we don't believe in believing.
we believed in you and, well...
we have a reason to be all teeth
for any and all demagogues
dreamimg themselves into demi-gods
some weekend next February.
we are the stars that have been dead
but still make this feel insignificant.
we are the new constellations
traced by a future us.
we are the deepening ethos which lifted them up to rot
in the lofty quantum myth of consciousness with the rest of us.
we are entangled with the ever-blossoming constant
we watch like a top spinning ad nauseum.
we are indifferent to your opinions and principles
and tired of your excuses for not "getting it".
we view that **** as background music for the apocalypse
unraveling before our collective nakedness.
we are ******* hostile.
we are clenched fists ****** to clouds
after a rousing battle speech
collapses into echos we weaponize
on accident like Mingus on a piano.
we are as colossal as the fossilized intimacy you lost
on the blackened avenues of past uses
of compassion as a mask.
we are starving for the space
inside of which you remain just to atrophy.
we are the cloven hooves of crooked
discipline dancing to sounds of
we are the mushroom clouds crowning
our boundless potential.
before anything else, we are you.
you're worst-case scenario
unearthed by the prayers to float off
into the fade-away before a pretty credit roll;
we are catastrophe, but we don't have to be.
I lose poems written
by the long dead monarch "me"
in the liquid hues moving
across cheap gessobord.
Call it the lost art of disillusionment
treated as dreams imbued
"Viva la revolution"
screamed from every rooftop
and useless street
by the youth who refuse to
eat or drink anything
but silver spoons full of ellipses
confused as spots where ink...
My eyes have been wide.
Tracing the lines
of your light in my mind
I vibrate; "blind me, please"
I try to scream at the vibrancy
to no avail.
Waves to particles,
handshakes to arsenals;
it's all background noise
I avoid while my darkness pulls
your shine closer.
Blind me, please.
I've resigned my faith
in being reshaped into anything
but just another face in the crowd
if your light ever fades.
Blind me, please.
Stasis to stasis,
stations of the cross
lost in the basement
beneath some planar baseline.
I hate time.
I'd rather daisy chain rhymes
like claymores arranged
bouquets of daffodils
and baby's breath
on a grave.
Slain means dead,
They say a lot of things.
We cogs will spin until,
one by one,
our teeth break
and are reattached.
Then they'll rip us out,
melt us down,
and forge a new "us"
when there is enough
of us piled up
to bother with.
the same hole, same rabbit,
blah blah blah
When everything fails and death comes,
Count it as prosperity.