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B E Cults Jun 2021
obliged to what?
smile and say, "danke"?

I could hide forever if I could hide forever
behind something.
anything.

I'll abide the dust and sunshine
and the blood i taste
on my tongue at night,
every night,
but not you putrifying the *******
ground water.

anything.
anything.
B E Cults Jun 2021
"wait, what was that?"
war-drums.

the war was won by the underdog;
I was uninvolved.

but I'm here now.
"or love..." is always an option.
I get this weird doubt
about how I'll fit in
with all of it all;
I'm calling it off.

perpetually.

I never measure things.
I should measure things
I should measure things.
B E Cults Jun 2021
but the moment was so ambrosial,
like snow melting in gorgeous chestnut hair,
like Coltrane's Favorite Things for the hundred-thousandth time,
like the morning Sun shining
through Manuka honey
slowly dripping off my spoon into
the black abyss of my coffee cup.

I am present.
I promise, ya.

I'm indebted to the
wretched headtrips of "yesterday"
for never letting me do more
than whisper a single death wish
(thank you)
between labored breaths.
I'm deathless now.
just flesh stretched tight over bright smiling, and otherwise unbridled,
sunlight in love with just being here to lend the luminosity in the first place.

I only learn of grace
from kids grinning and ripping birthday gifts open in grainy VHS tapes I probably shoplifted from the local thrift shop.
Either there or on park benches
tossing seeds to flocks of pigeons
cooing at my feet.
Did you know they were brought
to this country by immigrant chefs?

Again, I'm present.
Honestly.
I'm as conscious of it all as it gets;
the God of the phenomenological slog
we all call "the now",
unbound from His vow of vigilance
in the watch-and-plot of all apocalyptic
loss of momentum...

my attention span is like
incense smoke curling out of
a monastery window somewhere
in the Himalayas,
like the hidden weight of a whispered "thank you",
like the half empty silver cigarette case rattling in Camus' coatpocket as he walks,
collar up and head down,
to Café de Flore for breakfast.
or lunch.
or...

I'm present.
I promise.
(thank you)
I'm present.
Honest to God.
(thank you)

I'm ******* nowhere.
no, thank you.

I'm present.
B E Cults Jun 2021
been at the end of my rope
for what feels like infinity,
Orange and red roses growing beneath my feet though

minutes eat the days up,
it's ok because my days **** anyway.
pity is paid to the same mud
all mystery came writhing up out of.
anyways,
what the Gehenna was I getting at?
oh yea,
the revenge-**** of the century:
me swinging like a tarnished gold pendulum
from the Ash tree I planted a few years back.
B E Cults Jun 2021
none of this **** is autobiographical.

above everything, remember,
I am a ******* liar.
B E Cults Jun 2021
apples and lavender on the altar,
I light candles for all of you.

all of you.

this is a moment for truth,
for poignancy,
but the solitude I chase
erases all of that.

again, I go back to that "all of you".
this self referential **** is only meant
to deepen my ****** narrative.

call that a good use of "meta"
B E Cults Jun 2021
"the plum my mother picked was worm ridden"
I think of that ****
everytime i think of you.

think of the breeze,
think of the leaves,
ive been dead and dreaming of God knows.

same potholes in the same streets.

meaning is still whatever
I called it the last time we spoke.
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