and those defamatory names were deleted,
as I was fearful of my own vocabulary-
it is a simple task, to the view the world and be within it,
yet its basicness can wither appeal.
I am ugliness without Greek, without validity-
to some ******* with a mother of what is bastardly.
To invalidate the dead, to speak of myself before myself, and to feel disconnected in that proclamation. I think I may be deluded,
yet I hope I outlive you, regardless of biology
and my defection, which you minimize so truthfully-
while you wish to own a mind and own a pair of legs now,
to be a puppeteer-
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 placed in a child…
and everything is a little too easy,
and a little too hard
it is hard for me to call upon myself as an invalid or anything approaching its opposite-
I remember my english teacher in sixth grade exploring basic grammatical principles in our language,
and I remember exercises in temporal deletion
like video games and platitude
I remember eyes, blue or brown, colored hair-
everything has color except to those unfortunate few
I remember when I did not drink for fear of becoming something other than, but now I do it in efforts to return to myself
my father tells me that I began to speak at less than a year old,
that I did not babble
I do not know what this indicates, as parents are reluctant to give their young to scientists-
in his mentioning it is an effort to grasp at something more than,
but I am alone in regularity,
taunted by hopes of this prospect-
and I am fickle, laughable in this denigration, dramatism, insouciance
some other words
People like imagery and trinkets and things-
they abide by the boundaries of themselves and move onwards, emboldened by this recognition- this worship
but I am a pike made of flesh-
bloated like a fish,
wretched, unknowing in mirrors.
This world is my species-
my species indirect,
as bloated, as wretched.
The beauties I find I create,
and even then I hate them afterwards,
I hate too much for the sake of my love-
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.
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.