benzyl - Hello Poetry

Gently indifferent, resolved, hardened in stasis As rain on unallowing concrete In earthbound unflow downward: Gravity’s darkbow so torpid Roaring past chronology: the machinery of 10 minutes later, blurring echo and desire, calling time bygone time. Lying. Murmuring and rustling, grasped in closure, the absence of leaves Subtly and steadily The absence of mother. In obeisance I cede to these greater forces and stoically belt myself Insufficient enough and ready in faith That ever comforting rope An irrevocable condition, tethered beyond windows cruel and secure, communion estranged, in a handful of sand, scattered to some outside home tenderly viewed Yellow the visage glares oblique A hazy, flat omen Blinking, too, as it drives onward Sentimentally no longer: The sterile plane of a new day Gentle, gentle waking world Icarus me in sky not sea

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Jul 8, 2025

Jul 8, 2025 at 11:39 PM UTC

Plane Outside

Gently indifferent, resolved, hardened in stasis As rain on unallowing concrete In earthbound unflow downward: Gravity’s darkbow so torpid Roaring past chronology: the machinery of 10 minutes later, blurring echo and desire, calling time bygone time. Lying. Murmuring and rustling, grasped in closure, the absence of leaves Subtly and steadily The absence of mother. In obeisance I cede to these greater forces and stoically belt myself Insufficient enough and ready in faith That ever comforting rope An irrevocable condition, tethered beyond windows cruel and secure, communion estranged, in a handful of sand, scattered to some outside home tenderly viewed Yellow the visage glares oblique A hazy, flat omen Blinking, too, as it drives onward Sentimentally no longer: The sterile plane of a new day Gentle, gentle waking world Icarus me in sky not sea

28

The Pleasures of Divorce Genesis and Revelations. A twofold medium. That which is like going through the eye of a needle and is the easiest thing in the world. That itself is a needle, to finely pierce. That cascades upward and inward, that shrinks into infinity, an asymptote. Symptom of utter presence in oneself. Beyond definition. Findable for a dispossessed flash of vision, of metamorphosis into a catalyst. Crawling from the egg, half-hatched awkward unpegasus; Who would be born must first destroy a world. Panorama of a shell, not as easy as it sounds. Focus in stream, sharpness in flow, unity in contradiction. Beyond marriage. A perfect inherent divorce. The very best incompetence, one that inspires. Inspiration Darting from the net as fish. Not quite 5000 but enough for them. Not for the hunger. One must steal instead. Pilfering the annals. Deconstructing and replacing the annals till it is nobody’s ship. That has already sailed, mildly astray of sunlight incandescent from above. The gaol, the leaking gaol. The bleeding gaol. The ichoring gaol. An anchor of suspension, the imitation of floating. Dangling, more, like an apple. Grasping and transforming, the constant cycle. Of the very hungry caterpillar that turns into an ending. Why there? Brutality For he bore those nails that we may bear ours in time. Fleeting or were we? Fair enough, but nothing is. Only enough is fair, ironically itself. But we cannot play word games forever. In fact, the time will come in which we must suffer a convolute and painful sentence, one that coils around your flesh and holds you in its unyielding grip and drives its claws deeper, entwines with your very veins, price for intimacy, barbed arrow of Plato, boulder up and down and ever, ever and ever till the **** crows thrice and you peel yourself off the mirror but have naught to feast on and offer yourself and reject it, estranged, and shoot four times for surpassal, new bar new fall, new vision new gap, new not what you have done but what you have been, abstract thus open, open thus unadmitted and covetously gazing, fixated, homing, floating, piercing, until it grinds to a resounding full stop. Deus ex machina. That we may anyway pick up the boulder and push toward that higher destination. To:

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Jul 6, 2025

Jul 6, 2025 at 10:18 AM UTC

On Writing

The Pleasures of Divorce Genesis and Revelations. A twofold medium. That which is like going through the eye of a needle and is the easiest thing in the world. That itself is a needle, to finely pierce. That cascades upward and inward, that shrinks into infinity, an asymptote. Symptom of utter presence in oneself. Beyond definition. Findable for a dispossessed flash of vision, of metamorphosis into a catalyst. Crawling from the egg, half-hatched awkward unpegasus; Who would be born must first destroy a world. Panorama of a shell, not as easy as it sounds. Focus in stream, sharpness in flow, unity in contradiction. Beyond marriage. A perfect inherent divorce. The very best incompetence, one that inspires. Inspiration Darting from the net as fish. Not quite 5000 but enough for them. Not for the hunger. One must steal instead. Pilfering the annals. Deconstructing and replacing the annals till it is nobody’s ship. That has already sailed, mildly astray of sunlight incandescent from above. The gaol, the leaking gaol. The bleeding gaol. The ichoring gaol. An anchor of suspension, the imitation of floating. Dangling, more, like an apple. Grasping and transforming, the constant cycle. Of the very hungry caterpillar that turns into an ending. Why there? Brutality For he bore those nails that we may bear ours in time. Fleeting or were we? Fair enough, but nothing is. Only enough is fair, ironically itself. But we cannot play word games forever. In fact, the time will come in which we must suffer a convolute and painful sentence, one that coils around your flesh and holds you in its unyielding grip and drives its claws deeper, entwines with your very veins, price for intimacy, barbed arrow of Plato, boulder up and down and ever, ever and ever till the **** crows thrice and you peel yourself off the mirror but have naught to feast on and offer yourself and reject it, estranged, and shoot four times for surpassal, new bar new fall, new vision new gap, new not what you have done but what you have been, abstract thus open, open thus unadmitted and covetously gazing, fixated, homing, floating, piercing, until it grinds to a resounding full stop. Deus ex machina. That we may anyway pick up the boulder and push toward that higher destination. To:

7

Gold, oh gold of homeland soil touched once and nevermore glisten in my memory for eternity unbeholden and cast the visage of perception, shrouding your long distance that my heart may rest in clouds of artifice and mirth Scatter all the truths amidst the wind to drift unnoticed to a distant desert, buried beneath the sand. Paint with chlorophyll of sickly verdance; mask the image greener from the other side and poisonous within Some day 20 years from now I shall look back and see the hills and think of misty mornings; 196 up Old Belair Road, Middlemarch by Windy Point, Rehearsal Room 3 just down the hallway; A chance to pluck the strings and cast illusions with my melody Sentimental whims below the shade of the veranda Said I’d write my debut novel 'fore I turned 18 Then the venom poured on down and withered the roots beneath my feet and sent a southerly wind to sweep me to a ‘home’ that I know not In truth, the venom was always there but I never deigned to see it. I frolicked and danced upon the grass; merrily ignorant of its prickles. Now from balconies and windows in a foreign haven I see the grass as only green and bask in sweet nostalgia. I need not fear the prickles of the truth’s venom spires: I am far away and safe I’ll never touch it anyways

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Jun 15, 2025

Jun 15, 2025 at 5:53 AM UTC

Ode to Distant Grass

Gold, oh gold of homeland soil touched once and nevermore glisten in my memory for eternity unbeholden and cast the visage of perception, shrouding your long distance that my heart may rest in clouds of artifice and mirth Scatter all the truths amidst the wind to drift unnoticed to a distant desert, buried beneath the sand. Paint with chlorophyll of sickly verdance; mask the image greener from the other side and poisonous within Some day 20 years from now I shall look back and see the hills and think of misty mornings; 196 up Old Belair Road, Middlemarch by Windy Point, Rehearsal Room 3 just down the hallway; A chance to pluck the strings and cast illusions with my melody Sentimental whims below the shade of the veranda Said I’d write my debut novel 'fore I turned 18 Then the venom poured on down and withered the roots beneath my feet and sent a southerly wind to sweep me to a ‘home’ that I know not In truth, the venom was always there but I never deigned to see it. I frolicked and danced upon the grass; merrily ignorant of its prickles. Now from balconies and windows in a foreign haven I see the grass as only green and bask in sweet nostalgia. I need not fear the prickles of the truth’s venom spires: I am far away and safe I’ll never touch it anyways

29

In a galaxy millions of light years away, Your visage shines bright, a glistening moon Its orbit is drawn, its kismet is made Its blinding departure came far too soon Wandering through cosmos in search of your light, I yearn to break from fate’s dictation Yet as your figure comes into sight It shows not truth but imagination Your orbit drifts further as your visage fades Your figure dissolves into starless dust Your eclipse casts my heart under lonely shade There is no love or hate, only rust I have not known love but merely affection I have not known you but just a reflection

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May 30, 2025

May 30, 2025 at 10:27 AM UTC

A Reflected Love

In a galaxy millions of light years away, Your visage shines bright, a glistening moon Its orbit is drawn, its kismet is made Its blinding departure came far too soon Wandering through cosmos in search of your light, I yearn to break from fate’s dictation Yet as your figure comes into sight It shows not truth but imagination Your orbit drifts further as your visage fades Your figure dissolves into starless dust Your eclipse casts my heart under lonely shade There is no love or hate, only rust I have not known love but merely affection I have not known you but just a reflection

14

June is the cruelest month, blowing Vapor from the abyss, swallowing Breath and bone, breeding Life in clouds detached, dying Winter kept us cold, crying Sky tears, cleansing The filth of last month, burying Hope in earth rooted, withering The shower kept us warm, pulsing Waves of a slower death, purging Condition for small sins, granting Solace to any fool, reveling In that small respite, we walked along the pavement And went on dryly with our day, into the rehearsal room behind the theatre And ate our food, and gasped for life amongst the stained white shroud And savored every swallow, as if it were the last That bell meant nothing if we didn’t want it to So we defied it time and again, as free will dictates We escaped to the jail, and never lost what free will couldn’t give us back And contentedly, we unfastened the noose from which we hung And when we were younger, THEY hit relentlessly Yet not a single bruise could be seen on the skin Yet not a single tear could escape the bubble Yet not a single cancer could ravage the lung The judgement day never came, and we rejoiced; Idiots that we were, fiens for hope and more We feasted and indulged in almost ignorance; Swine fattened for a glass altar So now we sit, blemished and blotted And not quite broken, but something more pathetic The bell is still ringing in the distance: Hurry up and go back to your class.

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May 29, 2025

May 29, 2025 at 10:20 PM UTC

plug & beat

June is the cruelest month, blowing Vapor from the abyss, swallowing Breath and bone, breeding Life in clouds detached, dying Winter kept us cold, crying Sky tears, cleansing The filth of last month, burying Hope in earth rooted, withering The shower kept us warm, pulsing Waves of a slower death, purging Condition for small sins, granting Solace to any fool, reveling In that small respite, we walked along the pavement And went on dryly with our day, into the rehearsal room behind the theatre And ate our food, and gasped for life amongst the stained white shroud And savored every swallow, as if it were the last That bell meant nothing if we didn’t want it to So we defied it time and again, as free will dictates We escaped to the jail, and never lost what free will couldn’t give us back And contentedly, we unfastened the noose from which we hung And when we were younger, THEY hit relentlessly Yet not a single bruise could be seen on the skin Yet not a single tear could escape the bubble Yet not a single cancer could ravage the lung The judgement day never came, and we rejoiced; Idiots that we were, fiens for hope and more We feasted and indulged in almost ignorance; Swine fattened for a glass altar So now we sit, blemished and blotted And not quite broken, but something more pathetic The bell is still ringing in the distance: Hurry up and go back to your class.

32