#1

This Sacred witch

Crow-dark wind's phantasist - whist

Her holy sacrilege

! ! !

As plectrums run across strings

A heart dying bleeds-

Does one to the other communicate?

Oh Oyster sorrow- could thou

Dissolve solvent in this

Alcohol, part now and melt

So I could see thy form as

Ultimate Imago

Yes, misery-

Though you may be hollow

Nothingness- even you have

Your thick convolutions

How my existence

Has gotten trammeled by you-

An ant in the conch of Daedalus!

As plectrums run across strings

A heart now dying bleeds- can

One to the other communicate?

The numbed fingers of the

Artist could make it speak

Its shame in all of it's Grotto

Twang? There is no parting

And no melting- for- Oyster

Self! I was the thing that held

That misery- what has been

Held so long cannot melt

And there is no parting-

I held so long it has

Become simply a part of me.

Yeah rubbed you the wrong way- then fused the bond in Epoxy

And malachite clay- hoping to lay thick values of acquired taste

And "subordinate your fears so you don't insubordinate"

Part of a plan to give you a taste for loving what initially you hate

Less an acquired taste- more an undeniable altered state

I'll dissipate with the destruction of both time and space

Meanwhile I'll just fizzle out- then get recycled into a storm cloud

With each ascension gaining new knowledge into what it's like

To be the Water from which this universe was made hoping

To someday bust this rustic clay back to slate from which

A new human race can emerge- yeah that's right it's the upsurge

Of the downstroke of a Pierrpoint axe, hoping to violently remind you

That life's what matters most, this time redirecting energy to become a

Ghost- misanthrope from a missing hope, yet somehow willing to send

The well-brambled saving goat- before the "kill Icarus" chanters give Isaac

The vote- yeah it's a plan to circulate a virus into all the Hololenses

That will show brainwashed denizens their vision's hidden Mote

And speak like a cyclone to Job- every word an affront to the

Frontal lobe, that thought it could calculate every move, but which

Forgot that fate comes like tarot pulls, swift, soundless, and unbearable

Plan B is master art of "no planning" , and bravely look over edge of Abyss

Milton wrote his doves wings charmingly spanning, then brandish

The essence of calamity, protesting cloud nine with a thirteenth knot

Then I’ll commit to ad hoc mankind's clay back to old-school sludge-rock,

Claiming right to create own afterlife and while aiming to dissolve

Into a self-awareness overdose caught between you brain-lobes

Aiming to create art that's not always visually stunning but is

As essential to accurately seeing things as rod-cone

Camaraderie co-oping the co-opting and then overturning of

Gnostic draw-dropping and then back to Agnostic original state

Of things, which provided void giving Mamaluk space to create

And craft a Self out of myths fabric , which was then forced

Onto our reality- I'll trace the winding shapes of labyrinth

That diagrams the Saving Grace, formalist trying to claim

That the formless has its proper space, reducing your

Once factual reality to artifact best viewed in halls of

Museum glass- you were created somewhere in the

Chasm between the first yawn and the first gasp

Turntablist sparks catalysis turning of tables between

The Riff raff and mavericks while subjecting both

To my forces of spin/drift, and pull mayhem out the

Hat like a Biblical Ahab cedes to Captain Ahab aftermath

Hey- I’m a new Rhymesayer meanwhile you and your crowd

Of blase wall-gazers are huffing miasma-headrush of

Believing you’re onto something major yet find tying your shoes a

A Mystery-caper, barely beyond what your brain is made for

Cover is blown- Sleeping Beauty cloaking yourself in

Facades of masculinity wandering far from source

Of accurate feedback and now drifting

I’m caught between fuming vision tinted Quinacridone

And trying to force thoughts into the minds of all

The Worker Drones, hyper-constructively I might add

He was Home-alone so he constructed me out

Of clay and loam, but I predictably mixing with

The other creations like matches meet napalm

There is no poem that can tell

How hummingbird wings

Make of time a useless ornament

Their motions formed from it

Their beauty enameled in it's

Element- and yet divorced from it

And separate, azure fields of motion

Through the moment but thoroughly

Threading together all of it: into

Singular motion melted

A poem holds not the secret

Key with which it climbed formless

Air as if it clasped upon bars of iron

In swift motions

Yes,

A poem can hold no telling

And yet as this descending

Night can never blot from

My mind these images so

Also I have contrived

The impossible- hoping

To outdo time, premising

It on leaving each verse

Written artfully

To leave even one mind still

Burning, that even one thought

Could trail beyond the province

Of this paper

And even as I started writing

The night has already begun

Descending, and on the day

I wrote these things just

As every other day the nectar

Of life was slowly fading

I could try to bejewel it

With shards of beauty

But regardless what I was

Doing each moment the

Tumultuous ending was

Still molting;

And so I wrote this poem

Hoping to leave some

Part of me trailing

Beyond my ending

Beneath the cherry trees I have counted

And weighed each flake of flame beneath

My skin- as if counting and weighing

Them could bring their burning to an end

Futility of poetry: as if naming and

Defining could ever douse any of it

The truth is I do not from whence

This burning came, or from whence

The storm- or why what was within

Me was such stacked empty cordage

That it fell, cleaved, burnt to twisted

Cinder the moment of storm's entrance

Fallacy of the knower: that this

Pain could ever suppurate if only

The mind could ever learn to doubt it

And so, confounded I have sat

Beneath the cherry trees

And with this poor poem

Won but another moment's

Passage from these flames

The muscles in my neck are like tight metal bands. They pull tighter when I experience strong emotions- and sometimes they pull so tight that they take my jaw pulls backwards with them, and it presses on my carotid artery until I either give up on my emotion or faint. When they get tight enough that they start changing around my jaw and face I start feeling like one of those distorted-faced women from those Picasso paintings.

Everything I like doing makes the tension worse- the positions from which I have found to read, write, and use the computer. The emotions brought up by reading or writing are bad- because the purpose of the excessive tension it is to block myself from feeling all the emotions I can't handle.

So basically I spend the whole day hoping I can sometime get back to reading and writing- But a lot of the time really failing at doing either.

Moronic irony done by Morissey.

Example:

Describing sex as a ‘giggling snowball ... of copulation’