a rough bit of it all
torn about the tinged straights-
a bridge to build,
a brick to lay,
another day gone by.
the ornaments inside my house no longer serve amusement-
my clothes mismatched all habberdashed
rest sullen on my skin,
the glow of screens tear at the seams of mildly sane perusement-
and I cannot drink away the ghouls with bucketfuls of gin...
what to do?
o, what to do?
another click or brushstroke-
a painting made for debts unpaid
to some stew of soul and self...
I’ll wrench some “purpose” from the pulpit and stuff it on a shelf.
you are dead. twice over,
curled- in repose
your callousness, your disregard
for all that which articulates a normativity
in being and interaction.
you are infinite
in light rain-
between a cigarette and a dog too old
to know what it’s barking at...
a man silvershorn about the hair
and the soul; begetting half of a life and a life’s half-ending.
a question placed between the asphalt cracks, beside the flecks of ash...
what does his heart entreat?
(such foul anatomical inaccuracies abound
in this metaphor for the seat of all feeling.
it can be an axis you know. emerging from somewhere within the hippocampus, then the pituitary gland, down to the kidneys, ******, or thyroid just to circle all around again. it recruits and unfolds- projecting outwards to come back unto circuits for grounding)
I cannot know.
Life collapses along boundary lines;
prior to ponderence as a melody
inscribed on inked parchment;
a thousand becomings shackled me
to the lust of this world:
i was folded at the corners...
splayed into curiosities envelope
and ****** into the cold,
to be a song unsung again.
My questions halved in silence
to the march of a pedagogic tune:
some opera for my wonder,
to tuck away in bloom
that careful bud I was
ever fearful in frostbite!
I knew not of kerosene
or the defiance of structure;
the similar fuels to build a city
and burn it to the ground.
Shackled in ambition,
sweet loves tied through in
searching for warmth as in birth;
a thousand becomings,
a thousand boundary lines.
To promises of life stolen.
yet necessity in nature and hierarchy beckon
to tear a flame from its comfort in chaos
and wrench its light into shadows it did not deign
it wanted not:
from the face of god a tear falls
to extinguish the raze brought about
in the aftermath of neglect;
from the mouth of god words are ripped
to sing rhythms of motion in tides shorn
on shores turned to crystal in bloodlust;
from the eyes sight is stolen and left to be graced
at an entrance to places forbidden...
Somewhere a matchbox is swept out from under the leg of a table, and in newfound contact with the ground the whole floor comes crashing unto itself...
I do not know what causes a body to revolt:
"The N-terminus of EWS/FLI1 retains the prion-like transactivation domain of EWSR1. This allows EWS/FLI1 to both bind RNA polymerase II and recruit the BAF complex. These interactions change heterochromatin to euchromatin at EWS/FLI1 DNA-binding sites effectively generating de novo enhancers
The C-terminus of EWS/FLI1 retains the DNA-binding domain of FLI1. While wild-type FLI1 recognizes an ACCGGAAG core sequence, EWS/FLI1 preferentially binds GGAA-repetitive regions. There is a positive correlation between the number of consecutive GGAA microsatellites, EWS/FLI1 binding, and target gene expression.
The core motif of ETS transcription factors includes a GGAA sequence. EWS/FLI1 may bind to such sequences with greater affinity than the wild-type ETS member disrupting the normal regulation of ETS target genes."
I did not like the phonics. I remember some things spinning in the phonetic loop prior to semantic encoding, but I did not like how blunt the nomenclature was. It was ugly and guttural, full of dissonant clips of the tongue and glottal propulsions. I am sorry I could not remember the names- even if they were ugly.
I suppose you never think of me, and in your current cataclysm drift away from my person evermore. Nevertheless, I will write this- not as testament but as a reaction:
I am sorry.
There were insecurities placed inside of you by your caretakers- things surrounding intelligence, direction, and lechery. I hope that they will relinquish their scruples to your fate, and that perhaps you will see a glimmer of love as snow drifting downwards to your doorstep to blanket you in numbness as you venture outwards into the unknown.
I watch dreamers turn to terror
in acts of unbecoming; laughing
till’ they come across some caesura
that caps their throttled love
shifting into stone.
In observance I sing with a tongue plucked from centuries back,
as an attestant to melody and motion
for those that forget nature
is always dancing.
A forest is only idle
when we’ve lost our time for rest-
in rhythm it sips joy up again
and sheds it in sweat upon a stage of itself
for nothing more than color
and a smile at the sky.