Sunday, March 18, 2018

Terrain

 
Sometimes it feels like

The manufacture of culture

Stone cold



Peeling ribbons of cloth on the winds of self



Festering maggots on the carrion of their dreams



Thundering hooves on the soil of my soul.



They have no idea what awaits them.

How simple it is—

How savage. and ruthless. and raw.



I didn’t come here to fuck around.

I didn’t come here to listen to your beta-boy story about who gives a shit—



You made it this far into the woods and now you have me.



In all of my filth.

In all of my ruthless glory,



With all of the human abuse  

Inflicted with open hands

In woken minds.



They eat my cum out of one another.



Tonguing at it like nymphs for ambrosia.

Devouring these fabricated ideas of humanity.  



In the thousand-yard stare

Where I have forgotten everything that once was


As they compete for a thing they cannot name



struggling against a thing they do not understand

unable to grasp the power of infliction.

...power of affliction



I have seen the terrain between these spaces

As the stars on a freezing night



Contorting flesh splashing through the river.



Fingers down throat, lordosis effect.

where our souls have been wrought of unspeakable anguish 



Where the talons of my mind

Rend everything in a way that seems beyond familiar.



What are they to me but refuse—

Disposable meat to be held

Marrow to be eaten

As if tasting the intoxicating nectar of some imperfect flower

That grows deep in the jungles of self.



Sometimes it feels like

Lightning touching down

Electric and visceral

As if I am surfacing upon other realms

As swarms of insects taking flight



 As if hearing two conversations running at once

Like two songs playing at the same time

As narrative and dialogue unfold together



To realize that they,

...they.

Look upon us like so many filthy children

Ragged and abused

Pliable and simple

As if pitiful deer left in the forest



Have you not seen their craft?

So utterly beyond comprehension, 

Beyond this

There is something else—

Esoteric in a way, but not impossible  



Like tendrils climbing the lattices of time

our many dimensions unravel

in a gracefulness beyond the limitations

of these human forms  



Tuesday, March 13, 2018

40/100


Pour into me

As the river

In the moments that I am whole



As if flowing water is something that I know.



In concepts of home

And peace



abandoned like footprints in time

That never lead anywhere

empty as their apathy

sensitive to their nature.



Experiencing it more as time than as space

As though existence for all is a kind of frustration

No matter how it’s sliced



Like so many nicks

in our fingertips,

Bruises on our psyche,

Chainsaws to our limbs  



allocations of nervous tissue

empty beyond our personal experience  

as if I am hearing them shriek in terror

worthless to come to their aid





Tuesday, March 6, 2018

Epithet


Like I,

Resistant to the end.

Although, by now, how would I even know?

Where does the fiction end and the reality begin?

the narrative

the dialogue?



When am I too deep—

Lost at sea

Where does sailing become drifting

When does drifting become, adrift?

In those moments of fragility



Enduring and driven.

Talented in nuance

What never-ending fetish this has become

Bearing the masks that hide our ruthlessness

Where I envision my enemies devoured by ants.

Picked clean by vultures

Worn thin by the endlessness

And I know my kind is like this,

Barren in a gentle way

As if dying from exposure

the sharpness of the weapon

only shows when composure is lost





Resourceful and resilient

Conversant and clear.

And yet, deluded.

As if any of them are anything like this

Where I feel more at home, alone in my mind

In the sense that writing about isolation does nothing to bring about its end.

There is an emptiness to this

That has become familiar

Like a king vocalizing epithets

Into an empty castle.

39/100


And in a moment of discontent

I marched out into the rain

To draw deep breaths—

To try and center



And in the breaking storm

A family of vultures flew by

And I was torn

Between seeing it as a sign of the future—

or a reminder of the past



In the shifting rain

Their huge spread wings casually

Surveying the landscape

As if a group of observant kites

Flying through a gentle mist



And I realized the nexus

Spawning this moment

Was Particular and intricate. 

And beautiful.