Your weltering words do not interest me
with its lack of true clarity.
Just your tongue
and all the inhuman noise it can make
Oh' schlepped out- sleeping son
you are the ever tediously coveting one
ungratefully burdened by soft sin
as if it does not alter the personality within.
Scrape gingerly the bottom of a bottle,
in despair carelessly compare disease
to your displeased humor, wash logic
along with blood from lacerated hands;
broken bottle pieces rasping like last words
empty of regret- with every sweep.
In blind acceptance with little malice
you slice ties cleanly as memories of allowance
have barely slipped and
menial wage paychecks become the sole script.
Only little things are still swingin'
but no longer with style,
limply dripping you are simply pathetic and
knowing this is the first step toward the corner mart,
wallet in pocket and to- locking all cold thoughts away
but you continuously fail to remember,
total absence is equivalent to suicide.

I despise names and
call them the false handle-
that they are.
A grip of pre-molded proportions,
framed in impertinent memory.
An acerbic peremptory command of character
stamped neatly at birth,
a great girth of foreshadowing
left pregnant by passing humanity. Crystallized now,
dutifully,
by the willful populace,
which we the children- bear in baleful ignorance.
You cannot help but have an altered perception and
unconsciously define,
as if,
a title was the crux of my character.

Listen closely and hear our collective vernacular in a state of constant mitosis.
Live and see our language begin to rival our own complexity.
A myriad of inter-connecting word highways with more twists,
turns and travelers than that of any physical road.
A body of thought massing in our collective conscious,
an infinite man-made addition to our finite physical reality.
Every addition is another color, another taste,
relative to the user in enunciation,
becoming ever less limited by geography.
Emotion attaches and tints the tone of individual words as we grow with age.
Without it enabling us to define ourselves, we are left ignorant and insular.
Memory accumulates casting a shadow and adds depth,
communication cultivating perception to leverage change in corporeality.
Pulsating slang spreading locally with fresh life to be globally colloquial.
A wordsmith may use this power to celebrate
or condemn their perception of reality,
more still- will wield words like plowshares
and escapism flourishes with such an expansive field
where all of humanity is brought out to play.


And sometimes-
for me,
it is just barely enough to grip a word with impunity.

There is no simple sin, even within an ignorant whim.
You have an absence of forward thought,
I treat this as if- it is an abnormality.
Can you, for just a moment
imagine yourself as you are,
disingenuous and ordinary.

Can you, for just a moment
step outside your solidified
perception of the continuum.

You can, just for a moment
look at the beauty inherent
within the repetition of us.
There is no behavior irregular to Love.
Consume me in lust and anger,
in soft embraces and memory.
For in words is the only place I truly linger,
so sate your simplistic nature now.
There is no insult in simplicity,
the world is already complex enough.
You are swift in being decisively concise,
delightfully constrained and
unadorned. 
There is nothing more then internally acquired happiness.
There is nothing but self imposed purpose.

A Mass Inversion.

I have lived to witness an Apple
become a juggernaut
see the followers nod their heads in belief,
walking segregated on the streets
unaware of their own worship.

We have not yet realized
that the largest religion in the world
is no longer faith based,
technophiles fill our rural
and metro quintessential sprawl.

Their numbers swell
and burgeon with new converts
that give funding rank and file,
whom are taught to know indulgence
in name only, mistaking desire for need.

This technology based obsession
is without age or gender restrictions,
without race distinction,
it asks not for ethics,
       pride,
morality,
intelligence or privacy.

It is all-consuming
just as any ideology-
as any religion,
answering the same fervent questions,
demanding tribute and changing the way you think.

-

The View Outside.**

Among the whole, the slow mass conversion,
there is occasional dissension,
some who glorify a golden era or fill with nostalgia
for something they may not have even experienced,
an immaterial escapism of the present
furthered by a childish inability to accept ephemerality
and our irregular morality.

Sometimes amid this denial,
this abstaining,
there is a seed of anger that grows with gnarled roots
that twist throughout with nary a cry or shout.

It is a quiet anger,
unconditional and baseless but for an intensity,
a burning sense of being wronged,
an infection that spreads without exception.

And when your self-righteous halo eventually slips to catch
in your now flapping jaw,
your anger will fade as you choke on hard etched resolve.

My body was found in an autochthonous cranny stinking of death,
between the hookers legs; burned
with a magnesium flash- of the bulb popping.
It illuminates mere shapes
resembling humans only remotely;
the way a copse of bracken burnt conifers' resemble matchsticks.

I am trying to pick up a thin unforgiving object
with my over-sized,
disjointed creaking hands- again.
Plastered smooth,
flatly white and plain,
sharply contrasting the oaken ornate table beneath.
A pointed creation - filled from within by an impossibly pulled pin
n' covered simply
in slim thinly soft skin.
I want to tear it off
but my hands ache and cry out- soundless.
Time hasn't meaning anymore,
when you are gone and I am old.
Twice folded around inside,
the cocoon is layers of pressed arrested rough hewn life,
wanton against my finger tips,
that are bloated and gnarled with corroded bone
all angles
and absurdity.
Aged pages will be riffled raw by my papery epidermis,
squirming in earnest and fear of your leering senile words.
I want to tear it off but it holds like glue
And-
as I remember, you are beautiful
sold into sleep, bought in too deep
with twitching, itching delicious skin,
between golden strands that at times stand stiff with tension
caught hot underneath our bodies.

I choose not to remember as you are now
alone
in a crone crowded home.