Ripped from the wall, like muscle stripped of skin, A grotesque shape thrashes with savage intent— Vengeance not against time, but stagnation itself, Its cry an absurdity, a proclamation of pain.
The sound pounds the air into submission, Tempers my ears as iron meets the flame, Grinds my thoughts into dust, scratches on glass— All resistance futile, every effort the same.
Still as clouds on a memories moonlit night, I wait, Watching as it lurches closer with mockery in its gait— But the misshapen limbs, obscured by shadow, Twist my mind from body, pulling them apart.
Is it motion, or the void where motion should be, That contorts reality into something dark, sharp, divided?
This is part of a collection of poems accompanied by an AI generated illustration as a response to those poems. In the collection, “A Super Collider of Zigs and Zags” by Brendon Behlke, each poem was submitted as a prompt to an AI art generator and produced the artwork on display. To view them the way ancient peoples would have viewed them, you can order a copy of the entire collection, over 100 poems and art pieces, releasing on November 18th 2023 here: https://www.fontainehousepublishing.com/product-page/a-super-collider-of-zigs-and-zags-by-brendon-behlke
This is part of a collection of poems accompanied by an AI generated illustration as a response to those poems. In the collection, “A Super Collider of Zigs and Zags” by Brendon Behlke, each poem was submitted as a prompt to an AI art generator and produced the artwork on display. To view them the way ancient peoples would have viewed them, you can order a copy of the entire collection, over 100 poems and art pieces, releasing on November 18th 2023 here: https://www.fontainehousepublishing.com/product-page/a-super-collider-of-zigs-and-zags-by-brendon-behlke
This is part of a collection of poems accompanied by an AI generated illustration as a response to those poems. In the collection, “A Super Collider of Zigs and Zags” by Brendon Behlke, each poem was submitted as a prompt to an AI art generator and produced the artwork on display. To view them the way ancient peoples would have viewed them, you can order a copy of the entire collection, over 100 poems and art pieces, releasing on November 18th 2023 here: https://www.fontainehousepublishing.com/product-page/a-super-collider-of-zigs-and-zags-by-brendon-behlke
That head cold of a place, claustrophobic like asthmatic lungs, a beginning, an ending, depending on where you look.
In that heaving chamber, a body stands misaligned, like paper planes fumble folded, the right side crawling away, desperate for the solace of shadows.
The rest of the body too, one can assume (but know nothing). Where secrets grow like hair, even as the source will never do again.
Another figure is inhaled, drawn deeply from the darkness. A reflection of the native, lunging towards its chiral twin.
The folds of space between them thin, become thinner still, non-existent, a monstrosity of osmosis.
A tired rage erupts from the forebearer, one ‘good’ hand emboldened and armed, vomited out from the disheveled shapes, plunging a dagger into the aggressor, again, and again, and again, and again, until, together, they slump away, retreating from life, reality, everything.
All that metal was more than steel beams, born of dreams with sturdier seams, a name whose history foretold of terrible things, here too, here too.
A ship built of such namesake could live eternal on silver wakes but it’s moniker took no part, long since dead he had no hand, no hand.
So when the ship was old and brash, it breached tyrannic waters headlong into a clash, abandoning the ideals of its progenitor for shame, for shame.
As if possessed by more than storm, the ship rose high and like rags was torn, sending its crew scattered to the cold, alone together, alone together,
their desperate hearts searched the sea of night, dancing with terrible fury, they saw absurd lights, a ship as brazen as they and cried out, “rescue, we are rescued”
But that ghoul did not slow to greet them as a friend, rather surged forward with rage against them; twas the stern of their own ship come to finish the job drag them down, drag them down.
And so it did, tossing raft to sky and pulling them into the cold undertow nameless faces for the fish below; but Dennis survived, Dennis survived.
Brooding, it sits like a cataract in the eye, Invasive, meddlesome and menacing. Best burn the whole thing down, and search for fruit in the ashes.
The foundation – the roof, from root, to stem, to outstretched leaves, every soul that has crossed that threshold is now tainted with corruption.
Some say the darkness grew there. Quiet like a mold you see but hide in shadow, not looking long enough to acknowledge until it is the shadow, the texture of the walls.
Those who were alive when it was made; gestated, and labored over, know, it was built wrong from the start. From the first nail in the first beam.
Neighbors windows opened like center stage on the day they broke ground. The audience loyal to the production if only to see what, if anything, grew.
While the crew toiled to bring the place to life, they fell ill to the architecture; the very design, a plague on the mind caking them with madness.
They’d take it home and build it there. Unspeakable extensions to the horror on Wilkins Street, but return all the same.
Visit those horrors again, or have them visited upon them, until all their souls were lost, though not a one found dead.
The teeth of that house have dulled with generations, yet it still consumes from the inside, scraping against the skin; agonizing over the organs.
While all of Wilkins Street is shaped by its pull; those bright colors and picket fences, dragged by that darker space to a place where no light can escape.
Grow Gray With Me 