Suffocation
Brittled and frolicked along the edge of a twisted rope
Lying against this weft of broken vapours and swollen clouds
I have come to realize my inability
To grasp what it is
That clings to me
like some forgotten man
Off the glacial brims
Of sidled mounds
clings to himself
Yet indeed I see
What it is
That he mourns
Yet tugs on
So inexpressibly
That man of scorn
That man of boldened angst
That man of pure nothingness
How I wish I could persuade his grief
Just as the sky coaxes the horizon
Just as the wind strokes the grim of my hair
Just as the thought of thought coaches my feet along
closer to the edge
I could renovate my thoughts
Breathe logic into what it is that I adhere to
Gratify what it is that suffocates me and
Fills my lungs with some black tar drenched languor
Break down what it is that deluges
My thoughts so profoundly
So Fairly
Or so
As to truly
Allow itself
Ariality
Saccadence
Abreaction
Blood
Freedom
At the small cost of my own flesh.
And so,
I solemnly drip
And follow through
Wallow,
And misconstrue
What it means
To be alive:
As Complex As It is Dire
I took to your skin the way a marionette takes to its strings, obediently: each additional step pinning the weight of a gravitational pull against me, anno domini, until my legs were but stumps of marbled soon to be dynamic reflections of the Gaelic depths of a fiery hellish demonic tongue.
And you, my oh so loved assailant, are but an eye for conservatism, engineering and impersonal rites; Your steps trace Aramaic Easts and agglomerates and metallurgy from the west; Your lips, Imitative sheer fronts, id est an angelic reprise, brand a healing vision so powerful that the purest of victims fall from their floating rafters unto kneeling before such an absence of mind. The way your tongue, leather studded beast of wrath, suckles upon the breast of a poison hemlock, spitting out the seeds as to grow and sprout from my delicate body language, a canvas of a body, a body of canvases. Your words of injustice dance upon the grained soil: sons and daughters of Terpsichore, all forming an inescapable vitriolic circle, complex as it is dire, from which I must leap and escape into the vacant remnants of an emotional dalliance, as to find shelter. My fascination keeps me submissive, INRI (Iesus Nazarenus Rex Iustitiam), to the strings of a drifting cloud, from a browned daisy like vapor your breath exhumes, from the frolicced shards of light, modern tap-dancing entities of goodness, lost along the documentation of time and space that penetrate each and every one of our bodies like a satellite collapsing past spiraling out of control.
ボレアリス (Borealis), I stumbled upon you, incandescently, as I soar along the alleged land of the free with whom I share a thralldom of cyclic, rigid chain reactions.
勇気 (Bravery) allow me to consume you the way a black-wood moth worships the bark and sap of its amber home.
愛 (Love) Possess my body so that you and I may become an impassioned “we”, a coagulation of adjective currents.
許し (Forgiveness) rest upon the tip of my tongue; however, do not make the mistake of vividly showing yourself all at once. Package your humanistic machinery into a gentle box and hide that box within the floor and roof of your brain.
Allow the constant surge of electricity and truth to guide your every muscle unto betterment, into a better world, gold lashed and divinely suffered,
Forever.
Composite
Lying against this bed of pines and shriveled stones,
I have come to the conclusion
that life is inevitably sweet and divine yet treacherously pure.
Events dancing like broken shells and bits of soot and brown
falling against the ground, welding into place.
Skies drifting about like mangled tongues
stripped and devoured
thrown against and through,
a greenish ritual of utmost beauty and grace.
Birds with beaks as glass pitchers
holding beds of water as stimulative as they are simulated.
Yet who am I to spew such parsing diction?
I am but a yearning heart sprawled over like a corpse
hanging from a bridge, hands nailed to the concrete
yet breathing scarlet-blazed cause and not boiled reason.
My rivers flow empty with clear tubes
and subtle worthless meanders that crisp and thrash so silently.
I am but a stringed mass
A pale pendulous body wandering about, wondering.
An individual with thoughts of stillness,
feeling trapped and caged,
lying here alone as one: a composite whole, a singular projection,
distant from others by lunges and clouds of colorless, virgin terrain.
Yet we all bleed the same, don't we?
I am anything but the needle in a stack of grain.
We all embody this ambiguity, this frailty, this solitude.
This intimacy.
We are all somewhat of able-bodied streams of ire.
Prussian blue shades of boisterous life.
Lax and lustrous shades of death.
Shrewd and wine-like shades of time.
An aging pack of tinted blotches.
A withered, elegant frame.
And a painting of skies and flames waltzing about,
filling each others missing pieces
like a liquid so generously takes the shape of its container.