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...
