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#repugnance
And I did it once again. Skin picked and shaven, Cakey frosted ivory, Faceless, nameless, Plasticity contusion. Littered in the detailed fractures of a swelling stem, Those skeletal twigs of intangible incestual wings, splintered in stacks underneath his bed. Apocalyptic comfort found in the veins of what remains... Pineal shame, Puny white me, Post-karmic, futuristic-retrospective cosmic plan, slowly creeps towards me and offers its long inflaming hand. Cricket twitch, echoes in the distant introspective glitch of my momentary intuition. A bitter drip on tongue descends, Tunneled in an unwanted exploration. That sour pitched cacophony uncomfortably sung, Through the ghastly cold touch of a righteous cockroached thumb. Repugnance, Spreading the stain of an untouched soul, Quicksand, morphing me into dust. Devouring the white and into the red I rust.
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Nov 24, 2016
Nov 24, 2016 at 1:40 PM UTC
hannah-mariotti
Repugnance
And I did it once again. Skin picked and shaven, Cakey frosted ivory, Faceless, nameless, Plasticity contusion. Littered in the detailed fractures of a swelling stem, Those skeletal twigs of intangible incestual wings, splintered in stacks underneath his bed. Apocalyptic comfort found in the veins of what remains... Pineal shame, Puny white me, Post-karmic, futuristic-retrospective cosmic plan, slowly creeps towards me and offers its long inflaming hand. Cricket twitch, echoes in the distant introspective glitch of my momentary intuition. A bitter drip on tongue descends, Tunneled in an unwanted exploration. That sour pitched cacophony uncomfortably sung, Through the ghastly cold touch of a righteous cockroached thumb. Repugnance, Spreading the stain of an untouched soul, Quicksand, morphing me into dust. Devouring the white and into the red I rust.
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21
I have a confession to make, I said. I drink to forget all That my failings and foibles beget. Sobriety Sends me to most fitful sleep. No rest for he who in his unwaking hours Mulls over the wine of his life, which he sours With his own cork of guilt and self-conscience. All mine self-confidence Derives from Contradictions repressing. Catatonic sleep of great notoriety Is my limbo, my heaven, perchance my sick death. The Removal of a blot on the face of this land should solicit, I fear, cornet Mouthed angels to sound clarion of victory. If I was religious I should become a flagellant invigilate most excellent Flayed as the poacher would the pheasant. And the landowner would the poacher. Silence from both. I take a drought from my drink, she a small sip. She looks at me and I look a way. Do you want me to pay for this? She asks. Just the tip Quoth I. Another drought and a sip. Another. I break down. I have nothing to believe in, To believe in foul dogma to wash my soul of sin I find repugnant. Belief in Progress and people and The wonder of Nature is akin to praying to the inconstant sand Castle made by the hand of a passing child. Belief in my girlfriend! More my love’s greatest failure To grant her the care and affection she deserves Due to my sand castle of pride in which I do serve. And thus do I say, to purge all my lust There’s only one way, in Self-disgust I trust.
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Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 4:42 PM UTC
guy-braddock
XI. In Self-disgust I trust
I have a confession to make, I said. I drink to forget all That my failings and foibles beget. Sobriety Sends me to most fitful sleep. No rest for he who in his unwaking hours Mulls over the wine of his life, which he sours With his own cork of guilt and self-conscience. All mine self-confidence Derives from Contradictions repressing. Catatonic sleep of great notoriety Is my limbo, my heaven, perchance my sick death. The Removal of a blot on the face of this land should solicit, I fear, cornet Mouthed angels to sound clarion of victory. If I was religious I should become a flagellant invigilate most excellent Flayed as the poacher would the pheasant. And the landowner would the poacher. Silence from both. I take a drought from my drink, she a small sip. She looks at me and I look a way. Do you want me to pay for this? She asks. Just the tip Quoth I. Another drought and a sip. Another. I break down. I have nothing to believe in, To believe in foul dogma to wash my soul of sin I find repugnant. Belief in Progress and people and The wonder of Nature is akin to praying to the inconstant sand Castle made by the hand of a passing child. Belief in my girlfriend! More my love’s greatest failure To grant her the care and affection she deserves Due to my sand castle of pride in which I do serve. And thus do I say, to purge all my lust There’s only one way, in Self-disgust I trust.
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