the sweeping, disfigured noise
once a muddied succession of numbers (0101101, et cetera)

reconsidered

has long since made its home in a dream;
a blooming curlicue of letters (AECAAEGA, et cetera)

like the intimacy between pen pals.
like spinning plates.

My mind is a totalitarian regime.

I build up walls, paranoia, panopticon. (And to me, Denmark is a prison.)

Keep the voices, the evils of the world out.

An ideology, power, purpose,

Convinces me of the diseases, the deviants,

That risks an illusion to be shattered.

I am my own dictator, hail.

I control words—words are power—

I write my own narratives, make my own excuses,

Create heroines and gods to populate the prison walls. (He was a son of God—a phrase which, if it means anything, means just that—and he must be about his Father’s business, the service of a vast, ******, and meretricious beauty.)

I rewrite constellations, make them smaller,

Build babels, buying more time.  

I tell that amnesiac blackness: that it cannot hurt me; it can’t touch me.

Those labyrinthian libraries of sky charts and lovely flower dictionaries, rooms of polychromatic paintings, which I gathered with gayety as a child—I’m still a child—I haul into the fire,

Ignorant wretch.

We live a part of a global economy, where inclusivity and transparency criticize, perfect.

I can’t stand the critics, I cry, ******!,

Condemn them to death by a thousand cuts,

Slicing and dicing, I can hear their silent pleas,

They speak to me, You are loved, Let your family in, Please stop

Please please please stop please stop stop stop speak to please stop speak to me

Horrible hungry faces, they don’t cry as I peal skin from bone,

With shards I crush those voices, with glass, broken mirrors,

Me to speak stop please to speak stop stop stop please stop please please please  

Break down the walls,

why should you die before your time?
An open market is prone to crisis,

These newcomers, it only takes one to break your heart.

Things with merit are gems; scarcity creates value.

Enjoy the labour of love and life, it is a gift of God,

Dance under pixel skies, they **** pride, ****,

Open the floodgates, the dictatorship crumbles and crumples under the weight of these tired eyes

That see light rushing out from the cell window as visions and vicissitudes

A cry from the streets outside

The end is nigh, Night is coming!

One cannot sleep with starry skies in the eyes.

Stay awake, because the guards are coming,

Remember—you are to be tried for warcrimes, hail.

You and me, we can shuffle off this mortal coil, our self slaughter a mere trifle

In this ocean of failed realties, as man to cosmos.  (All I want is blackness. Blackness and silence.)

Cause this flesh to melt I beg,

Keep cutting, smaller pieces,

No, the sunrises, it’s ****** and orange,

Citrus, it burns in these wounds,

I feel pain, I feel, warm with this ambiance,

A jacket to prevent morning chill, breathing wisps,

I don’t want to leave, I don’t want to die,

I don’t I don’t now don’t don’t don’t no I don’t want to leave no leave me

Wait!—


(Feb 7 2016)

I keep forgetting to remember the things I've reminded myself to forget.
Pump my head full of helium and fill my body up with lead.
I got yelled at by the driver of a car that almost hit me today.
I said, "You'd be doing me a favor!" as I walked away.

I keep finishing at the start and beginning with the end.
Earlier tonight, I made an emo playlist for my favorite ****** friend.
If only we could pool our feelings together and then . . .
****, I forget.

All bills have been paid, and all the letters have been sent.
Somehow, we're still falling deeper into debt.
I poured my heart out to an apathetic page
and yet, we're only getting paid for what we'd rather forget.

I keep making sour faces at the sweetest scenes I see.
I've been waking up early just to get there late.
I'm having trouble doubting things I've never believed.
I keep getting angry at people I long ago forgave.
Will they ever forgive me?
Have they already?

I forget.