I’ve sewn together a thousand moments
of nothing (butifandorthis) Outis of
sorts and ends
depressed
enough to make your head swim
your wrist spit
to drown in your own thinking
grasp breath drench and saturate
obsequious regurgitation
prolix asphyxiation
words worlds whirled
LOGOS
spew forth and I choke on
what I can never get out
the
emptiness within
a
few
secondsleftoverstepsout line
of
curfews ensue
more or less and less is more
of the same (few cures for futures)
of late
a puddle reflecting and shallow
sole-stomped-n-splattered
I
Can not help but mis
s
the piece( is ) of me that mattered
less than the least of my worries
and the old black boot
with a hole
the one that is always waiting to.
.
.
drop.
I Am
still
here
hoping
inre
verse
It all fits the tailor-made addendum
but it doesn't the sedentary splendor
change the worn out agenda
of yet another loop of the clock
fomenting
a grand sutuREDness rending a
torque of tendencies
to ward off the
subversive inertia
of idle thoughts—cum—wishes
the edges of that
cloud grapple
with dissolution and
the shaping of my
own periphery sic
[i]magination
The interior storm
has come and gone
replaced by a wretchedly anxious calm
I then wonder if these
tempests are what is…
or just a fallway of mirrors
I pass through in a tumble
down some hole
feeling it’s too late to know
if I will ever be whole
Alas, another looking glass
I have been
cut up too
to see the half emptiness
of ours
in the hour glass
timetumbling down
the singularity of
How are we?
Relatively bleeding
Speaking of
self
shred-
ding dingbats-in-the-belfry
A f r a y e d address of questioning
covered with
s-t-i-t-c-h-e-s
in
this
fourth dimension
saves what? 9 lives? No rhyme--no reasoning
with me
…I guess
my wounds are dressed
but only it will tell
(What is real?)
(so obviously rhetorical)
it marches on
and it can’t be stopped
but it’s of the essence
and they say it will heal
All wounds
and I say when and how and isn’t now
all I have
to be?
wound up again I see...
And then be left
to the present
tense
out of it,
Up against it.
Who the **** knows?
said the Emperor I
(in third person disguise)
Wearing nothing
(He supposes)
Nothing
But being
but...
The scars
Uncovered
for the seeing
Being what scars are
Are they something...
Symbolic? Systemic? Sympathetic?
That makes seeing is believing
Real for me,
Or, for us all?
Is Being
Beingness
Or is it
Meaningless in a...life…
S
P
A
Not evolving as fast
As semiotics
Or sentient
Robotics
For the rest
Of us
To be
Sure that we are
Individual
Beings at all?
What?
Time’s up?
At least for the
Time being…
Nothing to worry about...
Aug 6, 2016
Aug 6, 2016 at 4:24 PM UTC
I’ve sewn together a thousand moments
of nothing (butifandorthis) Outis of
sorts and ends
depressed
enough to make your head swim
your wrist spit
to drown in your own thinking
grasp breath drench and saturate
obsequious regurgitation
prolix asphyxiation
words worlds whirled
LOGOS
spew forth and I choke on
what I can never get out
the
emptiness within
a
few
secondsleftoverstepsout line
of
curfews ensue
more or less and less is more
of the same (few cures for futures)
of late
a puddle reflecting and shallow
sole-stomped-n-splattered
I
Can not help but mis
s
the piece( is ) of me that mattered
less than the least of my worries
and the old black boot
with a hole
the one that is always waiting to.
.
.
drop.
I Am
still
here
hoping
inre
verse
It all fits the tailor-made addendum
but it doesn't the sedentary splendor
change the worn out agenda
of yet another loop of the clock
fomenting
a grand sutuREDness rending a
torque of tendencies
to ward off the
subversive inertia
of idle thoughts—cum—wishes
the edges of that
cloud grapple
with dissolution and
the shaping of my
own periphery sic
[i]magination
The interior storm
has come and gone
replaced by a wretchedly anxious calm
I then wonder if these
tempests are what is…
or just a fallway of mirrors
I pass through in a tumble
down some hole
feeling it’s too late to know
if I will ever be whole
Alas, another looking glass
I have been
cut up too
to see the half emptiness
of ours
in the hour glass
timetumbling down
the singularity of
How are we?
Relatively bleeding
Speaking of
self
shred-
ding dingbats-in-the-belfry
A f r a y e d address of questioning
covered with
s-t-i-t-c-h-e-s
in
this
fourth dimension
saves what? 9 lives? No rhyme--no reasoning
with me
…I guess
my wounds are dressed
but only it will tell
(What is real?)
(so obviously rhetorical)
it marches on
and it can’t be stopped
but it’s of the essence
and they say it will heal
All wounds
and I say when and how and isn’t now
all I have
to be?
wound up again I see...
And then be left
to the present
tense
out of it,
Up against it.
Who the **** knows?
said the Emperor I
(in third person disguise)
Wearing nothing
(He supposes)
Nothing
But being
but...
The scars
Uncovered
for the seeing
Being what scars are
Are they something...
Symbolic? Systemic? Sympathetic?
That makes seeing is believing
Real for me,
Or, for us all?
Is Being
Beingness
Or is it
Meaningless in a...life…
S
P
A
Not evolving as fast
As semiotics
Or sentient
Robotics
For the rest
Of us
To be
Sure that we are
Individual
Beings at all?
What?
Time’s up?
At least for the
Time being…
Nothing to worry about...
