My life
she saved
not once, but
thrice.
Letters in jail,
heroin,
and
from my myself.
But my reflection now-
endless black eyes,
and milk white skin.
A memory of a stranger
the stranger of a memory.
I have fallen away,
into a deep abyss,
hollow,
and out of place,
and for a reason,
that only,
a dead man knows.
Through the last door
I walked
and now remains the sweet aftertaste
of
just
nothing.
About the Creator
Zeno Antonius
a rider on the storm
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I Have Just Found This Prose Beat Poem! This Is a Decade Old!
My mind is a highly inhospitable place for a soul like mine. My entire existence is just one flawed chemical imbalance. A bipolar one at that. To say I was a psychopath would be incorrect. I feel empathy, but not for myself. Not for me. The lights are on but nobody’s home, actually it changes, sometimes the lights are off but somebody is home. A crazy man running around in the darkness in his underwear with a blender, throwing random objects in, his grandma’s ashes, tampons, regular mail, all the norms of daily life being construed into a single inanimate object, the man proceeds to drink it, projectile vomiting the averageness of life all over the bathroom mirror. There’s a knock at the door, the lights turn on and the man is gone. Routines. Routines. Routines. Without routines where would be? Well routines are responsible for my trip off the mountain off sanity. The same thing every day, every second of my life. My room is bright orange. I’m not entirely sure why; I think I read in one of those ‘positive impact’ life magazines that the colour of your room can cause great mood changing vibes. Waking up to a bright colour will change your day for the better. That’s bullshit. I feel like I’m constantly being highlighted. That my 10 metre squared bedroom room is part of a government plot. Or that my whole life is just a test by some sick twisted fuck of a God to wreak havoc and enjoy the pure entertainment of a man slowly lose his mind and there’s not a single thing I could do about it. It took me a while to figure out this fact and I assure you to stick by it. Don’t take anything personal, no-one is out to get you, you’re not important enough and neither is anybody else. Bad luck is as bad luck does. The last year of my life has been without a doubt surreal. Some sort of a dream but yet I feel more alive than ever. The brittle fragility of life only has one cure; don’t step around it, just run straight into it, destroy it. Who the fuck cares about winning an egg and spoon race anyhow. Out of the blue and into the black.
By Zeno Antonius7 years ago in Poets
Was I a Model in Japan?
During my time in Nagoya I worked and lived at the strangely famous hostel and café Nagonoya. With its chequered floors and florescent lighting it felt quite dated, but I think that was supposed to be part of the charm. The dorms were always fully booked on weekends with domestic tourists and there was always a buzz in the downstairs café. Camera crews were constantly in and out of the place interviewing the Japanese staff members who worked the café. I think it had something to do with the egg sandwiches. At least that was what was on most of the merchandise, except for that one dishcloth with the owner’s face on it. Was I being employed by a local celebrity?
By Susanna Kiernan6 days ago in Wander
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