what to do.
where to go.
how to
get
there.
icy whitened teeth gleam earthy chartreuse canine slant glyph
is, really,
the only possession that
i have
on my person,
in my backpack.
---- well, err that, and
this flat slab of lit stone,
thought up by small gods,
and made by smaller people that live in
far far away binary lands that eat the sky
with rolling saturated ebony clouds,
which help smelt those inner beings of light,
and force them inside these tablets -
which I, then, use
to inscribe my
scream-of-conscience
wrought into thinky pixel arc
across the once blank page.
all is not well. sure. i get that.
but the visible spectrum
still bows forth colorings
in the hurt skies above,
over metro rush and mirth cursed.
but we still
can rewrite it.
this
is
why
i sit.
alone.
this monkish
quietude
i exist in:
living room consumed.
it's where, under a relatively nice high ceiling,
i do my
pirouettes,
yogic forays,
and taekwondo kicks
on the apt. faux hardwood floor; or
i am laid out in unmade bed
with a small boring hole 10 microns across,
drilling into my slurring skull -once removed-
it's lonely dome
grasped by two trusty amputated hands
of mine. my two floating seers roam free,
searching out a truer scene.
i mean, what im trying to say is:
the road
calls
me;
long languid abyss strip cruising
blurring lights through
spaceytime-ish. it's silly,
really, how i always
get ants inside my bones. home is not
a concept i know; nor wish to.
i have
resting glitch
syndrome.
new glyphs always are calling me,
like **** Sirens licking my every sense,
filling all my holes with fallen lily petals.
come
save me,
my poet.
ride me
into your
own. fix me into
your hip bones, protruding
toward it.
be
mine.
mover
too.
us
pushpulling
flux.
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 4:22 PM UTC
what to do.
where to go.
how to
get
there.
icy whitened teeth gleam earthy chartreuse canine slant glyph
is, really,
the only possession that
i have
on my person,
in my backpack.
---- well, err that, and
this flat slab of lit stone,
thought up by small gods,
and made by smaller people that live in
far far away binary lands that eat the sky
with rolling saturated ebony clouds,
which help smelt those inner beings of light,
and force them inside these tablets -
which I, then, use
to inscribe my
scream-of-conscience
wrought into thinky pixel arc
across the once blank page.
all is not well. sure. i get that.
but the visible spectrum
still bows forth colorings
in the hurt skies above,
over metro rush and mirth cursed.
but we still
can rewrite it.
this
is
why
i sit.
alone.
this monkish
quietude
i exist in:
living room consumed.
it's where, under a relatively nice high ceiling,
i do my
pirouettes,
yogic forays,
and taekwondo kicks
on the apt. faux hardwood floor; or
i am laid out in unmade bed
with a small boring hole 10 microns across,
drilling into my slurring skull -once removed-
it's lonely dome
grasped by two trusty amputated hands
of mine. my two floating seers roam free,
searching out a truer scene.
i mean, what im trying to say is:
the road
calls
me;
long languid abyss strip cruising
blurring lights through
spaceytime-ish. it's silly,
really, how i always
get ants inside my bones. home is not
a concept i know; nor wish to.
i have
resting glitch
syndrome.
new glyphs always are calling me,
like **** Sirens licking my every sense,
filling all my holes with fallen lily petals.
come
save me,
my poet.
ride me
into your
own. fix me into
your hip bones, protruding
toward it.
be
mine.
mover
too.
us
pushpulling
flux.
