The Ashes of the Unholy Divine Vol. 2

︻┳═一unknown murder ballad
By Oliver Twisted
Sick in bed, she was sick in the head
Cold body shuddered next to mine
She'd been up the night before
With God knows who
Drinking up the blazing night

Passiveness, arguing about, well now I have forgotten
Ain't that the silliness of it all
As you only remember the yelling

I came home one night
Found her in bed with another
He scampered to the bathroom
She told me not to worry
By this time I grinned
As that was the night
I stopped caring

I walked outside still grinning
Popped the trunk, dug into a tool box
Loaded up the handcannon
And I walked back up
As I entered the room to a melody
I was greeted with falsehood
Walked to the bathroom door
In an instant the hole in the door
Matched up with the hole in the fellas head
I turned to look at this girl
Whom by now was a stranger
I didn't care too much for strangers
She told me she loved me with all her heart
At that point I didn't hesitate to respond 
With a kiss of my own

Ain't that the silliness of it all
You don't remember the arguing
Only the loud sound of a yell.
 
*****
Is there an end closing in?
By Oliver Twisted
 Is there an end closing in?

The time for the world to rid of

Humanity like a bad cold.

Is there an end closing in?

The time for nature to remove

Of excess waste & virus in a haste.

There will be no angels trumpeting,

No horses or horsemen

Frothing or salivating at the mouth

Just a bright flash of Eden & a moment

Of hazy dark nothing.
 
****
 
Woodland Maelstrom
By Oliver Twisted
Off, hidden somewhere in the archipelagoes
There lays on ocean bed, a place
Where the dolls hang off trees
Off somewhere! On the ocean of no memories
As we get to the land, we hurry through
It's better to hurry through or they will,
In turn for your trespass, 
Shoot you through your side & use your pieces well.

A grinning reminder from the island.

the Pacific. no memories.

Avoiding, dancing, spindly nerves on puppet master 
branches
Skeleton walks of infirmary madness, 
Through the ghost paths, hungry eyes, eyeing tired souls
Never a face shown through, but trees alive.


As you hurry through this nightmare scene.

Smells of death, flesh, and hair.

Sounds of altered moans through the gaps of the leaves
the fallen light of moon beams
Goosebumps on arms & rabid panic tears & careful steps.

Terror stricken
Your body becomes stone
You grow dizzy & fall

As your eyelids peel
And your senses revive
You wonder now how you'll survive

Vertigo betrays you in the end
Captive, hostage on the pike
They've painted your body
In symbolic markings
Preparing you for 

A spoonful of dread
A soul fool full of death

As your eyelids peel
And your senses deprived
You wonder now how you'll survive

the Pacific. no memories. 
There is a maelstrom out at sea.

After some time. In turn. You’re a masochist.
The streams of morphine in your body accept it.

The local necromancer prepares an awakening.

The fire grows larger

Song fills the big empty sky

A rainy occult shakes the death rattle, and disrupts 
nature’s formality.

And then, rumination. A scene of fungi grows vigilantly 
from the body. Moving. Growing upwards, towards the sun.
 
***
 
Quixote Pineal Gland
By Oliver Twisted
My memory in the reveries of the Earth's darkest Africa’s
 
I searched, and continued on
to search the back of my brain
 
The frontal lobe
 
Tingling up and down the cerebellum
 
Integrated violent chameleon like bee-bop old Spanish Crown of my ancestors
 
My memory once again in the deepest, murkiest reveries
 
Split, disconcerted, strife, headaches i won't soon forget
 
The brevity of these poems rolling down them avenues of dirt roads and dried up arroyos
 
I told mi familia, "calma."
 
Said in my most monk, holy like way. The only way I could express that sentiment
 
Doom, death, drive of mountains touching the images of the dead codex overhead
 
Always up above and my circulatory system is still complicated
 
The rawness, the illumination of the big empty begins to mend the broken brain to see straight, to know, to live
 
Lo! the fainted saints who gave their bleeding hearts to a world stark mad, traumatized from the birth process
 
All so mad
 
Everyone always mad.
 
****
 
 
 
A silent walk with ghosts around 4 a.m.
By Oliver Twisted
Thinking of joining that club
Don't have any reason for checking out
Nothing in particular, really
I will make up my bed, and lay peacefully
Float out the open window
Hug the space around me
Feel the freedom of what may come next
I wouldn't even care to be a mention
There is no obsession of fame
Maybe a tiny inscription,
A footnote perhaps. 
Traveling, traveling, on, further
Flipping through thin sheets of existence
Sprawling massy form along the universal highway
Death. Rebirth. Pathos of words tend placid dreams.
A silent walk with ghosts around 4 a.m. 
 
****
 
 
 
 
Winter Sleeper
By Oliver Twisted
As the clock rings in chaotic time
 
*
The skies surge portal doors,
unhinged, bringer of cloudless souls

 
**
Our worries and wanton joys unfold
ceaseless wisps of undaunting language sea

***
Separate this reality from me

****
Existence in layers like that of skin, 
always scarred, ripped, sored, healing,
and never dying.