Forgotten or just plain ignored,
the ghost sits at a desk invisible.
Nobody can see him when he walks through
crammed streets filled with terror and indulgence.
Without haste, without prejudice,
the ghost’s memories are those of painful
speeches woven into the very fabric of his being.
With these tales he ostracised himself
from what he thought were companions,
but the truth spills its guts onto the floor
at his feet and he is left with nothing.
The ghost realises he is the master of his own destiny
and burns his possessions,
leaves everything he knows
and disappears into the mist.
A fog encircles the world and from within this haze
he disguises his true self
and becomes the hatred he has felt for so long.
His misconceptions left him confused and irritated,
for what is it to be a ghost than to be nothing at all.
Nothing to anyone or anything,
forgotten and downtrodden,
left to rot in the dark recesses of people’s minds
where things are to be forgotten and not to be worried over,
the ghost does not dwell within the machine world
and is therefore not connected to society by its capitalist ideals.
The ghost wanders alone,
but for what point, should the ghost become
something to be desired or coveted?
It would only hinder its path.
Nothing left out there to be searched for,
the forgotten search must be done
by tracing footsteps and crossing borders.
Running is noble if running is running for the ghost.
The ghost has nothing left, no one left,
and this is freedom to the ghost, the past is broken,
snapped and left in pieces in trickling drains
with run off to the sewers, the sewers lead to the sea,
the sea leads to land the land promises visibility
– to be visible once again.
On the streets beyond the window the ghost is ephemeral,
see through and transparent,
no electric devices charged from the fuels of destruction,
this destruction lives within the head,
the brain is a power plant in meltdown,
the brain is a dead duck in an infested pond thick with blood.
The ghost’s shoulders carry no burden,
no regrets no guilt no conformity to speak of.
Only self gratification keeps the ghost from imminent insanity.
The ghost hides the scars and covers the exterior
with symbols of conquered pain,
head to toe the ghost is nothing but emptiness.
Should the ghost be seen, remembered,
thought of it would perish, for the ghost wants only solitude,
only freedom from memories,
The ghost watches them fall one by one,
as weeks turn to years the communication dwindles to nothing,
where is the letter, what happened to the pen,
when did ink only pump out from electricity
with perfectly formed vowels from illiterate fools
who have no concept of the privilege of education,
the ghost sees education as important,
but the ghost cannot keep his mind on one atom,
everything changes in an instant when the freedom
is compromised for the want of things that should not matter.
The ghost is sorrowful and full of repressed anger,
there is no explanation obvious, only abandonment.
So the ghost will run to the sky
and jump over oceans to where the dust is thick
in the lungs and the pollution is dangerous.
Where danger is exciting and tastes of good
and good is bad
for bad is negative
and positivity can only be found under stones
where wood is broken.
But this religious undertone is the bane of the ghost,
for the ghost is blasphemous and illicit,
it ponders impure thoughts to the peril
of he who nails himself to the cross with
that one free hand he must spit the nails through his palm.
In a new land the ghost will walk through exit signs
only to enter the world it is searching for,
as the searching is done inside the mind
no footfall will carry it to any predestined destination,
no signs will lead the way to anywhere.
Bells will toll behind the moon,
wolves will howl in the night
and its eyes will be the first to reform to solid,
his hands will follow to hold the cigarettes
that burn his dead soul back to existence.