lmnopoeia

Words wasted on willingness to sacrifice. Wise wisdom versus wicked wretchedness. And the wretchedness dominates. And the vileness vilifies the wilderness within. To change or to remain. To clamour or to come apart. To pull or ponder or pounce or purify the thoughts. Besiege or be besieged. Devastated. Devastating. Devoured and devolved.

The sky the distance. The ground the cold. The fire the fire within. The flower the frailty without.

These things just pour out of me. Bleeding from my blood. Colorless though radiating auras of oral origins and soundless particles the length of which is none. Null. Nil. Nullified. Nullable. Void.

Make like a tree and sap the life from me. Make like a bulb and burn. Made to be bound to the earth and supressed by a sky of possibilities. And constantly weighing in on the tyranny of gravity. Until even the last situation is grave. This is me.

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The percentile diminishes but the power to buy remains. And is coupled with the desire. The fight continues on multiple fronts. But the tide still rolls softly. The sun still sets and summons. Forever waiting. Busy forgetting. Bothered but not brought about. This is where I found it. This is where it will lie. I run a spell checker over all my truths. I run around in circles too. I write down only the things that can’t be drawn – but drawn from memory. Drawn to the forefront. Pre-frontal. And post-fixed. Arithmetized into place. And desensitized. Belief is repetition. I repeat the words as they’re written. And the truth seems not to surge. Surrounded by the weather but bored by its fair-weather.

This is going so wrong.

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The horizon flattens the distance but the distance prevails. The hollow body of insignificance presses on the will and demeanour of even the wealthiest of solitudes. And their dichotomy stresses the fractures and pulls apart the tediousness of the heavenly mundane; weighing heavily upon the opinions held in check by none but the strongest of the feeble and the wisely disenfranchised. This is our revolution. This is our time. These are our hours. These are our homes. This is our land.

Green growing. Freshness fueled by the fruit of the earth. Flowing upriver. Falling from the leaves falling to the heavens. Faltering full of feather touch and tender columns of blending bleeding colours. Territorial train wrecks and political prowess. Backlash of bereavement to the dam. And the damned. Yearning for desires, desiring one last thing. Wanting not want. On windowless huts. Of lost kingdoms on the baked cracked mud of ancient ponds.

Flow. The feeling and the movement. Flow. The desire for pure desire. Flow. The never-ending energy that energizes entanglements particularly those quantifiable. Shall we? Let’s. Where shall we? Let’s see.

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And just like that it’s over.  Dead.  The dreams the hopes.

With things said and words spoken the times are here; are changing; are clear; and when the dust softly settles on the ground – like the snowflakes on this quiet mild winter day – the secrets uncovered will speak volumes.  Murmers will whisper their solitude; silence will speak of the tyranny over it; like a shroud; or a cloud; or a dark soft fog that rolls in too slowly to cause alarm.  But alarm!  Everyone must be notified.  Note that this is just as they had said.  And said!  Thus this is where it’s at.  This is how it’s gonna be.  The clouds thunder; the thunder clouds.  The silence is threatened; the tyrants regret. And this is the beginning.  Merely the beginning.  Because all that once came before is gone, so an end it is not.  Born anew this time so much better.  Born to be broken though shinny and polished.  Here it is now the sun a cometh.  Here the dawn of a dawnless day; nor sets the sun under shroud of cold clouds; just grey through the sky and in the minds and in the hearts.

The tide rises.

The shallow water deepens; the sound widens.  As the straight narrows; beyond the next turn turns straight.  And on the heights the hawks glide and during the lows the population crumbles.  This is how it is, how it was, and how it will be.  Twenty thousand years a way of life undisturbed – thence the great upheaval; redundant radicalization during radical redundancy.  All the while, those who waited were left out in the stillness of the night.  Too much time had passed; unabbreviated lengths of sands and rivers running on and on.

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I wrote these words to tell her I love her.
To let her know that she’s a regular component of my heart’s delusions.

Universal sadness.  The sum of all the objects in this world is emptiness.
The magnitude of all the matter that composes us is loss.

She will channel the universe’s light.  I am a tricky little construction of the universe
The universe has another tricky little construction waiting for me.

She is eternal beauty.  She is eternal beauty.

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Plain text. Styled so well. Re-spirited with something slightly less symmetrical than standard and slightly off tone from the monotony.

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I have a shifting sense of self,
an unsteady self concept.
I’m in transition between
places I was never fully in
and places fear hides from me.

I have no map,
no mentor
no faith.

Just a bit of hope…
and a heart beat.

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So this is thirty. On first impression it feels much like the loneliness of 29; or 19 for that matter. And when the loneliness subsides the boredom sets in. But this is nothing new, nothing I haven’t learnt how to deal with – with long walks, sad songs, or stupid amounts of alcohol.

And I’ve grown used to this.

Nothing is worth having if it wasn’t hard to get. So I keep my contentment dangling on a string. Just beyond my grasp; in all my hopes of an abstract freedom, in all my dreams of traveling to find it.

One thing is new, at this tender age of thirty. I find myself facing the abyss, hearing the call to arms. If I don’t find my way now will I spend another twenty years looking? And the terror of a middle-aged man with the dreams of a teenager keeps me frozen to my bed – struggling with the angst of my inaction and my inactions.

But in the end nothing’s new.

These thoughts are so familiar, this lethargy reminiscent. I’ve had half my life to learn how to hone my coping skills. I can now trap these thoughts between fourty-seven layers of paint, or in the half-tones that form between the automatic cross-hatched strokes in the contours of a nude woman. Or I can whisper some conscious constructions as my fingers stroke emotions my guitar’s voice isn’t too weak to sing.

And the emotions I trap in my art crystallize. Turn to diamonds that sparkle in the dreams I have where my mythologies make me king. But the diamonds loose their glitter because of the tiny fissures formed by pressure from within. And in that half sleep – when light is no longer reflected – I find my self twitching. Running. Running away from fractured diamonds. Or towards the next ones I will create.

So here I am again, with you, my sweetest friend – reciting more half-truths of perfect abstractions and then burning the energy it gives me until I’m pale, lethargic and depressed.

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Fortified supplements of enriched uranium. I feel you seeping through me. Tell me where you’re standing and I’ll come find you. Tell me what you see.

Tell me what you see.

(I’ve seen this five hundred million times and it still looks dead to me)

I’m in a vacuum; when I scream I make no sound and my sense of smell… what the hell is it for. I travel at the speed of light until I collide with myself. And when I do, I fall out of existence. Annihilation is a weak description. I want to feel your weak nuclear force.

but my desires are automatic and they tend towards chaos.

If I categorize the things I know their absolute value becomes unknown; and I’m told the root of my square is negative.

But that’s ok because I cast no shadow and as I travel I displace only temptation; and sometimes time. My inspiration comes from you, but I am not free, nor radical.

My psyche succumbs to you and my psychology dreams in colors inspired by you. But that’s not who I am, that’s just my body playing tricks on me.

If I was to really take apart my physiology I’d find the proteins I’d inhaled while standing near you; And I smell them now, though I’m still in this vacuum.

I twiddle my thumbs as I contemplate infinity and I shake my head so slow it’s hard to see. If you could only find the time, you’d solve many of life’s mysteries. Like why it’s hard to find the time to solve life’s mysteries. And when you do you’d be ironing out my sense of irony.

Life cannot exist in a vacuum, yet here I am. I have no future, only a destiny; it’s pre-determined by my determination and completely dependent on my independence.

And from a distance, your quanta affect me.

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monkeys are monkeys, they can’t help it.
but you,
you are the universe.

infinitely maleable,
and infinitely glorious.

you’re at once an infinitely bright light,
and a million orange flowers.
you’re a field of green grass,
and the fresh air it creates.

and all this fights off the monkeys,
and the aligators,
and the angst of the new moon.

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