rant of dreams forsaken

Sheer, majestic genius from our man Max

Max or Not

In life, we are plagued with many things. Some serve to compel us forward. Some, seem only to exist to thwart our pusillanimous progress toward the arbitrary goal of being human. What on earth is this innate desire to adhere to such insidious standards of corporeal existence? What is this tethering to that which can only be thought of as tormented torturing? To be able to reasonably anticipate the fate of each moment as a fate worse than death itself. To know the rhythm of each step and the sound of every footfall. To know the precise frame of time in which that sliver of sunlight will slip in through the windows crack to smack you into the oblivion of consciousness. Beholden to the call of nature’s never-ending reminder that our minds are moored to primal needs to which we must abide. to know that if we ever hope to reach…

View original post 496 more words

Purge by Nicholas Osborne


inside me thrives a wild need
stretching—twisting its shoulders

a malignant fetus, in utero
sired by seed from the
ravenous vacuum of deep space
a gifted thing with unending hunger

hot pangs that rake at my guts—
cigarette cherries gently teasing the
softest walls of my organs

they beg me to loosen and leave
to smoke me out, until all that
remains is the pleasant and echoing


drained of yolk, but hollow-intact
like a blue-spotted robin’s egg—
a boon to the eye and fingertip but
at heart just a porous façade

its zygote, a decaying mucous drip
dangling low and gelatinous to
bring feast for the blue-bottles

I want to blow away with the wind
or fade away under blankets as I dream
or be elevated to heaven or dragged down
to hell—if we believe in the stories

maybe reincarnate as a cancer cell
and spend my hours dividing in two

it is imperative that I be sundered
quartered in the old way, where rough
men tie burning hemp knots around
the bones of my ankles and wrists
then slap all the simultaneous horses

gallop the dripping stumps of me down
the cobbled narrow streets, crowded
with niched-in shops and cafés

though be sure to kick and
ditch-roll the fifth quarter—
the one that dropped like a
wet bundle of pelts and
stayed where it lay

pound me as void and as nothing
enact that precise erasure
turn all of this inside out and shake
my frame until every cog rattles loose

feed my morsels to the
pigeons from a plastic bag
filled with stale breadcrumbs

saw at my medium-rare with steak knife and
fork—ingest my choice filet—wash it
down with a glass of big ballsy burgundy

stretch my tripe like an elastic band
from here to Xanadu and back again

scoop every scrap from this container and

let me be empty

We are very excited to have Nick Osborne contributing to SD.  You can find more of Nick’s excellent writings and poetry at his site:


Sister – Olde Punk

– sister

Sensations allowing migrating figures to justify the atrocities that follow in the wake of the beast that dwells in the heart of a man who smiles, takes your hand, makes monolithic promises then tears at those things that are valued by those of us who are powerless rulers of a carefully disguised brothel where makeshift occupations keep you mundane and weak and afraid of those who are aware that life is more than toiling in exchange for paper to in turn barter it for air and water and shelter, things that are necessary to survive yet we are forced to strive in a greying hell that makes the demons fat and they molest the angels’ dog’s feelings causing a conversation on theology between ignorant deified bigots over a game of chess…..

we forgot about retributions

and neglected to court them

however, do not feel as though

we savored your loss

after, the taste of the air was unusual

and I found it not pleasing at all

queer gestures harangue the faces

that manifest out of misty mornings

while we await answers from those

who pretend they are ignorant

of the crimes they have perpetrated

O Lord Almighty

observe that blissful naiveté

when did we lose ours?

companions cure the irritations

that accompany the finale

of your fantasy

you beautiful bastard, your sister

walks into perfected ruin orchestrated by your own hands

peace in pieces pleasing none of us

shine the tiger light into my void

respect what you may find there

for it is fragile.

To await nothing is to be eternally patient

Morrison’s Confession to St. Peter



St. Peter greets his next soul at the gates, and asks for his name.  This particular soul shakes his long hair out then looks up and says:

“As long as there is something to hold onto

there will always be hope, struggle, curiosity

As long as I still draw breath

there will always be adversity

until there comes a time in life when I can no longer see

I will know there is something that cannot be taken from me

As long as there is a mother to bring life

there will always be fertility

As long as there is a father guiding

there will always be integrity

As long as there is a son to raise

there will always be prosperity

As long as there is a daughter to praise

there will always be felicity

until there comes a time in life when I cannot be me

I will know that there is something that I cannot see

As long as there is someone to teach

there will always be university

as long as there is more than one way to interpret the lesson

there will always be controversy

As long as there is a student to make a stand for truth and justice

there will always be a revolutionary

As long as there is a brother with which to share

there will always be honesty

As long as there is a sister to love

there will always be family

and the dream of equality

When there comes a time in life

when these are things I can no longer see

I will know that this is what will be the death of the free”

Jim pauses, looks around, and then says,

“By the way, mister, where in the hell are we?






By Oldepunk



See there is this yearning

and I am learning

It’s all this painful turning

stations taking notations of rotations

always, always, moving

and it is making me ill

moon moving, earth moving

sun moving, galaxy moving

everything always

moving moving MOVING

for one second

I WISH i could stand STILL

a chance to catch up

with my breath

grab hold of the life that fled

the moment, I realized

I wasn’t dead

But the motion and momentum

buried me in concrete

before i could admit defeat

and I struggle with the velocity

violently pushing its god damn


at ME

I need a moment to consider

my position i have to reconfigure

my life stole my soul and ran

at 17000 miles per hour

left before I began

to know

just what to do

in all this commotion

without you

and it’s all this turning

constant motion churning

it has made me so very ill

I just needed one moment

a moment to stand STILL


Free Falling Angel




Another slow silent sigh creeps across our

eyes and reminds us of the lives

we used to lead

I remember fearing the failing leaders

as we dogs nipped at their heels

hoping for little salvations

and it’s a crazy kinda hatred

that burns in my mind

the kind that makes you cry

when you pull the trigger

alas, against the ghosts of your hopes,

the shared dreams of a moonless night,

and the heartfelt meanderings on a dawnless day

We pay our prices

Our idols expect their tributes

For tribulation is what we all most desire

when our lives are on fire

So step softly in the valley

temptation is stalking you

like a doe in the wood

unseen but felt beyond

the slow blue horizon

There is no distinction between right and wrong here

it is merely the perceptions of the strong

taking hold

do not let fly your gasp of innocence

the angels know you better than that

Iconoclastic nuances permeate your conversation

reality building walls in a fantasy

Some may walk in shadow

others tread in light

We have praised the dying prophets who

whisper promises cloaked in blasphemy

I can fear for myself no more

as I no longer fear you either

quiet, quiet now…

everything will not be alright