The Edge of Peripheral

Homesick from shell shock, as always, a suspension spontaneously supplying its own combustion through child-like dialecticism and a figure of reach indulges in prophecies of oblivion.
Nothing else is free, except the chemist who'll choose how the illusion of claustrophobia will grow. 
Dread from a positive charge split into hindsight and immediate fortune, the bitter railways tracking memory as legacy idealise the invention of time by suppressing hands under fine-hairs clipping their own messages of growth, soaking lives in boredom, projecting spheres of endless realism into reason, the blade carving caricatures from bone.
Nothing is ever born, even thought is outdated by what we can see, beholding a death defined by what it believes what it was to be. 
Cremating history to a pin-point of dust, the glass furnace alienates each death as it pretends to inspect difference as nothing but self-produced transparency, evaporation and condensation mimicked to an active combination through naming breezes caught in between the transpiration of existence, the whirlwinds creating echoes from flesh blossoming, the innate will electrifying each sense; — we fly over lanterns left over by whatever entities we found at dawn, imagination irreducibly confined to gravitation, the endless mockery of self-preservation! 
Fortitude inverting back to realms corresponding stardust to mites and cockroaches! 
Each equalling their own end, a new born heart revolving in secrecy spoilt by negation, the constant revelation! 

Louche Boredom 

The untouchable rapid concession of surpassed perfection 
Is but the fleeting shards cutting the heart after every encounter 
With the spiralling majesty robbing the Queen from her throne. 

The purple gas light exhibiting seasons to sensations 
Dreams eternally in flickering boughs mortalising silence, 
Condemning makeshift clocks to the blind vastness of piracy. 

The perfect throne is encountered only by sensations 
Pirated in silence, the inconceivable beauty adored 
By the inability to recognise pretension.

The boor awakes, on a black meadow, drowsy in despair,
The plug in the sky is torn to a socket, his eyes burn
And silence reflects itself to a womb, bleeding from his heart.