45/100

 Like juicing citrus, my consciousnesses, being wrought   

Firmly being ground into pulp and desirability  

The violence of extraction, so pertinent. 

 

i dream of this: the puzzles, the clairvoyantly prescient 

like, I hear you: but I don’t speak that language 

and I am tryin, tryin to get it... 

 

but it is so many sounds, so many whispers against this backdrop  

so gossamer and articulated like, like fabric 

 

and its somewhere just out of sight,  

like your missing tweezers... 

when you need to pick an infected, ingrown hair out of the side of your face. 

 

Like when your boss comes back from his first battery of 20 (probably needless) rabies shots 

after you told him the week prior... 

That creating unfair situations in the workplace is “How you get attacked by dogs.”  

 

as if, creating a space for ghosts, gives them somewhere to live.  

and I can’t stress over or understand enough— 

 

I can never really tell if I'm doing it at all.  

 

Where the feeling of the forest in its magnificent entirety 

Is harnessed in the muse of hunting roaches by sensing them 

And the ire of hearing your garden devoured, one bug-sized ‘crunch’ at a time 

Thos same infinitesimally small stakes that leave an ache equally eternal  

but the addiction of it —hits the spot 

In the pursuit, some sort of realized beinghood 

Where practice and execution merge     

In the thrill of sharpening the liquid of the soul  

Juiced daily from the grind of overlooked opportunity  

arson

 My soul is a storm beset in myriad ways 

Torrential and volatile from uncountable days  

As the swell of the sea rising past the shore 

Where the anger of æons always beckons for more   

 

there is a demon within me I cannot express  

the powers it gives me are framed in duress 

As if a pulsation, of some frenzied swarm 

Like a face so familiar that I often preform 

 

a comforting gesture, as gift in the haze  

It rises within as an unforgivable blaze 

Caustic and vile like holding a flame 

These gifts I have shaped have no spoken name  

 

& I cannot relinquish, nor ever forego 

The whispers of influence these talents can show 

To have without holding, I keep as a blade 

Blinded by light, to be made whole in the shade  

Myre

  In this place of petty edgelord shock value This vacant branding-centric bullshit Where the goals slip away, like diamonds burning in pure oxygen winking right out of existence As if— as if, they never existed at all. Subsumed into the atmosphere like a dream, abolished after waking How everything seems to be the slow annihilation chunks of self. washing away into the sea Granite cliffs battered by myriad waves ...The way her eyes flinched across my body as I emerged from the water Actively trying not to stare at my scars In the way that discipline by segregation is all that have taken away from here A season of self-consolidation rising within a silent chaos, as the snow begins to fall outside irresistibly quiet and immeasurably dangerous As some future imitation of picking up my ball and going home portends as an inevitability Awakening from supernatural dreams & met with the cold, indifferent isolation of reality There, in the daring, shadowy mechanisms of myself a churning ichor pulsates Defiant to the last and emergent as a kind of angel rising to meet the sky Frustrated in the mire of self and otherness Wrought to face this dissolution over and again as some fractalated nightmare that has awoken with me And will not leave my side

revenant to the end as a kind of demon beyond empathy or forgiveness Borne of these theaters it is their lies that flow through me; this same underhanded scaffolding that I am built of—

...in the way that they put their heads down when my voice cracks through the injustice of it, as if shouting is a kind of practiced dissent

As the trauma has become replaced in otherness, I cannot distinguish what feels worse; the hurt of injury or the emptiness that supersedes where sensation should have been Broken to the wheel of solitude and simultaneously comforted from knowing nothing else just failure and failure, again and again Until a massive question mark forms from the pieces of broken attempts at craft Without the possibility of retreat nor the dream of greater it rings as an echo both past and future— conquered in the endless belligerence of the moment.