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love-energy swinging toward bitter blows:
a father’s pride becomes a son’s,
he becoming bitter becoming hatred
in the midst of love abused,
a civil fight for freedom failing in the eyes of youth:
these minds of ours turn wildly—
change to the beat of unknown drums
and death knocks us up
pregnant with a new generation of hate,
of goals to love: the obliteration of hate’s mother,
but question on, worship your mind,
build a shrine of doubt and find
darkness emerging as a deeper shade of black
knowledge? knowledge?
myths laid upon us through the perspectival dimming of language
no one’s fault? societal pressures
no cause for blame? survival instincts
no source of evil? history has a gun to their head. . . .
no use for these words? meaningless.
dialogue, yes, for the birds,
the carrion of hope
once the breeding stops
and lets the precious journey start:
down the cesspool of quasi-oblivion,
where we’re all a minority of one,
grasping for meaning in an abyssm of phantasmal foundations.
words, words, the excuse of words;
when father’s left no ground to walk on,
the son sits there digging
ditches for the death of systems
holes in the fabric mother wore,
tears in the existence we thought we knew.

what is this about? question marks
swerving away from sour truth
bleeds the nonsense through the flesh of what we love
and dying, dying, hate becomes a source of love,
guilt projects a softened heart
kneeling down now
outside, but wanting in.
affirmed, dejected.

[OR
are they swerving away from faith
simply a defense against the actions to take
ontic procratstinator! hear me now!
safety is the goal behind every measure
seek danger and you run the dangers of comfort,
seek comfort, and delusion becomes your handmaid.]

for knowledge of past dogma is dogma too
and the heart pumps it anyway;
for existence is. O heart, your sutra
flows nimbly on into eternity,
but you take this life and live it now,
the rhythm born of a mystery,
sacred to the foolish,
sarkin to the wise—
and the dancing wise man
birthing a new enigma
travels on into the depths of the ordinary
with a smile and a bow,
a hop-skip like Nietzschean
melodrama.

I can write it once for fun,
twice for accuracy,
thrice for fame and ten more for shame.
Do you want to know what it’s about
or do you want to figure it out?
the game of pride makes fresh
the fish of mental seas;
but truth is less cozy;
dagger in your existential eye.

no conclusions to be embraced without the whim of faith?
no art show game gripe to win but for the game of taste?

this bout goes on, this Bout goes on! oh how I wish my mind was lacking!
but no! the sacrifice, but the sacrifice,
pigs of Aristotle knew no quarrell,
no such quarrell.

when does such a poem become a forced effort?  when will I stop questioning myself?
where is this urge to destroy originate?
what ******* language am I speaking in when I think?
what and why,
who the but questions, questions
falling spiking holes in teh floor of contentment
or is it laziness: should I tak emy e pick now or wa itf ort he rig htto **** newith mystic alllllllllllll certainty from be yo ndt he fen ceof lan gua ge.

why go back? why try?
the difference between communication and self-indulgent writing is the effort to conform to the extent necessary for the sharingof truth... and so nobility demands conformity, however long it takes and however wonderful it may be in the mean time to simply spill my fingers across the trypesu ritre lia shjkk e a A b B i IG load o f ***... as if the hiddenness of deconstucted language masked my immaturity as a poet, as a person, as a thinker, as a wallower in shame.  as a Man. as a *** machine. as a weak creature. as a creature of potentially great accomplishments but small ***** at the present, as a person hiding from the said for fear of having to live up to it, as one who doesn’t believe his words half the time, even noe, ever noer rht all suiooos  dhjhjh tuof rhty w arbif trya dfyoudng huddkkfkd fmdmf dfdlililhkjga wyeruipok smmm tuhtuth dgfhg dagdh f dhajkdf  fuduudjjd fh d hdhhd bit b not n tno totot t ototot  read read read read read read read read read reda dnrenadkf leadsd fhdus duig hgjhdf dh sdmf sialdihf duf dreioan ign udfin the dh diguicse of hjtkjh heioa never heros heilike hte  e9a 1 1 ih kj n h ogma doifj hedOLvever otitoto the  ososososririrroow ww dance waiting at the librasyer renckjh c concon con iejr a  goodo excucse to t constraint no nt rot th even dfhight hwith th d dear on the all ndklfn eh fh searching thioart worthless buthen I find htheihadf htis hivoih Valid dfkdljhf jhkajh yea it s i kjh Lavlls ishn Vadildld meaning ngon woven into nonesense nd fnidoijifj bJar in Tennessiossdnohf  a freww few deletes and the important words become clear however taxing on an hypothetical reader from the future in which I do hope to become g”reat” half-heartily,  though for show.  .  .and the experience of writing is revealed through the laziness, or tiredness, of a recent graduate trying to write something meaningful after a summer of passion and *** and drugs and resentment toward the family and the sad economic advice given him.
Do not leave me, not me
Sweet one with the ecstasy
Sweet one with pleasure emanating from your body
Stand fast, don't depart
Under my calm, as it seeps from my palms.
Draped gently like a necklace
Hold your breathe, close your eyes
Return to where you belong, stay
I've only just begun drinking my tea
Stand there and let me feel your satisfaction
You'll shake your head, unaware of my pleasure
Your hand upon my jaw
Thrown down breathless
Lost in your touch
You hold right here.
Do not leave me, come lie with me
You keep me from going cold, I will have another sip?
Of course I will
I'd like to retain the taste in my mouth
Infinitely comforted
You are my eyes to me
How many days until you will no longer do this
I remember your replies.
You could never count all the grains of  bliss in the desert of my laughter
Do not leave me, and wander afar
Your dedication lends me courage
You provide me continued comfort
Let me be the unexpected rain shower
Cascading down upon your wilting desert flowers
It would be such great tribulation, if you left me
Not me, with such pleasure
I have just begun, my eyes are yours
Lie with me, for another cup of coffee.
Your lips tasted like smoke
From the buildings you watched burn
While standing dead center

Our bodies are practiced in the art of collapsing

A collapse to make harder
Make stronger

There is this company called life gem
That can turn your ashes into diamonds

We have diamond potential

Welcome to the church of falling apart
The church constructed from the things tempers make
Built from all the rubble collected from every collapse

It’s where we pray
In tears
Red eye gritted teeth frustration
Pray like a seizure sometimes
How I buckle at the backbone
Bulging out my belly
To show you
There’s still beauty inside

If you’ll forgive me
You can take it

10 years is a long time to love someone
Especially for it all to stop in an instant

I know we both prayed for the love to come back
And if these walls could talk they’d be suicidal for some paint thinner
Wanting to forget as badly as we do

And I am sorry seven ways til Sunday
Just seven days til Sunday
Seven chances not to **** up
Before I have to beg forgiveness again

I wanna pick up the pieces
Like broken glass
And make a disco ball
So I can dance small miracles
In a body designed to break

You know
If I had a typewriter big enough to run myself through
I rewrite the rough drafts god never finished
I’d put the psalms back in my voice box
I’d pray calmly

Despite what you might think
There are still ways to be broken and saved

This church isn’t firewood yet

So let’s sing a savage hallelujah
Know that forgiveness is the only way not to be bitter

Then we can collapse heavily into this bed we’ve made

Know we can always remake it in the morning

Welcome to the church of falling apart
With you at the top
Bangin’ away in the bell tower
Finding ways to drown out the cries
Like morphine

Just above your head
There is a slow fire working its way down
So everyone can exit safely
If they want to

We can make angels in the ashes
Like we do in the snow
And then we can rebuild
This poem is going to be turned into a video hopefully. I did the audio track today. Fingers crossed.
Darkness, sing your song in quietness,
                         eulogizing departing light,
sad moon's silence,
                               and  your love affair with misty mountain heights.
spelling backwards through time,
      stroke by blurry stroke
      a maiden's coal-black hair regales
      the flattery from her lips...  and so the doom
-- and boon of a crimson warrior's arm --
      was drawn from speech a flame,
      and kindled mind to burn away for lust,
one speaker fed and doubly fraught
by goddess's
      invention brought
to give away his name and trust,
for doppelgangers' games
                                 and beauty
                                         to consent~

that trollish abysm our aching selfhood
deems unworthy, war can celebrate:
iconic genius symbol may encourage,
it may remembrance windows of our history~
      but only breath, and inner sight so keen
      on solid strength of living fact
      can triumph in the plain!
some semblance of an older wisdom
strains to orate still, and lust itself afar,
      but brawn and tested fibrous body build
      must turn the page of time;
and this, to know the truth withstood
that vision
        of a perfect youth
                            forever,
one start and line without an end,
      a floating dance of pulling under waves
      that never waves as being surely does
like no ancient-honest country-prophet ever saw--
thus, remnants of the wisdom from a fallen mind;
and so he fell to her and had not her for long...
she had a wider window, immortal panes,
this temptress
       suppleness of limb to shock
and shake the bones of foolish learning,
that thinks itself imbued with everlasting fame.

it was a mossy light
                         of eyelash shine
                                           and sheen
                                                   to woo
                                                        the wisdom out,
electric sense to lure the hapless sap
into a brutish trap: to learn alone the
atheletes pathos, relearn the heart-race
from a chest of seemless vigour,
from lungs of endless winds
and legs of trunkish growth the
channels and the prism of an empty skull
instead of learned ships and foolish mimes of finer times--
                   he does the bidding of her will.











.
a mythumockery or mockumythery, if you will, of some of the classically embellished dogmas of mind-body/***-power causality, nothing serious :P  hope it entertains to some degree
Hooves, bones, serpent's kiss
pine in the leaves
of Oak:

Scales moss around you,
wood to the thicket of your trunk.

The scar shows in rust,
spirals all along the torque
of my spine.

I wrap myself around you
until blood rushes to trickles
of sound.
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