"capacitate" poems
i do struggle to not make your tongue sour with this periodic harassment & dissonant conceit but i am compelled at last by the scarcity of savages who can see me in this desert. less feral & more clergy, the fabled selves of the world would be sanctuaried from my psychiatric violence. well attired passions always smell of fear & derision, further, & no less vile, arrogance & stupidity are known to capacitate spasmodic unceremonious coquetry. yes my mouth is a scavenger’s, but privation & dissatisfaction by design turn coat on the very messianic puppetry which their compulsory public refusal
had initially engendered. welcoming calamity i prey & arrow from afar & go on proving my self wrong in one last alexandrian charge to certify my renowned demise. no tricks or perversions barring what’s customary amongst outlaw noblesse. oh & do regard this new color on my face, & if you would, please, stop turning yours away from mine.
Jul 6, 2017
Jul 6, 2017 at 8:35 PM UTC
The misfortunate will have their revenge in the first world,
until the hammer of money is toppled and unforced,
and the overlabouring encounters empathy,
until "freedom rings" over every hill and mountain in the third section of the globe and finally
the mind of avoidance in the nature of reality outcries the devil in revelation,
until then will this retribution be forethoughted.
Will you then— my pale brother listen to the voiceless?
Would you ask and then act? Give reason to the repress?
Would you feed
and clothe
and would bathe and still loathe? And would you continue to **** me?
Would you follow the way of inferior, preposterous, unintellectual, usurious, for the sake of an elusive triumphant state?
Would you continue wearing your boots and feasting on tea,
and remembering the wars and like a hawk hunting your senseless view on humanity?
If you are my God's creation, then who am I to you?
Allow me then to say to you, that your void is to be filled with the infinite and the sublime,
and that not the earthly and mankind.
That your constitution may be molded to your heart and not you to the constitution.
And that you always capacitate yourself of feelings deeply of any injustice committed against anyone, anywhere in the world.
Because of this last one, is the most beautiful
of the internal independence, revolution, and love immutable.
Nov 16, 2015
Nov 16, 2015 at 7:22 PM UTC
I still walk past bridges and imagine us jumping off of them
Maybe it would feel the same when we hit the bottom
As it does when we speak to each other.
Do you know what it feels like to watch the walls of your house collapse onto your shoulder blades?
I used to love to watch you skip over the puddles trying not to wet your feet
It was the same way you held your hands out of the car window on the freeway
Flying, so fast.
You told me " i dont care what anyone thinks "
but the truth is-
i hate the way you hold your breath before you laugh at my jokes
like you're about to blow out a candle but you're just not quite sure you want to watch the flame go out
I hate when your eyes disappear into the ceiling of your bedroom -
the same place your dreams go every night
as they flash and turn into lightning bolts of images of who you used to be
In them are your screams
They are the sounds of your alarm clock before you hit the snooze
You told me you were happy
if happy is a place where babies cry and bees go hungry because flowers are dead.
and thorns capacitate roses, weeds overgrow petals, and dogs bark endlessly into the night.
starving and cold.
the way you look at yourself is the way I look at you too
shivering and crooked like a bad park job
I imagine your promises like a sealed letter without a stamp to the wrong address on a Sunday morning
your voice makes me violently scratch at the roots of my follicles and fight with myself over whether to submerge my head into the beads of the water or to just finish conditioning my hair
your laugh burns. it echos through lobbies like elevators waiting to be pushed and children waiting for the waving hand of their mother to slowly dissipate and dissolve down the winding road
I remember the sound of eggshells crackling underneath my feet walking through my living room
Wishing that the panels on the doors and the fibers in the carpet could speak to me, or Ask me how my day was
You became the fibers in my carpet sewing my pieces together holding my lungs in place filling them with oxygen
And then slowly just letting them burst.
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 3:53 AM UTC