  me . . . 

the perspective of nothing.

[Written on 10/4/2015]

He can’t make out what keeps him going.

For a long time now, he’s paid witness to the optimism that powers this boy’s brittle psyche — one that pulses with a daunting might through its pitiful, crudely-taped cracks; one that shines relentlessly through optic wells of azure blue, wells beneath which he (with merely a fraction of his cynical awareness) can discern an ocean’s worth of untamed wonders, springing lavishly from the soul and blossoming generously forth in an abundance of smiles and laughter and echoes of an everlasting vibrance.

He’s intrigued, fairly. By these…. wonders he finds swimming freely about in the glaring vacancies that litter this boy’s being, as laughably far-fetched as they seem.

And it is in light of this discovery that — deep in the recesses of his own twisted, knotted mind — he senses a queer shift in the vital patterns of the wretched, morbid thoughts that lurk beneath its shadowy folds. Amidst dreams that pile in through the night, he finds them seething with all-new desires — cravings he’s never known — as they wrap obsessively around the prospect of picking this–

–sad, sorry… strangely beautiful boy’s soul apart and letting it crumble to the rotten pieces its feeble sutures once strove (–so very, very… painfully hard–) to keep intact. And perhaps then, he can scavenge for the light that once used to linger stubbornly on, now a withering flicker amidst fragments of a cardiac husk.

It is beneath the shelter of the night that he nurses these thoughts, fingers curling and unraveling in eerie sync with the rhythm of his malevolent cognitions. He lies, still amidst a tangle of sheets, golden eyes shifting ambiguously beneath a bedraggled curtain of raven-coloured locks, as he revels in the images of him — a sun-lit, stalwart angel whose light he’d more than love to sap dry, in a self-fulfilling extraction.

After all, he muses, a void such as he could accommodate anything.

An endless, murky void–

purposeless and wrought with a perpetual need

He is yearning, he realizes, and at once, he overrides the suffocating, lung-piercing odour of dependency that comes hovering in with the cleverly contrived notion of a desire for dominance. Much more apt, he figures, satisfied.

–But it changes not the fact that he is yearning.

He seethes at the thought, and at the same time, he is — as always — intrigued.

Now intrigued at the lengths to which he will go and claim this light for himself.

Of a sun-lit, stalwart angel, one enamoured by tales of camaraderie–

–He has none of that to offer. Nothing but the void with which he was born, the void of which he is fully, so horrendously composed.

But he frets not as he turns, caving slowly in to slumber, for the malicious snares that adorn his mind are still intact.

And it is with this assurance that a smirk weaves through, as he pictures feathers raining ominously down on an endless terrain of black — each one resounding with the seconds that it takes for him to drift into sleep.

And, true to the nature of a boy carved from nothingness, the relish of anguish lives on in his dreams.