i know now how a new parent finds God in its child. i know now how reincarnation is a thing. i know now how we feel vibration and can’t articulate its exact consolidation. i know, you know. And it makes me weak with joy. A joy of which i feel the need to fight for, if i must. i think, anyway.
Just try to escape.
A referred pain,
all over the body.
The sickness of kings,
of sovereigns so noble.
The leeching and pleading,
binding word to a debt they'll never have to pay.
Devoid of contribution.
An abstract evolution.
on the dead,
A voice descanting poetic oblivion;
the death aesthetic,
as dancers around the shaman pound the earth and shake bells at the sky.
Ordered chaos of an interpretive design.
Watch me revert back to my poisonous self,
the carcinogenic reality.
Is there really any fresh air anymore?
Only retaining heat because of our atmospheric shield.
How long do you really think you'll last,
out there in space,
the great beyond,
without major reconstructive alterations to your structure.
Stand as you do on earth,
unique to its conditions,
but a part of billions of the same particulate.
The universe will consume you,
but it will not become you,
you will become of it.
A product of environment.
and tuned up;
Humming along nicely
The director knows the right lens.
The writer the right lines.
The actor knows the right cue and mark.
And the audience knows only what they're told.
Even then it's hard to digest
The fucking titular,
reach out and touch it.
the grinding so...
so in the vortex,
Quiver if you want to.
God damn it...
Come on you crows.
Roost on that phone pole.
Call after me.
Caw your shrill tone.
Bait me with your murder.
Bones rattled scared,
a sacred prayer.
Remiss to true love,
a stumble in a stupor.
I can laugh again, now.
A smile amid the torture.
It all ties in,
in the end.
Right and full circle,
the crows watch.
Feeding on the kill left behind...
The precious now ashes..
The fragile now food...
When do we run out of it?
A Hope of Never.
When do we cease?
Never satisfied, it seems.
Why must the pendulum swing?
Time passes its edge close to throat.
Why do we dance to the tune?
Its Rhythm so Romantic.
How can we ever?
For ever after hours, keep it coming.
How can you tell me no?
Because you will Obey.
What is it then I'm supposed to say?
What you’re instructed is The Way.
What do you want me to do?
Turn, Spit, Rinse, Repeat.
Where is it I'm expected?
Exactly where you are.
Where do I die?
Results may vary. Yet to be determined.
Who am I to be listen to?
Low vocal representation in a multitudinous cluster. Probability Low.
Who are you to have my attention?
By Force or Pledge, for Love or Hate of riling words and rallying promises. Lead by Vision.
Who makes the rules?
We and They. May nothing agree.
Foundation. The Synthesis.
Beat the door with fists bloodied.
Keep it going.
Break the hand.
Downtrodden into the Earth
Paying the ambiguous loyalties royalties
for a creation they contributed naught to but plague.
The Bloc Age.
The Agreement Age.
built so proudly.
Remove one stone,
watch it fall.
look so deeply,
for an East
that bears no War.
conquered in value.
those sweet words to me.
My disposition granted
nothing at all.
I just ended up
with my back against The Wall
and out of my mind.
But I'm sure you've heard it
a million times.
And I see
the notes upon your face.
And I know
how to play those chords.
Now I see
the flood receding.
But still I
am not breathing.
The lurid allure of bank account confidence.
Pollinated out of a need to nourish.
Definitions root and stem,
hiding meaning in the cold cold soil.
The futile docile dream;
Eternally mimicking an elite ritual.
Materials follow to alter & twist,
degrading attuned intuition.
A punishing cadence is left
in the ears.
A sense of balance bereft;
Straining to stand for something.
Up-selling the century around the priority divide.
The meaning of mother has gone to market, the order minced and crushed, packaged and sold.
Fiends seek out a craven ailment & decry
sensible barriers that all hope will hold.
The survivor grip lets not go,
but the needle shakes awry, making straight-forward steps hard to maintain.
Trembling destitute on rancid streets,
down into narrow marrow alleys where the power lines are not wired.
A place that only accepts currency of time and flesh.
'I have no coin.
No purse to weigh against the odds.
No chance to fill, to satiate, to quell,' and
Burning hungry, an otherwise Angel turns cutthroat Cain.
The caskets profit,
the prophet casks it,
Only to let it drip when value peaks.
Sweet taste of age as it adds another % to the worth,
spent in prime height & hoarded in hard times.
The cudgel commerce swing & the trade designation & the contract negotiation.
Locked in rates & an easy impression raped.
There owes no interest where only its own is in the best of grace.
A turnstile revolution,
capturing whatever the craze du jour,
keeping as many as can be,
occupied and disarmed,
restrained, conflicted and deranged.
In this paper jungle and precious metal tale.
I knew it wouldn’t stay standing.
It needs care, love.
But neglect is the only mortar on site,
the only grout I can apply,
I have symptoms,
do you have my cure?
I don’t mind.
I need my peace.
A piece of my mind.
Please don’t say it’s untrue to believe
that I can walk through this fire,
that I don’t have to turn on the spit,
I have just these four pennies.
Enough to cross the river
with my love.
Forgive my intrusion.
Will you take what I can pay?
Please stand aside.
Just let me pass on
with my love, please.
I can not go astern.
I wish not to quarrel any longer.
I must keep on.
For my love.
While the divided and the multitude
rush to repair the conch:
shattered and fragmented.
I make my move with my love,
but am caught.
Held from going further.
What do you have to lament,
with all those pennies in your pocket, paid?
Can you not just let us have passage?
It is of no toil to you.
No words response.
Just a shaking head
and misery stare.
But I will find a way,
I will find us out of here,
away from the neglect,
Wait while I try to find another way,
A few drastic steps,
pining for my love.
Away it sails.
Away it goes.
I will cross oceans of acid for you,
How would you feel?
Not having found what was set out to be.
Returning touted as the killer of a killer,
lauded for so many bad things.
Now, a tortured victor.
Will you disarm me when I return,
or pave the way with gold?
A consecrated offering.
A hazard, almost.
No mark left of the man that had left ages ago,
searching for his love.
Acquiring more ill than devotion,
out across the oceans.
If I told you my pleasure comes first,
that your feelings don't matter to me,
would you still offer praise?
Still lick clean my wounds,
my infected arteries, heart and brain?
I can not promise I'll be grateful,
after you spend hard time trying to fix
that which cannot be.
A tarnished franchise that's got to build back to eminence from the ground up.
A disgraced Guru that casts broad nets for sympathy.
an under played hand
& a welcome overstayed.
I get the feeling that it's too cold in here for you.
That you'd have me fetch a blanket or turn up the heat.
It's the self-awareness.
The presence of mind,
that makes it so obvious...
It's not me
behind the rock that can not be rolled away,
scratching and digging for air and light.
Not I that howls in the darkness,
from the other side of the great stone.
There is always a they to the them .
A list too long;
a cache of names not worth 'membering.
Symmetry and Syzygy.
The mirror splits sideways,
refracting and reflecting,
debunking and dejecting,
responding and relating,
detaching and displacing.
Spitting image around.
do I let thee in?
Can I hold my ground?
What will rise from behind that stone,
Come forth from within that tomb?
Taught to be an Angel,
but sinning is so much more fun.
And even though I shouldn't live long,
A Great Languish...
A Great Fission...
But it's not really me.
Nobody to own the wreck, left.