the junkies and
the lonely
barefoot
souls
they grasp
the void
better
A year and a day, my love.
the turbulent soul makes you a trickster
cycling through old memories mostly from
the bottom of the sea where we first locked eyes
I'll throw you up into the sky
so I can tempt you with my arms
I've drifted, I've sunk
I've overlooked expressions face to face
I've sat in quiet reverie looking for some remedy
escaping me
I've channeled the attack of solitude
By the seeking of greater altitude
cultivating the modern disease
I've come here organic and was made
somewhat robotic. I rebelled to become spiritual,
feeling naked and vulnerable again.
There's a bridge going back to Atlantis
There's an underground tunnel that gets you to Mars
I've put a lease on this face
cycling through old memories mostly from
the bottom of the sea where we first locked eyes
I'll throw you up into the sky
so I can tempt you with my arms
I've drifted, I've sunk
I've overlooked expressions face to face
I've sat in quiet reverie looking for some remedy
escaping me
I've channeled the attack of solitude
By the seeking of greater altitude
cultivating the modern disease
I've come here organic and was made
somewhat robotic. I rebelled to become spiritual,
feeling naked and vulnerable again.
There's a bridge going back to Atlantis
There's an underground tunnel that gets you to Mars
I've put a lease on this face
Third two
We'll some day laugh about the backward
impossible consciousness that must have existed
for us to exist now, in this way that is so wonderful,
so co-existing and without compromise to quality
of life, so natural and mighty and full of integrity;
the past some backward echo of humanity
unanimously forgotten about.
Like the third war hitting
Like the third war creating new trenches,
new pools of disease, new types of injury.
And its destruction
leaving us alive
with a third kind.
A distant familiarity
some notion of a singularity
back when science was still trying to find
the one true subatomic god
Trying to find some big bang and missing out on the orgy
Like trying to find the space between ova and sperm
Like looking at our world and seeing a planet
not an organism. Seeing the sun, not light
We ought to accept we come from a place of darkness
Action insists on reaction
Consciousness creates action
Existence is a spectrum, and every
aspect of the spectrum functions in duality
Functions as earth culture
Earth culture when we dance on the graves of our lovers
when we dance with their spirits-alive and not fear death,
these days living our whole lives just to give ourselves
a sterile and kind death
Earth culture when we no longer see gender like
the ignorant and bold might say they no longer see race...
or care
Earth culture when we are human
against the asteroid
I will drown in shallow water
I will choke on clean, pure air
I'll have the surgery long before its due
let the doctors fuck me up
let the doctors prescribe me some profit margin
let all the Medicine People give me things
unnecessary and irreversible
Let the doctors visit earth culture
Earth culture when fractals are taught in preschool
Earth culture when my brave new world is rude and awakening
And especially when the night sky replaces the television,
which had previously replaced the night sky
When promises are negative affirmations
because promises sound compromise
Earth culture when there's no culture left
Some day we'll laugh about meanginglessness
we all share with integrity today.
impossible consciousness that must have existed
for us to exist now, in this way that is so wonderful,
so co-existing and without compromise to quality
of life, so natural and mighty and full of integrity;
the past some backward echo of humanity
unanimously forgotten about.
Like the third war hitting
Like the third war creating new trenches,
new pools of disease, new types of injury.
And its destruction
leaving us alive
with a third kind.
A distant familiarity
some notion of a singularity
back when science was still trying to find
the one true subatomic god
Trying to find some big bang and missing out on the orgy
Like trying to find the space between ova and sperm
Like looking at our world and seeing a planet
not an organism. Seeing the sun, not light
We ought to accept we come from a place of darkness
Action insists on reaction
Consciousness creates action
Existence is a spectrum, and every
aspect of the spectrum functions in duality
Functions as earth culture
Earth culture when we dance on the graves of our lovers
when we dance with their spirits-alive and not fear death,
these days living our whole lives just to give ourselves
a sterile and kind death
Earth culture when we no longer see gender like
the ignorant and bold might say they no longer see race...
or care
Earth culture when we are human
against the asteroid
I will drown in shallow water
I will choke on clean, pure air
I'll have the surgery long before its due
let the doctors fuck me up
let the doctors prescribe me some profit margin
let all the Medicine People give me things
unnecessary and irreversible
Let the doctors visit earth culture
Earth culture when fractals are taught in preschool
Earth culture when my brave new world is rude and awakening
And especially when the night sky replaces the television,
which had previously replaced the night sky
When promises are negative affirmations
because promises sound compromise
Earth culture when there's no culture left
Some day we'll laugh about meanginglessness
we all share with integrity today.
SOCIAL COMMODITIES
How much breath does life take out of you?
How many pounds of liquid mass
trigger aesthetic in you?
That play-thing you
out of glory
like hole
Those who thrive on the passions of social commodity
And I who only orbit. I who have circled just enough
I who am both canine and master in Pavlov’s experiment
I who have unlearned ethic code and nursery rhythm
I who have left our modern world for dead
without possibility
I who have learned how to be uncensored
Learned how to make my honesty, honest
I had been trained otherwise
Trained in faith. Trained in heterosexuality
and other perverse submissions
But the way I see it
God is a false idol. I feel no
container for my identity whatsoever and
I don't recall being disciplined
and thus
often crave dominance
I came up in the vomit
I came up in last night’s conversation
I was left stunted
Insatiably seeking self-destruction
as reward-mechanism to self
The outside at war with the inside; the self civil war
And I, leaving them both for dead
I have been parallel with you
I have beheld the superstition as something tangible
I have accepted laughter as a valid passport to my squishy parts
But I cannot tell you the beauty involved the unnatural depth
and perplexity of the caverns of drunk philosophy
that burst into light with the half-second sequences between spins
The greens, the skies and the evermore!
I HAVE BEEN BLESSED
I have observed pain. I have been given pain
I have been born in pain, and this must be why I seek it out
IN EVERY LUXURY OF SOUL, in every longitude and latitude
of emotion there is a place I can be found burning, waiting
for the turbulence and reckoning of another impending flood
Just waiting for water
Behaving in every shape
and in every form
and with every possibility
at once.
Like hurtful, natural freedom
I have mistaken eternity for the moment
I have mistaken sobriety for the rarest high
I have largely loosened my grip
Juggling
I think I may have become used to this spontaneous version of normal
I may have gotten used to stagnant hormones
raging euphemisms and over-processed
practically candy-coated food
Holding onto youth like a bottle of distilled alcohol
Holding onto courage like greeting strangers after the fact
Those who thrive off hangover and poverty
I who only get sick
I who can laugh with makeshift monstrosity: I don’t
intend on bringing my serious-face to the funeral - I don’t
intend on cushioning my space from this fall
My life,
sprouting in a mason jar
A joke. A josh. A jest.
And so be it.
It's all just turmeric for the soul.
Freshly baked muffins for the soul
Taken and devoured for psycho-nutrient, vital-micro-minerals,
and omni-biotic; seedlings of psychological pathologies manifesting
elsewhere while I recline and psycho-kinetically have myself
Iodine for the soul.
This whole thing connected by dots. DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND
THAT’S ALL THE STARS ARE SAYING IN CONSTELLATION
Let the dust settle. Let the dust collect and be used like salt on the trash
before we decide to hurl it all in the incinerator
Just waiting for fire
How many pounds of liquid mass
trigger aesthetic in you?
That play-thing you
out of glory
like hole
Those who thrive on the passions of social commodity
And I who only orbit. I who have circled just enough
I who am both canine and master in Pavlov’s experiment
I who have unlearned ethic code and nursery rhythm
I who have left our modern world for dead
without possibility
I who have learned how to be uncensored
Learned how to make my honesty, honest
I had been trained otherwise
Trained in faith. Trained in heterosexuality
and other perverse submissions
But the way I see it
God is a false idol. I feel no
container for my identity whatsoever and
I don't recall being disciplined
and thus
often crave dominance
I came up in the vomit
I came up in last night’s conversation
I was left stunted
Insatiably seeking self-destruction
as reward-mechanism to self
The outside at war with the inside; the self civil war
And I, leaving them both for dead
I have been parallel with you
I have beheld the superstition as something tangible
I have accepted laughter as a valid passport to my squishy parts
But I cannot tell you the beauty involved the unnatural depth
and perplexity of the caverns of drunk philosophy
that burst into light with the half-second sequences between spins
The greens, the skies and the evermore!
I HAVE BEEN BLESSED
I have observed pain. I have been given pain
I have been born in pain, and this must be why I seek it out
IN EVERY LUXURY OF SOUL, in every longitude and latitude
of emotion there is a place I can be found burning, waiting
for the turbulence and reckoning of another impending flood
Just waiting for water
Behaving in every shape
and in every form
and with every possibility
at once.
Like hurtful, natural freedom
I have mistaken eternity for the moment
I have mistaken sobriety for the rarest high
I have largely loosened my grip
Juggling
I think I may have become used to this spontaneous version of normal
I may have gotten used to stagnant hormones
raging euphemisms and over-processed
practically candy-coated food
Holding onto youth like a bottle of distilled alcohol
Holding onto courage like greeting strangers after the fact
Those who thrive off hangover and poverty
I who only get sick
I who can laugh with makeshift monstrosity: I don’t
intend on bringing my serious-face to the funeral - I don’t
intend on cushioning my space from this fall
My life,
sprouting in a mason jar
A joke. A josh. A jest.
And so be it.
It's all just turmeric for the soul.
Freshly baked muffins for the soul
Taken and devoured for psycho-nutrient, vital-micro-minerals,
and omni-biotic; seedlings of psychological pathologies manifesting
elsewhere while I recline and psycho-kinetically have myself
Iodine for the soul.
This whole thing connected by dots. DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND
THAT’S ALL THE STARS ARE SAYING IN CONSTELLATION
Let the dust settle. Let the dust collect and be used like salt on the trash
before we decide to hurl it all in the incinerator
Just waiting for fire
Just waiting for the crunch that made this place go boom
Like a seedling in the perfect moment
bathing in a gentle sunlight with the perfect breeze
unconditionally alive with perfect emotional temperance…
Your heart would fucking explode.
Your heart would mend brighter than before its first heartbreak rejection or loss
Your heart would be capable of so much freedom
But… there is no magic anywhere.
How could I excuse myself between these pages of poetry
pretending like there’s not snot in my brain?
Pretending we don’t judge the parents of our lovers
as if we weren't investing in their organs
It’s almost like music like dying from being born
Like being the pig at the party the cathedral
that converted you the plastic that
gave you cancer but kept
your food fresh
ALL YOUR SOULS DEEP FRIED IN A VAT OF HUMAN FAT
Is it worth the cab ride home?
Is it worth the hours spent not sleeping?
I go to bed, warm and comfortable
and I dream of the hours
I spend not sleeping
It gets to be in the night
It gets to be about the lost and found
The culprit spirit
The rebellion just after it’s first casualty
A lament at DIY Doomsday
YES. I will go inside when it’s cold and I will
be reckless otherwise
I will tattoo my soul with the seasons of earth
and with your smile
these polkadoted dreams I’ve eluded
Ending down streets of poetry instead
to withstand the urban of my wilderness
to withstand being born into a preheated life
How much life does breath take out of...
Like a seedling in the perfect moment
bathing in a gentle sunlight with the perfect breeze
unconditionally alive with perfect emotional temperance…
Your heart would fucking explode.
Your heart would mend brighter than before its first heartbreak rejection or loss
Your heart would be capable of so much freedom
But… there is no magic anywhere.
How could I excuse myself between these pages of poetry
pretending like there’s not snot in my brain?
Pretending we don’t judge the parents of our lovers
as if we weren't investing in their organs
It’s almost like music like dying from being born
Like being the pig at the party the cathedral
that converted you the plastic that
gave you cancer but kept
your food fresh
ALL YOUR SOULS DEEP FRIED IN A VAT OF HUMAN FAT
Is it worth the cab ride home?
Is it worth the hours spent not sleeping?
I go to bed, warm and comfortable
and I dream of the hours
I spend not sleeping
It gets to be in the night
It gets to be about the lost and found
The culprit spirit
The rebellion just after it’s first casualty
A lament at DIY Doomsday
YES. I will go inside when it’s cold and I will
be reckless otherwise
I will tattoo my soul with the seasons of earth
and with your smile
these polkadoted dreams I’ve eluded
Ending down streets of poetry instead
to withstand the urban of my wilderness
to withstand being born into a preheated life
How much life does breath take out of...
I need something new. Different. Like my old self coming back to haunt me. Like my old self reminding me there was a time I felt authentic. I pursued the interests I admired. I pursued the things I wanted in sex. And then the world took hold. And then the world was very convincing. Well, fuckers.
The world is over.
The world is over.
An observation to save for later
All these junkies of love in hidden corners
People off the street getting comfortable inside
A dance, a show. A great stripe-tease.
But who's kidding who.
No one's really teasing.
I browse through escort ads.
The proper bitches look like they've never gotten fucked before.
It's nearly cruel.
People off the street getting comfortable inside
A dance, a show. A great stripe-tease.
But who's kidding who.
No one's really teasing.
I browse through escort ads.
The proper bitches look like they've never gotten fucked before.
It's nearly cruel.
Inner Alien Landscape Gives Birth to Itself
I had to explain to her,
I'm cultivating an internal environment
I'm freeing myself up to the twisted
and devious places in mind and soul
and I need the deranged .
I've been repressing it all this time.
I haven't written in years, really.
I haven't let chaos do its thing.
I have to explain to my friends
I'm cultivating an internal enviornment
where fucked up things always happen
where nothing is simple by virtue
of being complex and full of pattern.
This is a field of space.
This is where creativity thrives.
This is not health, this is disaster.
This is pigment and oil mixing together
creating a richness of depth like a ritual
of death. I have to explain.
I have to disrespect it.
I'm cultivating an internal environment
I'm freeing myself up to the twisted
and devious places in mind and soul
and I need the deranged .
I've been repressing it all this time.
I haven't written in years, really.
I haven't let chaos do its thing.
I have to explain to my friends
I'm cultivating an internal enviornment
where fucked up things always happen
where nothing is simple by virtue
of being complex and full of pattern.
This is a field of space.
This is where creativity thrives.
This is not health, this is disaster.
This is pigment and oil mixing together
creating a richness of depth like a ritual
of death. I have to explain.
I have to disrespect it.
Gravity is compassionate to life.
I bite into a dark chocolate with a zesty citrus inside and, biting all the walls off to keep the best, creamy bite for last I realize I naturally began to spin the remaining body as liquid was exposed, keeping it from dripping off into outer space.
The gentle turning kept all the zest in tact. And once I finished chewing the chocolate walls I savored the rest in a final, delicious bite.
I wonder when god is going to come on by and swallow this planet whole.
Gravity is faint because it is leaking into our world from another. Gravity is like the force-of-soul, which is weak, but strong enough to keep our world together. Is gravity the essence of... love?
I bite into a dark chocolate with a zesty citrus inside and, biting all the walls off to keep the best, creamy bite for last I realize I naturally began to spin the remaining body as liquid was exposed, keeping it from dripping off into outer space.
The gentle turning kept all the zest in tact. And once I finished chewing the chocolate walls I savored the rest in a final, delicious bite.
I wonder when god is going to come on by and swallow this planet whole.
Gravity is faint because it is leaking into our world from another. Gravity is like the force-of-soul, which is weak, but strong enough to keep our world together. Is gravity the essence of... love?
Sex and magic
It's neither sex nor magic.
Abandonment or thrill.
Which party do you want to
be late for?
Which old song must we
sing along with?
Here come the fools, keeping
straight outta line and raging,
heated, livid, and
strangely democratic.
When can I show you my face?
Do we have to die to be together?
Everything I do is art news
to the Absorption.
Everything is process,
especially the Anti.
To the misfit memory I have of
a quiet childhood, to the
rolling stone that stuck me
to the ground, to the
river luck flowing
from my intimates,
penetrating earth
and giving her
fertility.
To the misfit memory I have of
friendships from the deep, crawling
out of caves and water-speak.
I may be heavy but I still float.
In the anti, behavior is in retrograde
and dances upon insecurities and
nuances. In the anti, there is only anti.
The process is squired, but genuine.
To the Absorption, I am an observer, having absorbed.
I've abandoned the renaissance.
I've found new thrill in my flesh home.
Abandonment or thrill.
Which party do you want to
be late for?
Which old song must we
sing along with?
Here come the fools, keeping
straight outta line and raging,
heated, livid, and
strangely democratic.
When can I show you my face?
Do we have to die to be together?
Everything I do is art news
to the Absorption.
Everything is process,
especially the Anti.
To the misfit memory I have of
a quiet childhood, to the
rolling stone that stuck me
to the ground, to the
river luck flowing
from my intimates,
penetrating earth
and giving her
fertility.
To the misfit memory I have of
friendships from the deep, crawling
out of caves and water-speak.
I may be heavy but I still float.
In the anti, behavior is in retrograde
and dances upon insecurities and
nuances. In the anti, there is only anti.
The process is squired, but genuine.
To the Absorption, I am an observer, having absorbed.
I've abandoned the renaissance.
I've found new thrill in my flesh home.
Prosetry 1
What did I know back then in those darker days, in those days of natural conflict
during those constellations of breaking timid and fast
during those revolutionary attractions elsewhere.
Putting dynamite to the mind. Letting it die a little in the process.
Suffering and unstoppable. Instinct and liver.
I have nothing to write about because I am overly troubled by the process that I ought to process as I type that I ought to number twenty nine be a genius all the time. Running on in the sentence is not writing is not typing it has nothing to do with any of it like my face has nothing to do with my soul like my attitude has EVERYTHING to do with the way you’ve fucked me.
It has nothing to do with anything like my face has nothing to do with my soul.
That was a start.
I have trouble writing about how I ought to be inspired as often as I am horny. I mean, I have trouble writing. I have found the culprit of my rumble and my grumble and after looking it dead in the eye I toyed with desire and it got so frightened it left.
There’s no denying a snake sheds its skin and because I’m in the wrong body to do so I penetrate mine with ink in the shape of snakes. There’s no pending altercation from my process to my destination.
There’s no pool of waste, of filth and of mangled good ideas. It was a good idea to leave this place. The curtain of consciousness sparkles when I run into it and I’m reminded of my inferiority complex. I’m reminded of poor impulse control. Poor impulse control got me into that place. There’s only smooth, clear sailing over the seas of shit.
While the rest of you are out there breathing, I’ve learned to live underwater. My head in a fishbowl, I can’t sense a scent out there.
Insect bites that have lasted forever. Lyme? Am I diseased? Am I diseased beyond that? I’m a sponge to all this radiation. I’m a goldmine to whatever microscopic feasts are instilled into our subconscious-reality.
I dream a vacant night’s sleep.
during those constellations of breaking timid and fast
during those revolutionary attractions elsewhere.
Putting dynamite to the mind. Letting it die a little in the process.
Suffering and unstoppable. Instinct and liver.
I have nothing to write about because I am overly troubled by the process that I ought to process as I type that I ought to number twenty nine be a genius all the time. Running on in the sentence is not writing is not typing it has nothing to do with any of it like my face has nothing to do with my soul like my attitude has EVERYTHING to do with the way you’ve fucked me.
It has nothing to do with anything like my face has nothing to do with my soul.
That was a start.
I have trouble writing about how I ought to be inspired as often as I am horny. I mean, I have trouble writing. I have found the culprit of my rumble and my grumble and after looking it dead in the eye I toyed with desire and it got so frightened it left.
There’s no denying a snake sheds its skin and because I’m in the wrong body to do so I penetrate mine with ink in the shape of snakes. There’s no pending altercation from my process to my destination.
There’s no pool of waste, of filth and of mangled good ideas. It was a good idea to leave this place. The curtain of consciousness sparkles when I run into it and I’m reminded of my inferiority complex. I’m reminded of poor impulse control. Poor impulse control got me into that place. There’s only smooth, clear sailing over the seas of shit.
While the rest of you are out there breathing, I’ve learned to live underwater. My head in a fishbowl, I can’t sense a scent out there.
Insect bites that have lasted forever. Lyme? Am I diseased? Am I diseased beyond that? I’m a sponge to all this radiation. I’m a goldmine to whatever microscopic feasts are instilled into our subconscious-reality.
I dream a vacant night’s sleep.
She the Sea
All of my ancient loves manifested
All of my Harlem's
All of my secrets in a bottle
at the bottom
of the sea.
If She the Sea wants ye,
you'd be there.
I'm writing all this down again because I need to.
I've been waking up before dawn
with the frost with a nervous feeling
I might be late for work.
I'm late for LIFE.
I'm not sleeping much. I only started eating again
because my mother brought me back here,
and gave me no choice.
I'm late. I should be somewhere by now.
I actually wanted something.
For the first time in my LIFE I wanted something
and I wanted somebody
and I'm going to type it out until my soul has digested it
and I'm afriad I can't let myself care
about how pathetic it may be to need words so badly
or about caring in itself. I can't let myself care
about the fact that I cared.
It all went away in the blink of joke.
What can possibly be next?
I came into this year the happiest I've ever been.
I believed I was changing. I felt older,
slightly more sophisticated. I felt satisfied.
But the world changed for me again.
The world changed for me so I could stay the same.
I felt I had a place in a community. Relationships of mutual benefit.
Mutuality is a myth?
Mutuality as the myth.
These have been bad luck days.
I actually feel REGRET. And that's an emotion for the
bottom feeders.
My feet are asleep. Let me curl up on the floor,
numb.
If I could un-fuck anything... I'd take the prize
from the gathering and leave the gathering behind.
I'd have the affection back and feel lucky.
Alas,
I am alone. Learning.
with the frost with a nervous feeling
I might be late for work.
I'm late for LIFE.
I'm not sleeping much. I only started eating again
because my mother brought me back here,
and gave me no choice.
I'm late. I should be somewhere by now.
I actually wanted something.
For the first time in my LIFE I wanted something
and I wanted somebody
and I'm going to type it out until my soul has digested it
and I'm afriad I can't let myself care
about how pathetic it may be to need words so badly
or about caring in itself. I can't let myself care
about the fact that I cared.
It all went away in the blink of joke.
What can possibly be next?
I came into this year the happiest I've ever been.
I believed I was changing. I felt older,
slightly more sophisticated. I felt satisfied.
But the world changed for me again.
The world changed for me so I could stay the same.
I felt I had a place in a community. Relationships of mutual benefit.
Mutuality is a myth?
Mutuality as the myth.
These have been bad luck days.
I actually feel REGRET. And that's an emotion for the
bottom feeders.
My feet are asleep. Let me curl up on the floor,
numb.
If I could un-fuck anything... I'd take the prize
from the gathering and leave the gathering behind.
I'd have the affection back and feel lucky.
Alas,
I am alone. Learning.
Rant.
Chill. Vibrant environment, bright, glowing hard. But homely, comforting. But social, coming-and-going in moment, and movement, movement. And I relent. And I withdraw, and I have given myself withdrawal. And I have taken myself away from these things but only to observe the spectacle. I have taken on the role of card 9 most intimately and, besides that, masturbation helps. Always helps. I will achieve another vibrant place. I will achieve another sex muffin. Right on the grounds I've been laying. I will archive my mischievous grin. My shitty attitude. I swear, I will make up for this with love. I will make up for every dirty thought with love, too. I swear. But I've over-dignified the situation already. Just be in my company. I'm vulnerable 98% of the time. Eager to observe the world as it orbits around you. Eager to observe the whole world, even in horror. I fuck up every time. This is my soul resume. My afterlife aftercare. My unbelievable psychological concoction of epitome and demise. A sweet tart. A smiling cat. I always thought they were distanced and strange. How do you read me? I feel like dancing and I've felt like dancing since the first time I danced. These days are so severe. These subtle, inexpressive moments filling in the loose ends of expression itself. I have a regret to digest. I have a regret to dance out. I have an idea to put away. I have a romantic idea I have yet to put away. I'm stirring in the shit of my dreams. I'm stirred up in all the curious ends. Was I manifesting totally completely but not consciously? I'm a helpless character in love. I should come with a tattooed disclaimer. A regret for later. A regret I can't digest. And the whole scope of things I've cared for and the whole scope of fallacies I've fallen for and the secret snakes and the roaring lion. I have a twisted path to follow. I'm imitated it here on earth. I swear, soul! I've got SOUL much lovin' and I aint bound to forget. I have every intention to laugh. I may cry so bitterly you'd be set a cast uncomfortable, but I will end my day with laughter. I had things I cared for. I'm not about to go bitter, that's why I've let myself weep so. I will bow down to my fool and scream most hysterically. In my home I am secure. I am self-sufficient and wholesome: wholesome, prone to dirty talk. How would you respond? Now my wings have to make me fly. Now my youth has to be good for something. All; fucked up. Cast aways. Hey, we congregate in this city. It's surreal when you think about anything. I told them I was feeling better, less horny. But I'm feeling as devilish as can be. I can't stand my own scent for a second. I hated myself for a second. But no thing within me knows how to believe that. I'm alright. I'm as decent as decent come. I've got a strong sense of European hospitality. And I will do you every good you do me and more. And I will kill you if you kill me. Sometimes I take defeat; conquered. I've held Blasphemy in my hands. I've known the culprit in every devious robbery of spirit. The sky cries as much as I do. It's freshwater spring. Mating season, the perfect time to feel lonely. Repeated idiothood. This city, this city. I am every piece of existence pieced together. I reach out to people. Like the sun bursting through thick clouds. I reach out to my furthest extent. Typically, they're interesting enough. Typically, I can smell some sort of distance-past, some sort of hidden memory. Smoking a medicinal kind of wisdom of the fool. Soaked completely in this revolting paradise. The beast of soul! The human is a craven, wonton, unbelievable creature of the soul. In this way, my ultimate self can be any other self. I am the fool. I trust my fool most of all. I will follow my fool down to the end. I have trust in the end. I am the fool.
short
I've lost my handle
Perception Escapism
I've been ditched I've been taken in
I've been boiled hard
my yolk is totally spoiled.
Okay, mighty ones. I anticipate your charm
I've received my immediate-exit of
the comfort zone.
I've enforced outright living
and poor impulse control be my haven
for my heaven is hellish
And I have decided it so.
Perception Escapism
I've been ditched I've been taken in
I've been boiled hard
my yolk is totally spoiled.
Okay, mighty ones. I anticipate your charm
I've received my immediate-exit of
the comfort zone.
I've enforced outright living
and poor impulse control be my haven
for my heaven is hellish
And I have decided it so.
Disbelief of change
I blew my load on my boss cos
everyone's got their gender on backwards here
I blew it. I am a glowing, young ruffian.
I am a beautiful loser.
I am a natural born killer with eyes only
for myself.
Did I fuck up everything?
Did I do it for poetry?
I don't want to fuck myself for poetry anymore.
I don't want to lick my lips over this pussy anymore,
I want the balls to be loved.
I thought I broke the patterns.
Every year I throw my work away and jerk off
back in its direction. Every spring I can't stand it anymore.
This time, though... I wanted to stick. This time I wanted to stick.
Universe, my lessons becoming clear with this pattern.
Take me under. Have your way with me.
Hurt me. Bring me back for more.
I've been taking my own advice?
I feel too free for this. This time the world lingered
detached, not my typical tranny of dying
not my usual casual decay
This came at me from afar not from the intimate
I have to take what I don't want
Though I still trust magnificently.
Something big is around the corner?
Where will this freedom take me?
I have one concern.
It's stupid.
Will the lion still be my friend?
everyone's got their gender on backwards here
I blew it. I am a glowing, young ruffian.
I am a beautiful loser.
I am a natural born killer with eyes only
for myself.
Did I fuck up everything?
Did I do it for poetry?
I don't want to fuck myself for poetry anymore.
I don't want to lick my lips over this pussy anymore,
I want the balls to be loved.
I thought I broke the patterns.
Every year I throw my work away and jerk off
back in its direction. Every spring I can't stand it anymore.
This time, though... I wanted to stick. This time I wanted to stick.
Universe, my lessons becoming clear with this pattern.
Take me under. Have your way with me.
Hurt me. Bring me back for more.
I've been taking my own advice?
I feel too free for this. This time the world lingered
detached, not my typical tranny of dying
not my usual casual decay
This came at me from afar not from the intimate
I have to take what I don't want
Though I still trust magnificently.
Something big is around the corner?
Where will this freedom take me?
I have one concern.
It's stupid.
Will the lion still be my friend?
Loop
desolate playground for the suncoming
it's still so cold, I'm still so vulnerable
I'll be here for a while but I've come
unprepared
And, conquer.
crushing rooftops of my scope
I see stars through the clouds I know
where I am.
mystical fucking playground.
skyscraping while my feet
are literally getting wet
I am in appreciation
I am fully immersed behind the eyes
that came with my person.
my slippers will dry.
And,
lightning bolt terror.
I know you've been watching.
I know you've been catching
my intensity.
Scorpion playplace.
the fairgrounds are haunted
the rooms after every back door
have frightening secrets itching
to be let out.
everything jitters.
crabrabbit me down to a hole
of shelter of warmth and comfort
and the branches of the trees
grow to infinity and puncture
our still-breathing hearts
still-breathing mind.
who cares if its still breathing?
desolation playground for the grand sum
I'm only out here to breath.
endblues enlightenment II
Revelations of life are now revelations of the living
what I've learned from Truth and Beauty I've since
taken from dirty shoes and broken street lamps.
I've wept with the sky
because it felt insane otherwise. And
the junkies and and the messes in our hearts
and the food fermenting in our guts feasting
tiny creatures and the warmth of another
body lying close,
breathing.
Gracefully, like a lover, the city rejects starlight.
I worship the spectrum
listening to the beat of human herds
listening to so many unspoken relations
between legs and whoever
they walked after.
I feel in these words, may I share
my innermost creativity with you?
first Listen,
first remove my psychological clothing.
I did. I cried when I first understood that I
could never be naked. I wept with Mother
and cried by myself.
In a perfect city there is Luna at our fingertips.
A massive brick-of-Nature trampling over
in reflection beyond and then through bricks.
beyond and then through.
that's what you're doing to me.
In my bloodclot species
there are so many things of blood
filling up existence and so many
who easily clump themselves together.
It's the elements,
they move with and within and Because Of always
And all my love is water.
And all love is endblues enlightenment.
These elements that are moving to make us move
the musicians themselves of the Tangible Universe
to keep this mother-nature groove going.
These elements that are colours sweeping
and textures colliding and creating forms
and remineralizing a painterly canvas for life.
And these massive, over-hanging lids that bathe
my eyes in shining
shining
shining.
Why are we all scared of raw behaviour?
I feel in these words to keep
my Self calm out there.
A new truth of the Universe, a revelation.
That's what I'm really in it for though truth
is found through pain because happiness
consumes ALL RECEPTOR POINTS.
Endorphins.
And without Euphoria in Eutopia there are
the deepest holes of instinct and origin.
there are voids into the subatomic soul
the lost; the wilderness of heart
the bitterglory. the soulnectar of knowing loss.
the fantasy moment of rest if you've actually
gotten off. THE NERVOUS TICK WHEN
SOMETHING GOOD HAPPENS
that tick,
tick
tick
makes me wanna dance.
what I've learned from Truth and Beauty I've since
taken from dirty shoes and broken street lamps.
I've wept with the sky
because it felt insane otherwise. And
the junkies and and the messes in our hearts
and the food fermenting in our guts feasting
tiny creatures and the warmth of another
body lying close,
breathing.
Gracefully, like a lover, the city rejects starlight.
I worship the spectrum
listening to the beat of human herds
listening to so many unspoken relations
between legs and whoever
they walked after.
I feel in these words, may I share
my innermost creativity with you?
first Listen,
first remove my psychological clothing.
I did. I cried when I first understood that I
could never be naked. I wept with Mother
and cried by myself.
In a perfect city there is Luna at our fingertips.
A massive brick-of-Nature trampling over
in reflection beyond and then through bricks.
beyond and then through.
that's what you're doing to me.
In my bloodclot species
there are so many things of blood
filling up existence and so many
who easily clump themselves together.
It's the elements,
they move with and within and Because Of always
And all my love is water.
And all love is endblues enlightenment.
These elements that are moving to make us move
the musicians themselves of the Tangible Universe
to keep this mother-nature groove going.
These elements that are colours sweeping
and textures colliding and creating forms
and remineralizing a painterly canvas for life.
And these massive, over-hanging lids that bathe
my eyes in shining
shining
shining.
Why are we all scared of raw behaviour?
I feel in these words to keep
my Self calm out there.
A new truth of the Universe, a revelation.
That's what I'm really in it for though truth
is found through pain because happiness
consumes ALL RECEPTOR POINTS.
Endorphins.
And without Euphoria in Eutopia there are
the deepest holes of instinct and origin.
there are voids into the subatomic soul
the lost; the wilderness of heart
the bitterglory. the soulnectar of knowing loss.
the fantasy moment of rest if you've actually
gotten off. THE NERVOUS TICK WHEN
SOMETHING GOOD HAPPENS
that tick,
tick
tick
makes me wanna dance.
In practice
Still life in practice. Still life in the pursuit of my intentions.
My gut lives in my mind, too.
Irrrelivent things of meaning and attuning
To souls who held me at strange yesterday.
I'm reviving the ancient goal. The characters have invested.
I sleep naked anyway.
I think of leaving town
and wonder if I'd be able to wear
a cap of fire elsewhere.
I'll wear all this fire here if that's alright.
I can only look at myself with black hair.
I can only think of myself under rays of silver light.
I've come back for fire.
In my womanly body of memory I was thrown over to rest
in the waters and I haunted those seas until 1988.
Watching sailors sin.
Showing my face to only the ones moments away from death.
Come,
be with me.
Still life.
My gut lives in my mind, too.
Irrrelivent things of meaning and attuning
To souls who held me at strange yesterday.
I'm reviving the ancient goal. The characters have invested.
I sleep naked anyway.
I think of leaving town
and wonder if I'd be able to wear
a cap of fire elsewhere.
I'll wear all this fire here if that's alright.
I can only look at myself with black hair.
I can only think of myself under rays of silver light.
I've come back for fire.
In my womanly body of memory I was thrown over to rest
in the waters and I haunted those seas until 1988.
Watching sailors sin.
Showing my face to only the ones moments away from death.
Come,
be with me.
Still life.
Little outside room
I feel crazy I feel like I'm picking up
with the winds the storm I was promised
every year at this time.
I feel out of control but it was just the
last drag that pumped my heart up
just the last toxic inhale that
got me riled.
It's the wet and the cold.
The skies swell up and all fire of soul
is stung out and needful
stringing out and needing.
I keep myself under watch
I keep myself watching the lights
hovering close to the ones
that shine brightest to me
In my little outside room
I breath in with rolled up habit
The waves that go up and down
I move with the world.
with the winds the storm I was promised
every year at this time.
I feel out of control but it was just the
last drag that pumped my heart up
just the last toxic inhale that
got me riled.
It's the wet and the cold.
The skies swell up and all fire of soul
is stung out and needful
stringing out and needing.
I keep myself under watch
I keep myself watching the lights
hovering close to the ones
that shine brightest to me
In my little outside room
I breath in with rolled up habit
The waves that go up and down
I move with the world.
No common cry can put you back in with the common people
as we are creaturely to others.
To be changed by a strangers look.
I have seen out. I have SEEN OUT.
But old and dusty clouds did linger.
I have shut my eyes and have seen a place
radiating, blessedly wicked.
Blissful and gaudy
sentientual
and under no influence of calamity
except for the calamity of beauty.
I repulse.
I gravely shut my eyes
and restore the same place
only patient.
I recline.
Restfully sifting through the origins
of thought.
Seedlings of thought that grow in the mind
subtle or as thickening as desire.
Desire as religion to the saints,
and cleanliness the reality of the ground.
Seedlings; profound. Seedlings estranged in song.
they;
Still crunching at my crown
Still heavy at my soul.
A crunch like your lovers dead weight on top of you.
An ancient instinct post-instinctual delightenment.
the language of a displaced colony
with an infantry waiting at the coastline
and everyone howling out.
No common cry can put you back in with the common people.
(July 2011)
as we are creaturely to others.
To be changed by a strangers look.
I have seen out. I have SEEN OUT.
But old and dusty clouds did linger.
I have shut my eyes and have seen a place
radiating, blessedly wicked.
Blissful and gaudy
sentientual
and under no influence of calamity
except for the calamity of beauty.
I repulse.
I gravely shut my eyes
and restore the same place
only patient.
I recline.
Restfully sifting through the origins
of thought.
Seedlings of thought that grow in the mind
subtle or as thickening as desire.
Desire as religion to the saints,
and cleanliness the reality of the ground.
Seedlings; profound. Seedlings estranged in song.
they;
Still crunching at my crown
Still heavy at my soul.
A crunch like your lovers dead weight on top of you.
An ancient instinct post-instinctual delightenment.
the language of a displaced colony
with an infantry waiting at the coastline
and everyone howling out.
No common cry can put you back in with the common people.
(July 2011)
These are the things the day brings on
HAVE IT OPEN. THE NEWS. THE LIGHT.
THE MEAT INSIDE MY SKULL.
I AM THE BACKWARD SKY. MY EYES ARE
MOUNTAINS THAT RIVERS MAY FLOW FROM.
Everyone I've loved in every life. Our bodies change
but the space between us is kept. The world is nurturing
to whatever our souls ask it for. I want to play.
Must I be miserable first?
Hesitation is in a relaxing beat.
I do not want to go back to sleep.
But I do want the heat, I do.
I have that heavy feeling in my energy. I am literally
waiting to find out. This is a pattern though it has evolved
so much it's frightening to feel it again. I will not let it linger
passed digestion. I will communicate what I understand
because I've rested with it. I do not want to express
what I have not swam through. I let myself be
vulnerable. I'll let myself do it again.
There may be pain.
There may be joy.
These are the things the day brings anyway.
And I write this down to GET IT OUT OF MY PERSON.
I do not want loneliness in my muscle memory. I do not
want resentment or words I wish I would have said stuck
anywhere inside of me.
THE MEAT INSIDE MY SKULL.
I AM THE BACKWARD SKY. MY EYES ARE
MOUNTAINS THAT RIVERS MAY FLOW FROM.
Everyone I've loved in every life. Our bodies change
but the space between us is kept. The world is nurturing
to whatever our souls ask it for. I want to play.
Must I be miserable first?
Hesitation is in a relaxing beat.
I do not want to go back to sleep.
But I do want the heat, I do.
I have that heavy feeling in my energy. I am literally
waiting to find out. This is a pattern though it has evolved
so much it's frightening to feel it again. I will not let it linger
passed digestion. I will communicate what I understand
because I've rested with it. I do not want to express
what I have not swam through. I let myself be
vulnerable. I'll let myself do it again.
There may be pain.
There may be joy.
These are the things the day brings anyway.
And I write this down to GET IT OUT OF MY PERSON.
I do not want loneliness in my muscle memory. I do not
want resentment or words I wish I would have said stuck
anywhere inside of me.
Yea, big glossy-eyed tenor. Big glossy-eyed juice box of melted human meat, of flogging counter-acted testament, of mindless and senseless mental acrobatics to put inside my emotional self.
Yea, I know. My soul has acknowledged what my tongue and body have rejected. My mind and gut are empty. I have felt no compassion where I had reason to and I have felt every thread of sadness in my own space, alone.
I find my generation guilty of me. I find a lackluster appetite for the refined beauty-of-person. Are these people the essentials of society? Are these people necessary for the spectrum but useless for the function? Are these people the cause for the function?
Distaste. I have felt it I have never sensed it. I have opened my big, disgusting mouth and have said the words myself. I have said the words to myself. I know.
I know a young man. Depressed. Useless in attitude only and on-talking well spoken of the dangers of normality and the meaningless in everything and awkward sex. I can't give up on him because my soul feels his words but I am revolted constantly by his angst. His little boy, big dick angst. A creature of essence to this world.
I know a lady. Reminds herself each and everyday that she is rational, and worthy. Reminds herself she is capable of being loved. I believe what she believes, therefore, she is not rational or worthy.
I want to know each and every stranger. I want them to be magnificent.
I've heard people say my writing is "too plain" and unintellectual.
Yea, I know. My soul has acknowledged what my tongue and body have rejected. My mind and gut are empty. I have felt no compassion where I had reason to and I have felt every thread of sadness in my own space, alone.
I find my generation guilty of me. I find a lackluster appetite for the refined beauty-of-person. Are these people the essentials of society? Are these people necessary for the spectrum but useless for the function? Are these people the cause for the function?
Distaste. I have felt it I have never sensed it. I have opened my big, disgusting mouth and have said the words myself. I have said the words to myself. I know.
I know a young man. Depressed. Useless in attitude only and on-talking well spoken of the dangers of normality and the meaningless in everything and awkward sex. I can't give up on him because my soul feels his words but I am revolted constantly by his angst. His little boy, big dick angst. A creature of essence to this world.
I know a lady. Reminds herself each and everyday that she is rational, and worthy. Reminds herself she is capable of being loved. I believe what she believes, therefore, she is not rational or worthy.
I want to know each and every stranger. I want them to be magnificent.
I've heard people say my writing is "too plain" and unintellectual.
Earth, water... fire.
I creative binge-fuck; it's gone
it's vacant and I haven't a
tear to pretend duty to.
I haven't a glass to shoot my
pounding heart through,
my bleeding cunt through
I haven't a sink to catch
my filth or my filthy mouth in
a sink to vomit up in
incorrectly
to block up the pipes
like you have my patience.
I haven't a chair
to have left out for
bacteria to feast on for
parasites to lay eggs in so
that they might incubate and
reemerge having adapted to
the taste for flesh and
strap me
down
to it.
I haven't.
I haven't.
I'm not the bad guy this time.
The truth about being honest
is that the world doesn't fucking
matter if you're not honestly being.
Yea, she's a smart girl.
She knows all the answers
and they're insightful.
But there's something very, very wrong.
It loops.
It is looping.
Oh and disease festering out from the corners
and multiplying in their slime and devouring, first,
the floor but reaching out further and it makes you sick
how you’ve living among them and it makes you
sick how you’re not bigger then them.
And illuminating small bursts of light fill up
the spaces in between-; from the tall grasses of
microbed-shit and its psychedelic spawn reaching
out to the yellowing ceiling, to the germ alive in the
air and breathing itself out, spreading its stain further
and thickening it; licking it; nurturing it with something
soft and glandular, making it and everything connected
to it by molecule more dense, more toxic and
insatiable of it’s own existence; cultivating
all sweetness and swallowing up
whatever’s left in a choke
coughing up the full
spectrum
of
disease.
I see right through you though I stand behind
my emotions and don't you ever think I could
handle and torture myself otherwise.
I handle and torture myself this wise.
I told you it was okay that you fucked up
because sometimes reaction is spontaneous
and the human is vulnerable and the wisdom
of mind is in paralysis and that's okay because
it's how consciousness itself reacts to repression
and we need to know we're able to break and be
broken, that we are dynamic and fluid in nature
and not dealthless like old trees trapped in time.
Be known to your expressions of affected. Be
known to the times you lost control and really know
what you're capable of inhibited and raw.
But
you
are
a
tyrant.
I wish a heavy wind would blow through this house
and take the bitterness away with it
screaming.
it's vacant and I haven't a
tear to pretend duty to.
I haven't a glass to shoot my
pounding heart through,
my bleeding cunt through
I haven't a sink to catch
my filth or my filthy mouth in
a sink to vomit up in
incorrectly
to block up the pipes
like you have my patience.
I haven't a chair
to have left out for
bacteria to feast on for
parasites to lay eggs in so
that they might incubate and
reemerge having adapted to
the taste for flesh and
strap me
down
to it.
I haven't.
I haven't.
I'm not the bad guy this time.
The truth about being honest
is that the world doesn't fucking
matter if you're not honestly being.
Yea, she's a smart girl.
She knows all the answers
and they're insightful.
But there's something very, very wrong.
It loops.
It is looping.
Oh and disease festering out from the corners
and multiplying in their slime and devouring, first,
the floor but reaching out further and it makes you sick
how you’ve living among them and it makes you
sick how you’re not bigger then them.
And illuminating small bursts of light fill up
the spaces in between-; from the tall grasses of
microbed-shit and its psychedelic spawn reaching
out to the yellowing ceiling, to the germ alive in the
air and breathing itself out, spreading its stain further
and thickening it; licking it; nurturing it with something
soft and glandular, making it and everything connected
to it by molecule more dense, more toxic and
insatiable of it’s own existence; cultivating
all sweetness and swallowing up
whatever’s left in a choke
coughing up the full
spectrum
of
disease.
I see right through you though I stand behind
my emotions and don't you ever think I could
handle and torture myself otherwise.
I handle and torture myself this wise.
I told you it was okay that you fucked up
because sometimes reaction is spontaneous
and the human is vulnerable and the wisdom
of mind is in paralysis and that's okay because
it's how consciousness itself reacts to repression
and we need to know we're able to break and be
broken, that we are dynamic and fluid in nature
and not dealthless like old trees trapped in time.
Be known to your expressions of affected. Be
known to the times you lost control and really know
what you're capable of inhibited and raw.
But
you
are
a
tyrant.
I wish a heavy wind would blow through this house
and take the bitterness away with it
screaming.
Wading through fire
How much sulfur can soak through my feet?
How many old souls have to die young?
I have arms for the lost souls. I feel as if
I will be alone forever, experiencing one child
and one man or woman at a time.
I feel as if I have only come to observe.
That I have set myself up as a willing-unattainable.
So that I might reach into your intimate mind, cum
and let go for the next line of sight in the spectrum.
I have too much heart to give this void.
I have too much gut for protection.
I don't discard through lack of interest.
I discard because some giant, epic excuse
manifests itself exactly when I need it to.
Fuck.
How many old souls have to die young?
I have arms for the lost souls. I feel as if
I will be alone forever, experiencing one child
and one man or woman at a time.
I feel as if I have only come to observe.
That I have set myself up as a willing-unattainable.
So that I might reach into your intimate mind, cum
and let go for the next line of sight in the spectrum.
I have too much heart to give this void.
I have too much gut for protection.
I don't discard through lack of interest.
I discard because some giant, epic excuse
manifests itself exactly when I need it to.
Fuck.
PSYCHIC DIGESTION
I haven't shared with you
any of the good
that has happened.
I have only kept the moving
on my tongue.
Yes, cigarettes are oral stimulation.
Yes, I put horns on my head for a reason this season.
And, such.
I'll keep my brush
with luck still a secret for now.
I hope I still keep writing
once I'm happy this time.
any of the good
that has happened.
I have only kept the moving
on my tongue.
Yes, cigarettes are oral stimulation.
Yes, I put horns on my head for a reason this season.
And, such.
I'll keep my brush
with luck still a secret for now.
I hope I still keep writing
once I'm happy this time.
Conversation
It's due. This is my rejuvenation period. This is my Year 9.
And these are the Kings of Era, the words, the stirrings.
Their provokings are reckless, are louder than usual,
though not any more significant.
The last pattern that saw me go frenzy
was the desert.
Mmmm, aye.
A grand sum.
I'm on the plateau of feeling completely uprooted. I just moved away
from MY world that was home. I was moved moved moved there and
moved outta there to see my manifestation manifested onto She.
I can't pinpoint the sensation of jealousy. I can't identify it even
when I am standing next to Beauty and invisible.
I'd always rather be me.
Me? I'm easily embarrassed but never ashamed.
I'm hyper-aware to the subtleties but can't read the whole picture.
And currently, hypo-inflated off all the rotten details.
So then, these are the kinks. This is what the protocol is during
these mighty waves of change and of the pull of life and of life itself
and of work and play and probably lust, and probably always seeming crazy-
now that I am lying calmly in recline, observing my behaviors of the day.
I certainly do not consider beforehand or censor many of the things
that exit my person. I follow my fool through to the end. I am
loyal to my fool most of all. I laugh about that cockney fuck often.
I laugh about everybody's bad habits, and how they all want the crown
for my novice of such things. For my novice in the church of waste.
I laugh about the things I'll real-eyes soon.
Soon is a flirt with red eyes.
Fuck the future, and fuck the past though I live for it.
I can live for something I fuck.
And I fall into place. To be in place, you mustn't be contemplating it.
And I adore the thump the psyche makes when it hits the floor of this beast.
And I love the creative bullshit that gargles upward and foams at the lipstick.
And I love the cramps in my gut when I'm more womanly than you know.
That sensation in the chest when you've clawed your own flesh off of the bones.
This is the self seeking escapism thriving off the mountain I just fell off of.
I just... threw myself
off of.
AND,
this whole MOVE. (I fucking love that word)
AND,
this whole season!
So then, these are the crunches, the underground tremors that
shake so hard the body looses orbit, the body shaken between the
inner and the outer and itself inflicts the collapse of a pathetic ending
to a charming feeling.
I don't care why I'm scratching, I don't care why or who is itching.
It's BECAUSE. It's THAT I AM.
The part of my being without sympathy, without compassion even
and probably mostly with myself, is laughing. Is so happy: She's
starting to tare! This is going to be so spiritually provoking when
it's time to detox. When it's time to begin observing whatever it is.
That part of my being does this to my whole being. Uses her
emotional livelihood and emotional temperance and emotional
intelligence and emotional chaos just for the currency of her pleasure:
Words.
I believe words move me the most though I feel and though I paint
because language shouldn't be this powerful. Language shouldn't
be capable of leading one to believe an expression. It's our invention.
Some formula that correlates enough versions of the spectrum of
consciousness to in order to assign meanings to concept and form.
Some ancient idea that got humped out and moaned out and ended up
exterminating psychic thought for the tyranny of collection.
The tyranny of desire.
The tyranny of loss.
The tyranny of the millions and millions and million more things
I cannot conceive to you because I am not permitted.
Are you sure language wasn't a curse?
It rejects 99% dark matter of thought.
All that.
And,
It's gorgeous.
It's gorgeous when it moves you.
It's gorgeous when it's actually painting a picture, or translating
an authentic thought or feeling or fucked up sadistic impulse
that you know you have in there.
I know I have in here.
I have climbed this mountain for this whole mighty era and
I have let the world cast spells on me and I have believed
my every insecurity and I have hated the intensity of the spells
and I have hated that they have only made me stronger so that
the next curse or spell or joke has to be tougher and brighter
So I can light up again.
So I can loose control again.
So I can write down shit and call it poetry.
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