You're Disturbed

You're disturbed, I know it's absurd... but you're disturbed

And am I fine? I'm of a sound that's mine and sound of mind

Although the sound sounds like words, like I should turn an eye blind

Turn a blind eye? Or was it blind a turned eye, turn an eye blind?

So is it the right one, or wrong? But it can't be wrong, so I touch it

Try to pinch and pluck it, as I gasp and groan and whisper 'fuck it!'

So I fucking GOUGE it out! And I scream and fucking shout!...

'Eye spy, with my evil eye!' And it's looking back at me, but I can't see

So I SMASH !T, against the mirror (pop) and crack goes your cranny and nook

But you don't give a fuck, you just give me a bloody hook, line and sinker

And you're still staring, in fragmented reflection, a bloody one eyed blinker

You're disturbed, for now I can hear you snigger, as you pull the fucking trigger

But there're no winners here, just me the sinner's here, as someone once said...

'If thy right eye fucking offends thee... then fucking pluck it out!'

I SCREAM! and gouge, digging deeper into what's left, until the lights go out...

And now you've gone, but this blinding agony can't be right, for it feels so wrong

But you're still preying on my mind, a third and eye, the butchered bloody blind

In my head I know you're not dead, or alive, you're disturbed, it's absurd, I'm...

...disturbed, so I dig deeper and deeper, 'til I find my mind, my cerebral cortex

As I follow you into the empty nothingness, of the infinite vortex

It's Where Unicorns Die

In the inner space of yew and weeping willows and of oaks of wonder

Threadbare shifting light and the drifting shadows, of a mind asunder

'tis where every reverie waits, conjured by the lens of a phantom eye

So serenely alluring, but the dream is bait, for it's where Unicorns die

Will-o'-the-wisp creeps, from the miasmic marsh, onto the forest floor

Hiding its secretive undergrowth in a sidling, luminous shroud of hoar

Enchanted woodland, where the illusive fairies might choose to dwell

Regales in the unreality, of those lost in the trees, with tall tales to tell

Expectancy prevails, with a distant din, beyond the murmurous leaves

Under its spell you're lured, to where only the subconscious perceives

Never lingering for long, for in the sham of the day it's a virtual dream

In the chthonic hours though, the nightmares have an insidious theme

Charmed by the idyllic pretence, but now the unseeable sun is setting

On the fading forest floor the hunt is on and your palms are sweating

Run and hide, for you will need an elusion, now the illusion is fraught

Nothing sane rides in the night, 'cept for the passing of an oneironaut

Stampeding white mares crash onto barbed blades, in concealed pits

Driven to their death, by hagridden wranglers at the end of their wits

In the eerie enchanted forest, where will-o'-the-wisp will eternally lie

Escape if you can, for in the bleakest reverie, it's where Unicorns die

Silent Armies

Shadows form, into silent armies, of the wandering souls of wights

In league with the ravening darkness and death's rudimentary rites

Lost from memories and dreams, they are the shifting empty space

Extinguished ephemeral matter, they were once of the human race

Not in Heaven or Hell, for there is no afterlife, as described by liars 

Their final unresting place is betwixt the icy cold and burning pyres

And they are rank and file and all together, but cannot take or give

Ranging beyond the daylight, they can only feed on those who live

Mourning breaks, but the day is lost to transgressing twilight forms

Inundating through open portals to slake and drown in quiet storms

Eventide fades to lifeless night and beyond the reach of terra firma

Silent armies will douse each shining light, without a dying murmur

Nothing's Real

Nothing's real, except for all the living nightmares, in an imaginary head
Of conjurations and the sophistry of prophetic words of thoughts unsaid
The world outside is an empty space of shade borne from mourning mist
Holographic apparitions of spectres that have never been, but will persist
I'm on an inside looking out, but where I am? I have no hope to ascertain
Neither here nor there, or anywhere else, but if I 'was', I would be insane
God bless myself, but I'm merely an illusion, in a collusion without control
Something from nothing, but the sum of the parts cannot make me whole
Reality's, non-actuality, is the dancing strings pulled by the puppet master
Enabling the fallacy of aspirations, of what might be, like a whether-caster
And unreality has never been anything more than a stochastic hint of light
Lost in an effulgent nebulous ocean and so far distant, that it's out of sight

The 6:66, Express To Hell

In the fading last light you're stumbling in the smoke of imminent doom

Trapped in a subway to nowhere, that's more akin to a maze, or a tomb

And there's a shattering shaking, as the earth is quaking under your feet

As you look for a way out, but there's no escaping from a permanent sleep

And then you're turning a corner and ahead, slightly ajar, there's a door

But when you pass through there's no stairwell, there's not even a floor

And there's naught but air 'neath your feet and then a slope of a funnel

As you uncontrollably spiral, but there's a light at the end of the tunnel

Now there're wide awake sleepers and metal and a thundering ROAR!

With the repelling power of a pressurised air-wave of an invisible bore

And the light, that's too rapidly approaching, is as blinding as lightning

As the tracks start to quiver and glow, your lost senses are heightening

There's a godforsaken screaming of a loco, beyond your shuttering eyes

But the dead can never die again and for you now, this implicitly applies

There's a deafening wail and flashing red lights, but the crossing is level

And the driver adjacent is grinning, for he is kith and kin, if not the devil

It's just you and him, the skeleton crew and a whistle worse than a knell

Riding a ghost train, that's going non-stop, it's the 6:66, Express To Hell

And Hell is an inferno, a furnace, but it's a boiler that you have to stoke

Blistering your skin, whilst you're choking, as you breathe in the smoke

You're furiously shovelling, but the licking flames are melting your digits

And as the pressure is inexorably building, there's an explosion of rivets

It's the end of the line, but the smokestack atop is a steaming hot kettle

And the roar of the crash is vaporising rock and the wrenching of metal

Nothing stirs, but steam and the agony within of the deep burning pain

As you crawl from the wreckage, of the 6:66, the only stop for this train

In the smouldering smoke you escape through a door, but into a funnel

Slipping then falling, but behold, there's a light at the end of the tunnel

An Oneironaut

As his corporeal being fades, all his nightmares are by a dreamcatcher caught
Neural pathways guiding his amorphous lucid dreams, for he is an oneironaut
Opening doors along an endless corridor, for he is sure there is a better place
Neither here, nor there, but somewhere else, in the domain of time and space
Evanescing into his imagination's conjurations, he has orchestrated to exploit
In his solipsistic reveries he is slaying monsters, for he is a noble knight, adroit
Roaming through a dystopian paradise lost, of his id's creations new behaviour
On a grandiose self-righteous mission, to be his true and one and only saviour
Nightmares quietly tempt his restless sleeping body, but he's far away instead
And in a transcendental realm, he is courting those, he believes to be undead
Under the eternal spell, of the necromancers, he may choose to live in dreams
The final poisoned chalice, of inveiglement, as immortality beguiles and teems

Master Of Scythes

I hide away from you, I creep through catacombs and emerge in naves

I hold my breath, alone in the shadows, as a full moon shines on graves

...I am invincible, invisible, I am indistinguishable...

And you can't see me, or hear me, I am sure, for I have closed my eyes

As I guard my thoughts, against the nightmares, of the master of scythes

...but you are omniscious, insidious, you are pestiferous...

And my memories are slipping and dripping, they are like clotting blood

As my appalling skin is crawling, the tears are forming beneath my hood

...I hear a mantra, a shibboleth, I sense your breath, for its odour's death...

So I hide in dreams, stumbling through petrified woods, but I'm making tracks

Into a sunny meadow, yonder a farmer's reaping wheat, with a scythe he hacks

...and he hacks... and he hacks... and he hacks...

And he turns to me and he casually beckons me, with his bloody razor blade

Then quietly leads me, to a woebegone chopping block, in a graveyard glade

...I am informidable, visible, I am risible...

I kneel down, there's congealed blood on dewy grass, so I close my eyes

I listen to distant birdsong, for he is silent, for he is the master of scythes

(Swish)