I am Davin Casey, and I see myself as an artist. My most notable and noticed platform would be my petty sketching, but I also write poetry, as many of you have seen. Given the fact that I have only been writing for about five months, I don't believe myself necessarily to be anything special in this form (though we all have our styles), but I have managed to produce four collections in this small amount of time.
Here they are, in the order that they were completed. More are sure to come. I certainly hope those of you who read them enjoy.
A minute collection of pathetic poetry dedicated entirely to the author’s lost muse, who will likely never even be aware of its existence, expressed in a state of panic and mild insanity…
3… Immutual Feelings
4… Illuminate Me
5… Fake Faces
6… I, Sorrow
7… Echoes In My Mind
8… Haven, Night’s Creation
9… A Flower
11… Flowers of May
13... Work In Progress
14… Seafaring Romantic
15… Say Something
17… A Dying Rose
19… I Do Believe
20… My Chronicles of Miss Creation
-All by Davin Casey
This plutonian dawn
Haunts me from afar
Running away with the falling star
Her very manifestation
Tugging away at my soul
Taking its role, leaving its toll…
This loss of the dawn
Is tearing my heart apart
Earth’s lover moves on
Gnashes and bites at my bleeding art
These compositions determine to destroy me
Contentment no longer found in the life tree
The bane of the lover
And beauty of the flower
Have you in common…
This loss of the dawn
Is tearing me asunder
She’s already gone
Unleashing the melancholy thunder
Meet me in the forest
Where deities play
Where rivers rest
Where vast oceans of tears now lay…
Meet me by the life tree
Where dusk slumbers
Where relief sleeps
Where your beautiful soul is remembered…
An inspiration used to fuel one’s passion,
Yet a passion in its own right and fashion.
An emotion to share between lovers,
Yet also twixt children and mothers.
An almost abstract thing,
This “love” of which people sing,
For which poets write,
For which soldiers fight,
For which the betrothed present the ring.
A looming, blooming, and consuming concept.
A frightful, delightful, and spiteful insect.
No more enjoyable feeling,
No more painful loss,
Presents itself to the unsuspect.
No matter the pain or gnawing depression,
It prevails head and shoulders o’er other obsessions.
In the minds of the young,
In the hearts of the old,
Lays this rotting, blossoming conception.
These tears are naught but solid passion
Burning the floor with the painful truths
Truths you relinquished without compassion
And stole away the fleshy heart of my youth
Congesting my arteries with negativities
How I ache to express them
But should I attempt
My maladroit tongue should blunder
O’er emotions my soul pours over, over and under
Fear chases away the flag of my soul’s true colors
Fear of your homicidal rejection, again
Fear of the loss of you, my muse, it smothers
Yet suicide threatens, should I keep it in
An immortal love
Never ending, like that of the dying dove
One which burns incessantly
In this dead, rib-encompassed cavity
But my miserable heart is long rotten
Its melody turns to mush, a last beat before the coffin
The moon caresses the earth
A warming glow on his crusty face
Her strands of light, with their soft touch
Tear Earth from his plutonian space
O, dream of my sub consciousness
Touch me again with that vision, that face
Please, that arousing awareness
Strum my cerebral strings with her name
Her circles she runs, she dances
Her icy blue, hypnotic eyes
Her graceful figure over mine in trances
Releases me from this menacing mind
O, my merciful illusion
Tease me again with that feeling, her skin
If only a taste to spare, a kiss
Douse my acidic misery once again
Your face is embedded in a watery grave
In the pure waters of my imagination,
But the face, without soul, means nothing to me.
The beating beast inside dies of starvation.
As you cross the waning threshold once again
I weep in nostalgia’s torment for salvation.
Not a thing in the world can take your place.
Fake faces haunt me in their over-inflation.
Clay caked on their cheek
Dirt powder, of which they reek
Fake faces filled with lies
An insecure face will shield itself away
In the back alley manner of a mime or a clown.
No mask, no wall can hide your beauty;
No scar or bruise from when you fall down.
A kiss on the cheek
The near useless love of a freak
Heart braced to meet its demise
My mother, the night sky
Moaning her dark lullabies
Sinister melodies of my sleep
Praying for my soul to reap
Life is hopeless
All is lost
Drink me up, sweet holocaust
Death is frightening
Can’t pull through
Waiting and wishing for you
My lover, the earth’s womb
Screaming protests to her tomb
Distressing wails of the stars’ illusions
Beckoning for my intrusion
Life seems endless
When I’m me
Despite my plea to set me free
Death would mean
Further loss of you
Something I simply cannot do
Echoes in My Mind
Devoured by the tyranny of trepidation
Inspired by that beautiful muse
That magnificent muse, with crystal vision
Who robbed me of the blessings I refused
Never to return, it seems
Tears fall down in steady streams
My heart bursts, emitting screams
Haunting memories of a happy life in dreams
Upon the autopsy of her immortal heart
I have discovered the realism of humanity
The greed, harsh judgment, falling apart
What scares me most are similarities to me
Now nostalgia’s torment grows
As I realize it’s you I chose
My dreams lie, but my heart knows
What we had is now simply empty echoes
Echoes in my mind
Haven, Night’s Creation
Stifling, suppressing your sad soul
Molding your malnutritioned mind
Withholding the worrisome world
Starving! Starving yours, as I did mine
Is it any wonder why?
Emotions run rampant through the lost sky
When hearts decline, keep holding it in
Refusing to express this haven, Night’s creation
Masticate upon your mourning mandible
Speak estranged surrealisms from the stars
Reject the wrath they wrought, write wrongs
Feast! Feast upon that face, her face, from afar
Do we deserve to die?
When love surges through us, and everyone lies
Punishing the undeserving muses of beauty
When haven, Night’s creation, has left me
Yet, here she is…
Yet, here you are…
A monstrosity among the mundaneness of mankind
A voice among the viper’s vestigial victories
A cry among the crevice of the critics
A haven, Night’s creation
A flower, maybe, for the one holding power
Power over a soul that has long gone sour
Over a world that grows worse and worse every hour
Finds solace only in she who brought these showers
A rose, perhaps, for the one who knows
The one who knows of the love that flows
From vein to vein, and perpetually grows
Inspiring line after line, in columns and rows
A tulip, I think, for the one with two lips
Two lips which cause my sorrowful heart to skip
Skip beat after beat, like the crack of a whip
Stretch and twist and knot, then finally rip
Rhodoras, my love, for the one who bore us
Bore us, my soul and I, through Misery’s forest
Across the mirthful fields of felicitous chorus
Releasing us to a despairing lake, ever tumultuous
Once I was me, alone and diseased
Sheathed in the armored cocoon of my own mind
Then intruded by a stranger, simply begging to be pleased
When the planets coincidentally aligned
I’m left heartless
Stole away by your quirks and your charms
I’m left heartless
Cut away as you lay in my arms
Peeled away by your dagger-like smile
Which encroached so invitingly into the depths of my soul
Passed unmolested through my arteries by the mile
Then tore through my flesh, left an empty hole
I’m left heartless
Ran away from the forest for fear
I’m left heartless
Turn away as I slay me, my dear
Tell me, am I obsolete?
When you’re feeding on his meat
And he whispers to you sweetly
About his intentions to cheat
Tell me, am I obsolete?
As he nibbles at your feet
Oh, you find it quite a treat
When his lap acts as your seat
Tell me, am I obsolete?
I’m left heartless
Prance away, leave me dead, obsolete
I’m left heartless
Dance away as I lay on the cold concrete
Flowers of May
I hear your whistle blow
In my hour of darkest mourning
Pulsating, rampaging my lonely halo
A siren of what is to come, a warning
“Goodbye,” we’re bound to say,
Then likely I’ll beg her to stay.
But she wants to go away… She wants to go away!
To bring the clouds of grey.
If only my sorrow were cargo on that train
Leaving with her, that way life might be okay
But her departure has brought an even colder rain
And no flowers of May to comfort my clouds of grey
No comfort to a soul lost to everlasting decay
No comfort to eyes which have seen the last of their days
No comfort to a mind in constant disarray
No comfort from those cursed flowers of May
The gods have conspired to dam me
Condemning me to the walls of this home
My views are limited to its contents, ever empty
And I can only watch as riots are engulfed in the loam
When you have inspired my every
Motivation for my soul to keep moving
Through life’s narrow passage, crippled by today
And I can only watch as you are trodden under feet you consider loving
World, why don’t you love me?
Tied to the chain for use at your will
But I love you, heartless masses, mindless free
Despite your overly conspicuous intentions to kill
A bleeding sacrifice, cut at the throat
Awaits its smoking ascent to the blue heavens
To ease your search, it’s me you smote
Leaving behind my corpse, filthy and unleavened
Work In Progress
The jury of one thousand eyes
Witnessing my trial by lies
A masterpiece in development
Or piece of trash to circumvent
They call me a work in progress
As the world slowly ends, I digress
Twist downwards into a hiding pit
Why was I conceived, Sir Spirit?
The world didn’t end, or so they say
When you gorged upon my face
Seasoned by salty tears for you, my dear
Did the screams please your rapturous ears?
I sacrifice my emotional steadfastness
For your resounding happiness
For your ecstatic, satisfying smile
A reward far surpassing your guile
Floating, drifting, soaking up your pleasures, O Sea
When we cried on you, Sea
When we died on you, Sea
When we smiled for the face of you, Sea
When the mason lays adjacent
From the stone and from his home
When the artist finds it hardest
From the canvas, from his land is
How I feel when I’m apart from thee, O Sea
You know, O Sea, that it’s me who is lonely
Would you lie for me, Sea?
Would you try for me, Sea?
Would you beguile me, as she, O Sea?
May I run away?
From the trappings of this bay
Where I suffer more the longer I stay
Would you go with me?
To the sea, where we are free
Where your face is all that I see
I lacked inspiration on this day
I wept and I decayed
I mopped the floor with my dismay
And this is all that you can say?
Do you ever wish for sneakers?
To protect you from the cold,
The harsh of the winters,
And remain as you grow old?
I wish for sneakers all the time
In any form, or shape, or way;
In blue, in pink, in grey, in lime;
In the morning, at night, or midday.
All I can do is stare through the glass and wish
For sneakers, drifting to the hands of another.
I lack the funds, the looks, the kiss
To pull off sneakers’ selective manner.
A Dying Rose
Created for a reason
Made to express a desire, a feeling of perpetuity
Now I feel I’m out of season
Wilting, fading away to the shadowy depths of infinity
I’m a slowly dying rose
Alone with my purpose
Black as starless space
Red with shame, hiding my face
My function was your love
It fed me, nurtured me, comforted me, killed me
And when you had enough
I was cast away, left to the gutter, confused and empty
And I clutch the dying rose
Your words, shattering echoes
Petal by petal it drifts through the years
Revitalized by my recurring tears
We spoke for a couple of minutes
You smiled; I managed to crack a rare grin
Your aura burned my raw nostrils
Breaking through my calloused mind again
It sends trembles down my spine
When I pray to the divines.
Yet I’ve asked them, time after time,
“Why can’t she be mine?”
All I ever wanted has been taken from me
Beaten by civilizations of Romeos and Hamlets
Rich, attractive, experienced assholes
Tormented by unquenched desires’ convulsive fits
I wish for you to define
The transparent, ever fine line
Questioning the intentions of my mind.
Why won’t you be mine?
There shall be no sun
For the muse sheathed in black
Lost inside of degradation’s ruthless erosion
Please just kill me… Please just end me… Please love me back.
I Do Believe
I repeal my answer, as I now regret it
Though the question still scars me
Now if only you would ask me again
I would say, “I do believe.”
Is it possible?
To love an unfamiliar face?
To love an unknown soul?
Yes, I do believe it is.
Although true love comes with time,
I am convinced that fascination comes with the first glance.
I remember the subliminal moment in which I first lost myself in your eyes.
In truth, I have not since found my pathway out,
And now I drown in those icy pools, unable to define up and down.
You said I knew you not
I was left speechless, because I knew
Or thought I knew that I loved you
And I did, and I still do
My Chronicles of Miss Creation
Greetings Miss Creation,
Writing you from the most absolute of Sorrow’s incarnations
A letter that shall not be heard by mortal ears,
An epistle not to be spoken by unworthy tongue,
A memo drenched in the most passionate of fears and tears.
Yes, I remember you.
The memory scalds my essence upon summoning.
Your inspirational splendor, compassion, and character…
So many qualities in your possession are worth mentioning.
Yes, I still love you.
A sensation which never really was reciprocated equally.
In fact, you still felt it for him, as most expected all along,
But your everything collaborated to get me to fall, manifestly.
No, I don’t need you,
Life is simply excruciating without your face, your voice.
But, when you hate me, won’t speak, I suppose it’s irrevocable.
You’re going away, still with him, and I am left without a choice.
No, this won’t help me,
Whining and griping through writing and groping,
But this unbearable passion has left me no alternative expression,
And I am left with nothing, praying for you, futilely hoping.
No, you won’t read this.
Consequences would be catastrophic; you would designate me insane,
As if you don’t have reason enough to ignore me,
And I would be forced to fade away, in pain, like Sir Cobain.
It’s Valentine’s Day,
A brilliant holiday, celebrating the most amazing or agonizing of man’s feelings.
The smile that you bear brings life to my dead conscience,
Though I know it is not the cause of me, so I am repealing.
In a word of closing, you know how I feel
How life without you is the most horrific nightmare I can bear
How the thought of you lingers ceaselessly in the center of my being
How a second chance is my utmost of desires, there is nothing I won’t spare
Sincerely and insufferably yours,
A minute collection of pathetic poetry in which the author attempts (at times in what the reader may find to be an incomprehensible manner) to express his thoughts on various subjects…
2… Howling Circus
7… Hopeless Creature
8… My Dirge
9… A Beggar’s Plea
10… Further Words from a Mad Mind
-All by Davin Casey
Freak, freak, freak!
Your opinion, my friends, means nothing to me
Had I cared before, this me you see would simply cease to be
As I walk through the valley of the green and red sky
The blue bird nesting near me tells me just how well he fries
Pink faces peaking at me
Grey flowers shouting for me
White rabbits just reject me
Mad hatters all adore me
You tell me, once more, to change this about me
Don’t you get to thinking that this thought is revolutionary
But this one, she accepts me, and, although I don’t know why
I invite her in to join me and the blue bird as we fly
Sitting in this silence
Meditating on my mutual predicaments with Father Earth
Loveless, shrouded in a cloak of violence
Consumed by these cannibalistic desires from birth
I realize you exist
Whatever deities may be listening to my mind’s endless rant
Torturing us with your barren kiss
Spiraling about the fools enslaved by your mellow chant
Now life reveals its purpose
A goal that proves to be unattainable, beyond my reach
Running mad, a howling circus
And you refuse to lend your aid, deities whom I beseech
Twirl and encircle the passionate ball!
So entwined with this muse of madness!
Drown in my waltz of pure lunacy!
This world is done
An atrocious thing to squander, crafted from your fingers
Chiseled with your tongue
Left to die, as long as this race of humanity lingers
Listen to your raging spirits!
Fondle the demon confined within!
Vomit your heart upon the soil!
Listening for a song
A song promising preservation among its elusive words
An enigmatic orchestration of souls
A long lost song that would suffer for me, as I did for her
As my pen flows
Tidings of what is, and is to come
The death of a billion, lives of some
Revealing my inward ambitions
Now her lips probe
Denouncing the globe
Harmonies of a hopeless misery
Prays soulfully for tranquility
Her sax is the only one she trusts
Your superfluous insistence upon killing me
And killing yourself, and those whom you adore
With your meaningless words preaching a false liberty
Turning this nation of blind patriots to ashes, nothing more
Let’s slay a country today, make them pay
Compensate for polluting our heavens with breath, once warm
An innocent little game titled massacre, shall we play?
Victims lay beaten, crushed under the feet of our blistering swarm
Or whatever name you may go by, nowadays
Where are you, and your legions of “guardian” angels?
Your soldier, an ignorant holy man, kneels and prays
And in return he is crucified, or imprisoned in these cells
Oh, how I can relate to you!
Sorrowful, broken, depressed muse
Muse, once radiant, now beaten and bruised
Left alone on life’s long boulevard, abused and confused
My pitiful heart in Ruin’s lies
The color of the bluest skies
A heart, once passionate, now cold and denies
Denies your smile, and the imminent goodbyes
An addict to insanity’s drug
Trying to resist the mind-numbing tug
Gone astray, lost to the psychotically rhythmic bug
And the choir of incessant fungi, whom I am not among
I am failing life’s brutal test
A game to some, wasting away with naught but rest
A passion to the slaves of optimism, who likely do the best
To me it seems an unbounded trail of loss, and sheer emptiness
A dying world is all that offers up comfort
Nevertheless, it fails to mend my busted cadaver
When macabre humor no longer satisfies
Does such an object even exist anymore - this humor?
Where exactly is this world fated to end?
Compassionate earth, whose soil did naught but nurture
Brought down so far by those he attempted to defend
We pay him back with an IOU, nuclear winter, near future
Don’t leave me too soon, Fading Father
Though a fallen seraph I may be
Left void of salvation, redemption, why even bother?
Another hopeless creature, desiring his spirit to be free
As I caress
Life’s bitter close
In a black dress
She really is quite stunning
Death, the inevitable bane
Her metaphorical mind, in all of its cunning,
Has driven me insane
Cold smile, blue lips
Murmur my song
It really is spellbinding
My dirge, from her porcelain form
It compels me to meet her, and with her sing
A duet with Lady Death, perform
A Beggar’s Plea
Bread and cheese
Cheese and bread
On my knees
I have to beg
Water or milk
Milk or water
Skin of silk
Don’t destroy her
We, of the weaker class
Have to clamber for food to grasp
While they, of nobility
Have us groveling, the starved majority
Caught in this empty, shapeless realm
Beyond Heaven, or Purgatory, or Hell
Or even the star-studded skies, from whence you fell
Far out of the thoughtless trappings of stereo and television
Past the mass produced chaos that unfolds so willingly in nature’s womb
And further, still, than the chilling fingers of fear induced tyranny have spread
Trapped within my mind
Where you and I are all that I find
An escape from harsh mankind
Where the wind carries romanticized chimes
And we’re left alone, absent the concept of time
A paradise far surpassing sublime
Alone with my thoughts, torturous as they may be
Sketching, painting, writing my portrait upon the walls of this realm
Secluded from the clutch of the preying, over-evolved fetuses staining my world
Further Words From a Mad Mind
They say I am mad
Such a word is merely opinion, hardly a state of being
But, still, I cannot help but ponder for fictional epiphanies…
Curiosities of this life fill my skull to the cap
What its purpose is, I may never know
Perhaps I am searching in vain for what is not there
This life is simply life, without meaning or goals
And the world will continue its self-destructive rampage
Until the dawn when the sun comes, but Earth fails to awake
Conceptions of such theories plague my cerebellum
Rotting what is left of my mad mind from the inside
Will I, in fact, implode?
I may be destined to a fate of absolute nothingness
Fates do often strike men in such a way
Women, as well, from what I gather
My end may just be in a bed, as I sleep
But many ends do not have a beginning, in the first
Are they, therefore, ends at all?
Perhaps I am lucky…
They say I am mad
A minute collection of pathetic poetry, offering the author’s words to be sacrificed by the reader’s translations, and likely bearing a long expansion of meanings, varying from being to being.
1... Queen of Happiness
2... The Face of Our Race
5... Erotic Music
6... Molding Me
7... All But Me
9... Tired of the World
10... My Vision
12... Resurrected, Murdered, and Amalgamated
13... Even Myself
14... The Expiration of Respiration
16... Madness Prevails
18... Blame Me
19... Why Goodbye?
20... I Am…
21... I Don’t Eat Eggs
22... Less And Less
23... Wishes for Fishes
24... True to His Oblivion
25... Infinite Harvest, Faceless Feathers
-All by Davin Casey
Queen of Happiness
Maintaining my constitution through prohibition
Prohibiting the dire desires of physical satisfaction
Cravings of the ever starving flesh, vulgar and filthy
Searching, instead, for emotional, spiritual, or mental stability
Pouring ceaselessly over the archives of my psyche
For the slightest inkling of delight, as impossible as it may be
When desperation is all that is left of my desolate consciousness
Aside from memories of that now unattainable sorceress
Never have Sparta’s spears seemed as cruel as now
When glorified war is a dream upon every man’s brow
Yet, here I sit, pondering upon my own dream
Where loneliness has abandoned me, making room for my queen
My queen! My queen! Look where thou hast left me!
Mourning inside the deepest of depths, the gates of death’s sea
Queen of Happiness, where have you been?
I’m searching for you in your nonexistence, O queen.
The Face of Our Race
I long for a new civilization
Where mendacious advertisements lack existence
Disabling their liquidation of our race
Where a number is less than a face
Where crustaceans aren’t appointed officials
Where the knuckles of true democracy bleed of overuse
Evoking the voice of our race
Bringing forth our unnumbered face
Pubescent donuts fester upon my chest
Unshaven, unclean, undeserving
Along imaginary creams inside my feet
Unbuttoned, untouched, unseen
Crippled by my desires
Holding on to one last thread of control
Played victim to urges’ fires
Liberating tarts released to my tongue
Unnatural, undamaged, untamed
Flirtatious cakes linger here with me
Endangered, encroached, enflamed
Tortured by my urges
Keeping sane by your faint-growing voice
A victim to desires’ surges
Gluttons and pigs, gluttons and pigs
There’s evil in these cigs
Sold for our comfort, your profit
There’s evil in your shit
You poison me, you poison me
There’s evil inside me
Perhaps, if I die, a benefit
Would prove the goodness in your shit?
Charm your chimes!
Bang your piano!
A pleasure that crawls so easily in between the legs
Strum your strings!
Beat your drums!
Slide it out; scramble it with your eggs
The tongue of music reaches my ears
Spitting its saliva, so erotic
Every note rubs gently as her fingers
Only she caresses as my music
I hate Me
Who Me is becoming
Who Me has become
What has befallen Me?
The great guy he used to be
In love with the world
In love with a girl
Me loves her
And now Me is running
Gods, Me can run
Was it she? Was it she?
The horror that struck at innocent Me?
And left him in the cold
And left him there to mold
Me and I
We’re two of a kind
Abhorred by ourselves and each other
All But Me
Feverish mountains burst
Raining sulfur and magma upon my head
The sky cries its sorrows, held in for so long
Quenching the cracked earth’s thirst
Watering the flowerbeds of the dead
An overdue drowning of humanity’s wrongs
I embrace myself, as no one is left
A victory for the cosmos, a tragedy for me
But Father Earth is satisfied
Rid of the war, hypocrites and theft
I am lonely, but the universe is free
When all has died
All but me
I found another me today
His rotten face pressed to his grave
A decomposing heart of clay
Was all he gave, he was a slave
“Enough?” He asked
“Enough for love?
My mortal task
Was not enough.”
A slave to love was this other me
Although he cried for purest liberty
To dance among green springs and grey trees
His most despairing plea, a plea for eyes to see
“To see,” he said
“To see the stars
Where cursed angels bled
And heaven plays its harps
“Where brethren souls of the dead
Smothered in killing jars
Have witnessed errors in red
And love now soars afar.
“You see,” he sighed
“I now am loved
By spirits who have died
Who couldn’t give enough.”
Tired of the World
I am tired
Fed up with your hateful masses
Fatigued by your constant demands
Wearied from my longing for love
Stressed by what you ask of my mortal hands
Worn out by the fading sky
Pressed so hard by a dying world
But I’m tired of trying in vain
To save us from what inevitably shall unfurl
I am tired of you, World!
Of your high-maintenance ecosystems!
Of your eternally fragile economies!
Of your impossible encumbrances upon life’s victims!
Of your ineffective tissue paper levees!
Of your hypocritical, if not maniacal barking and vomiting of your inadequate guts!
Now, if only I could pull myself away…
It came to me last night
Revised by the moonlight
The scars upon its face aglow
Its language only I could know
Its pale, blind eyes alight
As if my soul to smite
As if pursued by wolves
Or Hades’ trampling hooves
Its lips a blur, yet without stutter
As revelations poured through whispered mutters
‘T was read in his white eyes
A tome of my demise
I still know not the time
He left it clandestine
But now I lay, scars upon my own visage
Muttering his unique language
My eyes as white as snow
See not the brightest glow
Or her hair
A blade of grass
Surgically splicing the hyperbolic heart of the hippo
Removing the rhetorical, yet somehow resounding riot of self-revelation
Silhouetted against the ectoplasmic street lamps of Hiroshima
A defiant shadow pressed in Tiananmen’s burning gates
Foreshadowing the truisms of insubordination’s calm eyes
Perturbed by the inane, insane injustices that plague our genus
Crushed haplessly underneath the extremities of the world
Observing the misapprehensions of sentient thought
Laughing at the haughtiness of human handymen
Scoffing at the broker, betrothed to his body
Yet, completely unaware
Resurrected, Murdered, and Amalgamated
The early bird has risen,
Frozen by the late winter,
Resurrected by the warm heart of the love bird.
His wings hang limp, dead from lack of use,
But his art is the true casualty.
The city beneath roars its beckoning calls,
With its gas guzzlers and sky killers
Murdering his home with their sour breath.
The sky above screams with whistling bombs,
Raining upon the father’s acne studded face,
Lacing nutrition with hydrogen,
Amalgamating him, in holy matrimony, with the atmosphere.
An emotional enigma
Even to myself
Crying for love, am unloved
Even by myself
Dead to all, deaf to me
Even just myself
Soft-spoken, spooked by suicide
Even of myself
Alas, after all, am alone
Even with myself
The Expiration of Respiration
I am free, at last, of depression’s repressive stare
As the breeze blows ferociously against my face, creased in a smile
A freedom granted only by my glide through the air
And the expiration of respiration, presented by the asphalt’s malicious trial
Here reclines the sphinx,
Clipping the eagle’s wings,
That he might be like she.
That he might be un-free.
He longs for the prosthetic grip of life.
What is life, but a cage repressing our everlasting souls?
What but a sphinx gnawing at our out-crying branches?
It is a truly wasteful longing to maintain such an impenetrable border.
Here laments the moon,
Gaze upon the waning sun,
That she might be his sight
One last time before the night.
He hopes, though blue, to see her orange hue.
What is that hue, but a reflection through his emerald lenses?
What is that face, but a visual illusion of the mind?
It is truly a wasted hope to view such a lovely facade.
Here betrays the song,
Laughing at the dying throng.
A final serenade
Mocking as they fade.
She wishes that the world should perish.
What is the world, but a collection of dreamers and realists?
What is that dream, but an artist’s anthological shriek?
It is truly a wasted wish to wish the death of a nightmare.
Thank the deities,
Even after my journeys
Through the woe-stricken tales.
Investigators come knocking, a crime to solve,
The main suspects being I and we,
But, I revealed, just to resolve
That it was he and she, not me.
Because, you see, I am evolved
Beyond such a thing so petty.
The villagers now hate me.
Ever since I caused the sky to fall
Their torches blaze against my wall.
For I slaughtered Atlas
As he tried, in terrified vain,
To continue his column-like fate.
There is no sky to hold
For, as the villagers are unaware,
Their torches burned it all away.
Blame me, people,
If it should spare you the pain of revelation.
The last thing we need is a crying nation.
Scourging the buoy-lined shores,
Relentlessly barraging the ship and her tormented, skeletal captain.
His bones rattle against the helm,
Empty eyes staring out against the stars.
A dream screams from that hollow hull!
A dream to scream!
A scream to dream!
A cry towards the sky that their souls might fly for one night!
The mast lays splintered,
Jaded eyes stained violet stare upon it.
Incessant gazes boring straight into its tortured, trepidation-ridden spirit.
Its sails war against the winds,
Fragments waterlogged against the sea.
Passion echoes from that fractured extremity!
Passion for its revelation!
Revelation of its passion!
Premonitions of failed missions to provide her nutrition!
The painted rainbow,
The apple in the eye of the storm,
Dripping its disdain upon the foreheads of the helpless.
Its faith in rain against the sun,
A test of happiness against the norm.
A lie is spread along its wings!
A lie to die!
Now die with lies!
A tasteful truth amongst youth uncouth!
My dream is simply the premonition of death.
My scream expresses the passion for your lies.
Why goodbye? Why always goodbye?
The Waltz of Madness
The Tide Bearer
The Keen-Eyed Patriot
The Muse’s Addict
The Fallen Seraph
The Bruised Knee
The Impending Implosion
The Oblivious Defendant
The Seafaring Romantic
The Obsolete Heart
The Flower’s Victim
The Secluded Tune
The Wishful Callous
The Dying Rose
The Restless Insane
The Sick Plea
The Unexpressed Nightmare
The Voiceless Listener
The Fanciful Sorrow
The Unrighteous Faith
I Don’t Eat Eggs
I placed a cap upon an egg
To protect its fragile head.
A hollow shell,
This cavity is the yolk’s hell,
Until it spills upon my pan
When its fate is known no other than
Less And Less
Less and less, and less than less,
I perceive you less and less.
We speak less and less.
You distinguish me
Less and less.
Wishes for Fishes
I trapped a dream within a jar,
It glows like fireflies.
Within this jar, which bore no holes,
Its breath proved its demise.
A long dead dream is little use,
Yet still with me remains,
Digging holes I failed to provide.
Its prayers drive me insane.
With every lapse in time and space,
And every passing day,
I find its death recurred ten fold,
As I draw near my May.
If only to pass you from abstract to existence
I would leap and scream with joy.
If only hopes and wishes were more than vain fishes,
That they might please this starving boy.
True to His Oblivion
Fuse together his tripolar conscience.
He has forgotten who he was.
His mind has traversed far beyond who he wants to be.
Freedom has deceived him, catching him unaware.
Who would have thought this being would have such carnal intentions?
But it does, and it has, and he is.
Sadly, the affairs of his affairs are in revolting disrepair,
And his former life is out of reach.
Oh, what he would give…
So much more ease would come by listing what he would not.
That is, nothing.
His brain, in its search, has become a blank sketchbook,
And his sketches naught but ghastly scribbles.
Technicalities and spiritualities are garbled inside of his heart,
And nonsense pours from his bleeding lips.
Dreams flow easily from his overly exercised imagination,
But never prove true.
His lack of assertion, ambition, and love hold him true,
True to his oblivion.
Infinite Harvest, Faceless Feathers
These mountains are my pulpit,
The stage from where my soul is spit,
Bouncing from the starry rooftop,
The sky, the only limit, where my words shall stop.
That is, ‘til they reach the vast infinite of space.
My brothers and sisters
Join me under the sun,
Where we all play in the fogs of war,
Where we all hang. The heavens are done.
That is, until they reap the harvest of our souls.
The flowers will inform us,
Inspire us, draw words from us,
If only we can view their desirous purpose.
Then we might see that we are the callous.
That is, until they strip us from their face, defaced.
A crimson curtain, the veil across my face
Is meant to be so, that I might not efface
Your beautiful, endless, perplexing eyes.
That you might wish to see, another time, my disguise.
That is, until your hatred burns so fervently that I melt…
From across this street I have turned to puddles!
And you needn’t even take a glance; you know what you have done!
Yet, it hinders not my emotion…
It does not obstruct the ache of my love.
My love, my love, that hated son,
The one meant for oblivion,
We persecuted it together,
And still it lives, drifting inside my chest, tickling like a feather.
That is, like a festering, hate-ridden feather.
1... Nigh Perfection
3... Lovers of the Eve
4... An Apocalyptic Apology
5... Society’s Cancer
6... Conform to The
7... I Do Hate
8... Framed in Fantasies
12... You, The Beheld
14... An Unwanted Obsession
16... Perfect You
18... Rotundities in Retrospect
22... The Gene Pool
23... Life Liquids
24... Once Was Not Enough
25... Involuntary Voyage
-All by Davin Casey
I cannot define a good day,
But expression of perfection is minutely possible.
A perfect day is one lacking thought to my gloom.
One without the cataclysmic resurfacing of my regret,
One which contains love.
Though love is timeless,
This time is loveless,
So perfection, though expressible,
Is nigh unattainable.
Thumb through my pages,
I hope you find what you seek.
This book, I fear, has been shut up for ages,
And has become irreverently meek.
Perhaps the seraph’s reverie
Has a meaning in its own.
Its foretelling of passing grief
Has broken flesh and bone.
My truth opens, like an umbrella,
To the falsified skies.
Yet, it’s filtered out, like poison,
In my loved ones’ eyes.
The windows, tinted with disease,
Spray disaster by the gallon.
The fountains, spewing feces,
Rend my flesh with icy talons.
I’m weary of this time of lies,
So let us transcend, let us flourish,
Let this be a time to revel in the truth.
But truth, as known, is far too outlandish.
Lovers of the Eve
Let her bare her teeth,
And show her fangs,
And salivate, and foam from the mouth.
Let her sink them in,
And draw you in,
And be your queen, and enslave you.
Let her tear your throat,
And drink your life,
And invigorate and energize her weary bones.
Let her walk by you,
Twin shadows in the night,
Twin pillars of shade, twin lovers of the eve.
A loss of her vampiric charms is a far worse fate, I assure you.
An Apocalyptic Apology
The figure of the raveness
Clothed in a mirage, hallucinogenic dress,
Soaked up by my countenance,
Within my mind, romancing the dance.
Storm flavored seas
Dousing the teas,
Feeding the memories,
Clouding the trees.
She mocks my muse’s baited song,
Though, in my sight, she can’t do wrong.
Her siren cry harps my blood vessels.
My cells spill out in crystal puddles.
Crimson tinted halls
Hosting undead balls,
Catching us mid-fall,
Painting faces upon dolls.
Now, here I wait, smothered in ashes,
Begging for ten-thousand lashes.
I do repent, goddess of the sky.
Forgive me for my vain outcry.
The tortured troll,
His humor droll,
Has paid his toll
And lost his goal.
The hangman shall have blood tonight.
His noose will fill to its lethal brink,
For here, among them, is a man of insight,
Who chose, above all, to think.
His third eye, he found, was his mind,
And with this tool, which others lacked,
He gave the fools the power to find
Injustices littering their so-called fact.
“Now cease your lies,
Or urge demise.”
“But why?” He cries.
“Why must I die?
Because I fly,
And I am I?
Or my three eyes?”
This freak of beasts, an outcast mortal,
Is mourning openly for the closed portal.
His cry “But why?” is left unanswered,
For he is society’s cancer.
Conform to The
Lie to us!
We love it when you smile!
Now drop us in the hungry Nile!
We, I fear, conform to The.
Spreading his grubby hands,
Controlling us with rubber bands.
Show me love.
I hate it when you mourn.
It leaves my spirit torn.
I know that I conform to The.
Holding our sour hearts above,
Raging like the heated ovulations of Aphrodite.
Make us dance!
Wear our pants!
Sleep with us on cotton spreads!
Leave us when our soul is shed!
I see them all conform to The.
Granting discomfort to mad libs,
Ripping arms and heads from yellow cribs.
Its point to sell you out
To their money and clout.
And yet we still conform to The.
Rubbing society’s sensitive green rash,
Brainwashing zombified masses into an irrational dash.
Strike us down!
Make worlds round!
Beat us until the cash
Flows from within our bleeding ass!
Corporations shall set us all free!
We have no choice but conformity to The!
Distinguished, monopolistic fraud,
Delivering a decisive, deadly, dual-intentioned nod.
We all die for the man;
For the Love; For the Fib;
For the Cash; For the God.
True freedom is unemployed and homeless in our pathetic society.
I Do Hate
This is my hatred,
And I do hate it.
I hate this hate,
And hate my habit.
I hate myself,
And hate loneliness.
I hate their hate,
And hate to say this.
I hate my past,
And hate my present.
I hate the word,
And hate to resent.
I hate mistakes,
And hate my choices.
I hate your god,
And hearing voices.
I hate to hate,
And hate my fate,
But, as of late,
I stand prostrate
Beside the gate.
I seek to seek
My former meek,
That I might reek
Of your sweet cheek.
But I am weak.
Framed in Fantasies
Chasing the scars upon my eyes,
I’ve slain the witch, the witch is dead!
Why do I cry
For the one leaving coals within my bed?
I fell in love with her wicked beauty,
But wretched winged demons are all she gave me.
Why must I see
That demons are her fantasy?
With blood red irises.
Your face is framed
In their devices.
Yet, still you bear
Their harsh disguises,
And lug their desires
Where they suffice is.
Why don’t you see… Me?
Ejaculations from my throat,
Seeping from my wounded throat.
And mommy’s on the floor.
We saved her from that plague of pigs,
But now she’s buried.
That yummy gold swallowed her whole!
Love marks the end of humanity.
Peace means the death of our sanity.
Happiness brought my conscience to its brink.
Flush me down the sink, love! Down the sink!
Don’t relinquish your sorrowful liquids.
Don’t sell yourself out to the highest of bids.
Don’t pay any heed to the raving, cornered wretch.
Play a game with me, babe! Let’s play fetch!
Too late for me,
I’ll wait for you.
I’ll wait vainly
Did I hide my disease so well
As to blind the nostalgic stork?
Did I cover my sore so poorly
As to poison the undeserving mallard?
Did I dull the pain with methane
Just to turn the chorus to requiem?
Did I blindfold my emerald eyes
Only to lose sight of my aspirations?
Did I break the jaded chains
Only to unravel their murderous embryos?
Did I rip the cloth with afterthoughts
Just to see the stained glass liquefy
Underneath the heat
Of its own stare?
You, The Beheld
Obscenity is in the eye of the beholder.
Tell me, can you read my stare?
For, if you shall, I will surely remove it.
My fascination prohibits me from any accomplishments, academic or anywise.
My infatuation, if you should so entitle it, is breaking my limbs.
My passion for you, my mind in its crazed state, will not die so easily.
Here I stand
The mirror image of a god?
Is it not, my loved ones?
That we, in our imperfection,
Are modeled from those
Whom we consider perfect?
Those who we follow
Those who you
Those who are meant
Our pathetic, mortal lives.
Are we no more capable
To shape our own fates?
To weave our own lives?
To be trusted with our own world?
Perhaps we could at least maintain order
In an existence without order.
Perhaps we could out-divine your deity!
An Unwanted Obsession
A horrible feeling
In the depths of my stomach.
I feel empty,
Yet feel like retching…
Do you understand?
I feel like vomiting emptiness!
You gave me these cursed pills,
Whose remedy was another sickness!
Molding me into an unrecognizable fiend,
And I’m teething on your overcoat.
My mind’s deformities
Centered entirely on your picture;
The one you don’t realize I have;
The one I keep in the hollow of my head.
Pacing, tapping, nothing fills my time!
An unwanted obsession…
To think, I thought it had reached its horrific end.
It’s screwing with my disposition,
And messing with our friendship, all the more.
It’s taken any aspirations
Which may once have existed
And replaced them with you.
Despite my giving to the world, I cannot have the one thing I desire.
Isn’t that funny?
The tortured moan,
An aftertaste of salsa on my breath.
I am my own.
My bloom is withered, shrunken in its death.
Because, in my feebleness,
I was trusted to feed myself.
In my self-loathing,
I was trusted with myself.
How foolish they were
To think one so incapable
Could learn to nourish himself,
When such a thing
Doesn’t even please him.
To think their gods
Would love him,
As they do them.
How they despise…
How very wise,
To be rid of him
When they got the chance.
For he is naught
But a burden…
You cut a lovely profile,
Ceaseless in its wonder,
Matchless in its guile.
A shriek in the light
Plays beauty like a guitar,
Feasting my eyes with gourmet delight.
Twin sapphires imbed themselves
Within your satin guise,
And cause my mind to dwell.
Why must you cut with such precision,
As if to make purposeful incisions
Of your perfection, scarring,
And with my disposition warring?
I’m lost at The Sea of Thought.
Due westward, summon the few!
Before I wreck upon the shore
Where my compass dwells on Perfect You!
Too late, we’re high and dry,
And lost to lands where all is blue.
Our ship is moored where I was I,
Before I lost myself, my way, to Perfect You.
Burning footsteps - a march to naught–
Made ashes of the daylight contortionist.
The Cyclops of the sky, extravagant and over-fraught
Left a soapy residue behind the radical reformist.
A terrorist – a blind god’s slave -
And this is his conceptualized world,
A mirror of my own, an idealistic peace, and safe.
Weapons all surrendered, we are without quarrel.
Let us let the mass of tools know this:
The mourning spirits will not allow this passing.
Their hatred, their justified rage, their vengeance
Shall hinder any progression of what we are asking.
Enragés quarrel, prompted by Baguettes,
Heedless to the rational requests of Mother Nature.
Psychosis plagues these mute disciples, wordless prophets.
Their eternal struggle shall never cease... Pathetic creatures.
Greedy conquests make kings laugh.
Disease is absent their poison-pen humor.
The next continental establishment, as all, is a must have,
And life is unbearable without owning life at its core.
Confliction inflicting reflections upon Earth’s mastication
Has sparked his anger, triggered the bolt of his fury.
The steps of the unfaithful and raucous plebian
Have transfixed his outlook of dull and dreary.
Righteous nightmares – visions of you –
Open my eyes to further gaps in this fair lady’s face.
The breached Bastille has heard its cue,
After trying so hard to mend its weak walls with aging lace.
Loving attempts – raving, false grasps –
No one should discontinue the hope of their dreams,
But dances with one’s dream should be tight clasped.
Never let go of the radical breath, from which smiles beam.
Rotundities in Retrospect
We write for wretches who have wrought our works-
Recyclable religions, rotundities in retrospect.
But who brings light to right or wrong?
Who is to say who is correct?
I miss my wondrous Father Earth,
Who left me when replaced by her.
Forgiving ways and spring-filled days
Have forsaken my caricature.
Neither Caiaphas nor your Christ register my existence.
I am placeless in this war, meaningless and unpleasant.
Still this plate of wheat and grapes approaches…
I clarify, I know not your god.
You clarify, I belong in sod.
The ceiling fans stay dormant, tense,
And sweat drops fall in recompense.
Notions of oceans, and rivers, and floods
Teeming with screaming, the dying, the dead,
Mixing elixirs, and poisons, and bloods,
While shaving my body, and thoughts in my head.
Control me and mold me, if that’s what you wish.
Feelings, left reeling, that crawl through my mind
Prohibit my limit of fetid last kiss,
While leaving my body in gutters to find.
The peach-colored, white breasted rodent
Shuffling about in its righteous curiosities;
Sniffing the toxicities that linger about her;
Gnawing at the cage of forced preservation,
Which protects the unwilling.
Eyes, like tiny black pearls,
Have probed every nook, every crevice
For means of physical escape.
The wheel, in its incessant spin,
Is her only expression of love.
Love of that man, whose mind has long forgotten,
Whose eyes watched her once, with adoration,
But who, ultimately, loves another, who loves another.
Hatred fills this love-filled circumference.
Both beings rant. Both beings cry.
Both beings twist, and turn, and fidget uncontrollably.
Both have succumbed to their hopelessness.
Both beings surrender to their cage.
The Gene Pool
Exaggerated imperfections -
Flaws in the being,
Physical and emotional,
Spiritual and imaginary -
Have contaminated us.
The coffee stained lips of time
Sucking on my hardened hull-
The one that burns as I streak through your blessed atmosphere-
Leaving their purple prints
As scars for me to worship.
For their dime.
They fucking love it.
Pre-post-modern gauze for the gods,
Whom we have wounded with words-
Those that carve as they squeal through the airwaves-
Wrapping so as to prevent
Further loss of their life liquids.
Once Was Not Enough
However can I?
It evades my grasp,
Like circumcised shadows,
Or powdery feathers slipping through my fingers.
My voice, lacking the necessary extremities,
Cannot produce an observance-worthy call.
“Hypocrisy,” says I, “for not giving my all.”
Is it unhealthy?
Dream demons, lustful,
Play me in life’s malicious masquerade,
And, by the gods, I despise them for their false reproductions.
My dream, again retreating through tangible walls,
Was closer than ever before, but once.
“But once,” Life says, “was enough.”
Fear and sorrow
Plague my involuntary voyage
Upon a ship of murderous intent.
Her deck emits a sadness
Of which I lack understanding.
A blade could not supply such an incision
As her tale of life’s construing truisms.
One’s empty chest could not heave such a silent despair
As my own upon her gentle voice’s release.
This horror of this ghost craft,
Its rigging crafted of human hair,
Is not, by far, the worst of fates.
It is the matter to be damned,
Without knowledge of one’s own incarceration,
Or the reasoning, philosophical or nonsensical, thereof.
No, not even this is my main outcry!
But loss of my prospective love!
Resigned to such a destiny,
My mind and body abandon all hopes of rebellion.
The hope of death proves me reckless,
And your Leviathan shall not stare me down.
The hellish onslaught of heavenly liquids
Falling from a sky, whose very existence is in question,
Has corroded my sight, impairing it near blind.
“Bring your worst, behemoth!”
I scream from within the very belly of the beast,
Simultaneously battling acids wishing to digest my putrid words.
The crew, which once stood by, is long gone,
And I am alone, with naught but the desire
To escape a placeless world.