"atomisation" poems
*you know how many times i watched feline ballerina nimble limbs make licking your *** an ease acceptable? the same number i wished was your **** rather than a prostitute's: after all, who wants to walk down an alleyway with flat-tire bicycles calling it a village? when the furthest you can travel is a mile away from freedom provided by the solidarity movement bicycle pamphlet distributors.*
i guess a poem was here
well behaved by new england standards'
for publication
with missing perfect punctuation
but lacerated vocabulary,
or perhaps the reverse versus.
p.s. what ****** off darwinists is the crow
uniformity, the way they can't be ****
moloch steady, cruel to be kind,
kind to be cruel, the way the parasites
of visible for are excluded and atomisation
of parasites has bred
darwinism's loathing is pepper topped off with salt,
i too have no heart like that,
but the perfect crow is a cul de sac of darwinism
when man cannot perfect such natural cruelty,
he selects his cruelty: hangs the mobile man
salvages the disabled man, who needs a carer...
the former a career,
so they took a **** on the **** **** turned themselves
on what the gemini said would arrive:
a kind of selfishness that was what was to be
pacified by warring factions, and the inability to
impregnate the safety of impregnable girls
who had no need for freezing ovaries to keep both
house and career, reproduction and husband.
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 7:18 PM UTC
i am—i fear my continued being;
solitude trapped like my reflection;
half self-made into a slave, enabling:
the other half to be coerced freely
like the pig in its dear muck wallowing,
my semblances calling themselves happy.
in person sober always concealing:
depression has been my master since
the first memory worth remembering.
and we laugh of how life is a cinch
amid vital eyes where every smile
is beautiful—unwelcome: struggle, bile.
we, in politics still non-existent
as the spectacle explodes on our backs,
our atomisation as consistent
as series, as the urgency that lacks,
as our enemy's secret attacks that
give us illusions to keep us content
and indignant and passive and apart:
before apocalypse, and our masters.
every superficial wound or scar:
a signifier of something deeper,
a structure probably still gushing blood;
a symptom of unequal heritage.
i am a slave severed from history,
from forgotten strength of my fore-mothers,
from ignored conquests of my fore-fathers,
from my foreign birth-place and mystery,
grown comfortable in my tailored chains
and ideologies without ideas.
i groan through narcotic smoke for vistas
clear as the love i know is in your heart,
for shared stories of logical revolts,
for redemption of past revolutions,
for real collapse of tyrannical abstractions,
for my masters to fear my continued being—
for passionate thought, to be subject with you,
our loyalty fused, our direction true.
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 8:40 AM UTC