disappearing stars

a dark blue
hard covered
notebook and
a silver key;
twenty-six
in the alphabet
and five letters;
i would
paint a million
little memories
with seven numbers
in the rain;
the stars
keep falling
down; stay
here with me,
hold my hand
and lean on
my shoulder;
let’s watch
the stars
disappear
into the asphalt.

T. E. Pyrus

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page-break in a love letter

Written in April 2015.

And I’ll be hiding
My subtle smiles
Between shade and semi-darkness,

Hand my heart out
By street corners
To footsteps that double-take,

Paint the ceiling
With blue feelings
That tied ego to frustration,

Paper airplanes
Made of sighs
And watch them sail across the lake;

Wear chain anklets
Like a trophy
In a world so topsy-turvy,

Tingling fingertips
Trace eyebrows
Of fear: wild and gay,

Paint my shoulders
And eyelashes:
They’ll never see right through me,

And when you’re lost
And I’m forgotten,
Maybe, look…look away…

T. E. Pyrus

light you

does
the caged soul
in the lantern
make you wonder
if all things
bright and beautiful
were to be seen
but never felt?
or did your
scheduled interruption
of ludicrous
malcontentment
waltz right into
your empty mindspace
and pluck your
pretty eyeballs out,
because, well, i
obviously convinced
him to, and
what good were
they, anyway?
you never
saw me
storm into your
vaulted life
with half determination,
clear the dust
off your subconscious
so you could see
the constellation;
you city lamp,
it hurt your pride
when you learnt
to look inside
and found an
excavated void
of vice and
nowhere you
can hide,
tell me, was it
arduous to decide
to climb
the cliff
and learn
to fly?
i’ll tell you why:
that vengeful
little bird
has acquiesced
without a word
to aim and
shoot you in
the leg, then
watch you grovel,
watch you beg
until you shatter
onto the floor,
heartbreaking
piteous and poor,
like a broken
autumn leaf
but it’s not
pretty anymore;
molten wax
around your ankles,
i’ll let you
ornament my
candle stand,
let you burn
right through
the night; i
should’ve known
my little
counting stars
were far too
bright, too fluorescent
for you, feckless,
worthless, bewitching
scrap of pretty, vain
frustration.

T. E. Pyrus

new

let’s hallucinate
in the tired
smoke with no
fire that makes
up this world;
halogen hearts,
fluorescent blood,
phosphorescent skin;
we let the
God-fearing think
that they win;
feel the lack
of well defined sin
as i suffocate
your headspace
and airway
with wedding
white truth;
blood reflects
off the snow;
build me a
stairway to heaven,
auction it
for murder;
live for evermore
on the blood
and flesh of
the son of god;
this world never
believed in death,
or feared life
like it should have.

T. E. Pyrus

weary

graveyards full
of executed
hypocrites;
the world has
its ways of
gentle elimination;
cry a tear or
maybe three,
maybe half
a hundred thousands
when they trace
it back to me,
and i stand by,
cold, invisible;
or damn me
for evermore;
the ocean doesn’t
feel the rain;
a weary and
disdainful chain
of restless,
diplomatic pain;
occasional heartbreaks
remain of the
myriads of cracks
that spidered
stealthy over
the looking glass;
humanity was
never reflective
anyway.

T. E. Pyrus

sanity overpriced

here’s a florid sunset
to keep you company
and haunt you unto
endless, fractioned,
young, infernal sleep;
that portentous fairytale
smells of your audaciously
overpriced idiocy
and the half sentence
that you never
cared to read
aches to watch
you bleed;
cyclones never heed
the sorry weatherman’s
presumption;
lock the cage and
can you function
without unprovable,
invisible, half existent
floating bits of
nothingness?
i aspire to love
the ocean and her
pretty green
evening gown,
the way her
half a million lovers
try to keep from
falling down;
live in two
places at once;
eat your cake
and have it too
and never fully
knowing true
breathing; you can
wipe your bloody
paws off on your
checker boarded
tablecloth,
hypnotized by that
circle from your
last glass of amnesia;
stumble down
the side walk in
your uncourtly stupor;
the ocean and i
may kiss your feet
while your cold
fingertips kiss the
raw ocean floor,
bleed green;
stay in between
the lines of
affected sanity;
shadow me for evermore,
you aesthetic cadaver,
follow me on
your rocking horse
to icy isolation.

T. E. Pyrus

an era of larrikins

‘tis the era
of the larrikins;
justice hides in
the underground
with a greasy coat
and a name-tag
saying ‘blasphemy’
and a telephone
number so you
can report him
right back to
the nearest
God with a
growing capital
‘g’, or to Satan
with that unsettling,
maniacal, almost
crazy, cheshire
grin, but sane
enough to claim
to be strolling
down the side walk
when the rain
still shines
a little too bright
on the pavement
under the street light
with a leash
in one hand
taking altruism
for a walk,
the other, deep in
the pocket of
his phantom cloak
hiding ratty deceit;
i killed a person
the other day,
as she strolled
down by
the fey lamp,
i killed my pretty
lover in a dream,
all in a day’s
dose of eccentric
ecstasy; we all
know eclipse
always wins;
an era of
aesthetic larrikins;
we all know
death is
a side effect
of life.

T. E. Pyrus

my red balloon

how shall i
tip the balance
of your ludicrous,
courageous blasphemy?
you sink too low;
centre of gravity
is no excuse
to muffle my
frantic search
for sanity;
your stained
black sky
with every lie
you unleash;
may democracy
cease to care:
by and
by the people
die; watch, with
your poison arrowhead,
as i lie next to
lost hopes in bed,
aimed level at
my red balloon;
fly high, fly
high, like every
threat you shot
my way,
my red balloon
shall never fail
to lead the
way; my red
balloon, cold
silver steel,
shall lead the
way to survival
of the desperate,
my red balloon,
fly me away;
your shrouded
truth was never
meant for me…

T. E. Pyrus

melodramatic

don’t you spark
the fire and
abandon me,
you abstraction
of insolent
soliloquy of
elegance; all
of existence
craves a taste
of your savoury,
effortless
whimsicality;
i’ll sail upon
a thundercloud,
braid the stars
into my hair
and remunerate
for my flawed,
scarred skin,
scathed soul,
with mellow
eyelashes like
rain; macrocosms
look vain,
through a
night-owl’s eyes;
trust my lies
when you fancy
truth, a vile elusive
absolute; trust
my eyes when
you fancy cold
decimation of
love and gold;
the morse code:
remains of your
melodramatic memory;
never look away
from me; i’ll fix
you like a broken
puppy toy, scuttle
across the bedroom
floor with agonizing
apathy, stay forever
and always with me
with your binary love,
you trivial, perfect machine.

T. E. Pyrus