body remains a scripture or an elixir?
my sins will deliver aroma in a mixture.
euphoria of the of the miracle comes from more than one ******.
see her in the air, here's her love now choke on it.
trashed vows, you married an astronaut
i cant breathe, snort more moon rock
So journey with me without recluse.

we erupted without fear, choices would take us there,
problems once again become magnetic
work her body and stretch em like calisthenics.
her weapon was every section of her body that came without electric
intercepting our tongues and pinching off depression.
pixels, links and interception will only drown our spirit
when you smell fear,
positively you'll hear it.
her cortex remains a vortex
tangibility in our whispers
*** in our champagne,
tears in our calypso.
no poem should ever,
be written in blisters.

A girl has bright eyes, smooth thighs and a perky disguise.
She's been shy and never made much of a try but no word of a lie she loved a man long before she was of age to die.

A girl had long hair with tints of blue.
She wore a dress a man couldn't nearly see through but a man needed no clue as to what lay under the zip he desired so badly to undo.

A man was nothing special.
He in no way had it all.
Dark hair and he stood six feet tall but when it came to a girl he would repeatedly stall.
Never sure what to say should he pluck up the courage and call.

A girl knew she was under the view of a man.
It wasn't entirely new but this strange sensation grew as if she just now felt it too.
Not sure what to do when a man leaned in she withdrew.

A girl began to cry upon the sight of his failed try.
In the midst of confusion a solution arrived when she spied the edge of a knife and a vein which so diligently pumped her life.

A man kissed a girl in a Christmas ball, drunk as high hell and stumbling though he didn't fall.
She whispered "I love you too" only half way through removing her shoe when a man lifted her against the wall, too eager to merely watch the remainder of the clothing removal.

A girl was surprised by a man's advance.
She often scried a  future in which a knot had been tied.
A man treated her as a precious doll, protecting her from the demon's who'd call.
A girl enjoyed this time and began to find she could unwind, however, the knife and a vision of a man's advance kept clinging to her mind.

Only a few weeks later a man lies with a girl.
A girl begins to cry.
A man apologises.
A man and a girl remain together.
A man loves a girl.
A girl loves a man.
And a girl is suicidally sad.

you're scared. you're scared of a lot of things. you're scared of people seeing through you. "oh my god, you're gay?" you're scared of going to sleep and waking up to the news that your sick mother took her last breath while you were having nightmares about her dying. that's funny. having nightmares and waking up to the exact same nightmare coming true. you're also scared of falling out of love. but you're not scared of your lover leaving you, no, because pain, that you're accustomed to, but guilt? not really.

you're scared. you're scared of running out of time. everywhere you look, people are doing better than you. they have scholarships, they're going places. you're still here, and you're scared that you'll always be here. what would they say when they get back? "poor fellow can't afford further education. how do you get a job?"

you're scared. your hands are shaking. people are trying hard to be your friend, but you know you can't be a good one. you've lost a couple of them. you say the wrong things once in a while but as far as you're concerned, once in a while is enough. boom. disaster. everything which comes out of your mouth is like a ticking bomb, waiting for someone to find a fault in it and figure out that you're not actually as nice as you pretend to be.

you're scared. you feel like you're keeping secrets, but you can't seem to entangle your own thoughts to know what they are. you feel anxious around people you see as being far superior than you are, so you end up hating them. you also feel anxious around people you can see yourself in, so you end up hating them too. they sit next to you at a table and your heart beats fast, your palms turn sweaty, you just want to get out of here. why do you not like these people? is it because they're different from you? is it because you want to be them?

you're scared. you're scared of revealing your sins, of being burned at the stake, or in terms of the 21st century, shunned by the society. you're scared of looking at the rorshach ink blot. you're scared of describing what you see to your psychiatrist. you imagine your psychiatrist thinking, '*******, this patient is ****** up.' you imagine avoiding eye contact with everyone in your pool of contacts, and you're afraid that pool might slowly **** your family in too. you're not diagnosed with anxiety, but you might as well be.

Aye, they'll be no wars here
Russian Sci Fi full neo-hero trope
post the untangling of tongues in 2019
We got us a 'ero, sh

it's bueno, like okeh
A. I. imagined
"Better Than Us"
paquin paquin 'skool

global mind making us see us

Bable was a long long time
whole wide world now speakeasy one tongue un
tangled
from
the root of all evil

virtual free speech is like free thinking

Bravo Holmes Noshit Sherlock

Ruskie TV on Netflix, this is a brave
new world

how much green screen clueing do we need

how real can you imagine
this source
being
in A/I termsa All In Art-effectual Inteleosity

Eh, wanna play
the long game? Snak-ish sistere quest on a point

is the whole world chromakeyed to black?
CMYK reality
2-d
3
4 and we know there
is more

life is com
plixitified in timespace with sinkholes

from russian lit gone t' seed
in the days of geek gods in realms of emoting

demoting weight of adrenalin on a globalscale,
umphing
the dmt, just to see men dance.
  try it, its in you, you think dreams

you know you do
think
dreams, hard wireless ness courage
daring

to ignore the backstory and take the hero as
the hearer of the

angels, the forder of the hermetical stream
flowin' tween yen
and yanked

into reality with a pull
that broke the skin, an orange picker memory
eh?
would you know the rod of an almond tree,
if one budded in your mind,

lockt in the box of the coven
entitlement to the
kingdom, after
kings mean
dung and reality tv is indistinguishible,

can you hear Turings's gay chuckle,
how about…

now.
Folk Art, the ruskie actor says, winks and
pirouettes into

a spiral-ation action,
slipping in rorshach assumptions...

beacuss, be a cause
we can,
its
bits and digits all the way down,
the turtles were

never holding up progress.
They could have been repurposed in future myths,

as mutants emerged from sewage,
wait
...
who imagined that,
for real?

Your children must know the truth,
who will tell them if you can't lie?

That is an A, an alpha idea.
Can you think it? But is a Beta,

but beta is always better, eh?

Everybody knows, we sneeze in threes.

Charlie was the enemy, C. Company
Rhose to the occasion

how long ye simple ones
choose ye simplicity?
asif
complexity
this odd is
simple as pi wrapped in
Hopf-fibrations you twist in your soul,

There's the question? A/I (Arisa in this Netflix
re-run of "Better Than Us")
arisen
from,
queried through by
every
whether person's vacillating
on the
width of the eye of the storm
in the  elex-elite
distrix,
as co-related with the
degradation of the
Great Red Spot.
---

Episode seven or so
the russians call coaches coach.

Hey, I call coaches coach,
even ones I never knew. WHO knew ruskies do to,
s'bueno,

Hard to hate a team player, with coach
respect dripping, dark stains on the green screen

where what shapes the future
reality is

visible, If I squint....
Those can't be, can they?...
Potemkin villas,
filmed in 2016, to run in Amerika
now, leading upt to interupt the
intentional animosity
with frivolity in
the 2020 build up of crudescence.

We have seen the enemy and he is we
envisioning good A.I. Art-effectual Inteleos,

as well as Pogo Possum did, Earth Day One,
1970, nigh half a century passed away as
funny papers faded into

the medium of memory -- look around--
loved ones ain't in the funny papers, like regular, back
when ink ruled the imagination involved in
judging
how Tibet was depicted... in our mind's
hearing ears and seeing eyes

shhh,
how about…
can you hear Turings's gay chuckle,

now. It's the test.

pile of blankets--vaguely human shaped bed lump
white curtains, snake skin bundle
crepuscular lit window opposed wall
cranky cellphone sounds
slither-hand. blind pat.
that old song and dance.
11:17 am
self medicated coma
consciousness  comes too soon
post alcohol lubricated dry throat
dryer tumbled bones
dehydrated nectarine shrunken head ache
body floats to surface
ice on road out of control alligator death spinning head
body floating too fast car crash at bed foot
hand eye coordinates aim for dresser
slow foot movement high speed camera precision-every frame counts
reflective closet door shows thick skull and hollow skin, too translucent for comfort. blue veins battling to breathe
squemish rattling breath shuts up
let the stomach talk.
blurted burps stomach acid cacaphony
rorshach stained carpet matches drapes
depression is a thick milkshake

i like how the clouds come down, pick up my spit, then leave. are they hiring? every time i fail, i draw a chicken with a mini mindflayer crawling under its naked skin. some day they might look convincing enough to be seized by the authorities. a kid got the best of me when i was five trading cards for the real deal. don’t stop smelling the cheese, i said to the maze rat.

i like how the competition keeps me on my toes. are they tiring? every time i fail, i pick a name from a hat and mentally execute all those people. some day they might be convinced to drop dead. a bird got the best of me when the birch called us the real deal. the walls aren’t closing in, i said to the maze rat.

i like how my rorshach lungs are little Kara Walker demons in dresses silhouetted when they turn the x-rays upside down. am i expiring? every time i fail, i inhale, bring it in, until i feel wing-clipped and start coughing tar snot. hive mind got the best of me, the rules of engaging reality come with a coronary deal. the little beats are meaning something, i said to the maze rat.

i like how i have two temples, and each one gets a special drill bit from my spirit. am i unwiring? every time i fail, there’s a countdown that starts and drops to absolutely nothing then leaves. knowing got the best of me, a cinematic coronation for the mediocre is the reel deal. they never stop watching, i said to the maze rat.

i like how the am-i questions get the best of me in a real deal, i said to the maze rat

A moth
        Rorshach
A rat head
        drooping
        seeping
        on
        a
      ­  spit
*******
        sliding off
        a bedpost
A T
A cross
        a convenience store
        back-lit display
        dissolving two-dimensional
        Charlie Brown
feed your dog
Misty
        shaking, dry-ice
        eyes
Find the bed and
        Close and rest on
        pillow lips
Slick black
        gossamer shell
                plastic
Red light
        warning—bleeding—beating
        always on
        always seeing
        always waiting
        But
what do I see?
        Glimpses
        manipulated mutated
I see nothing next
        to nothing.

                **** mirror.

IV. dawning at the sanctum

We were arms and legs,
ruffled pillows and
twisted blankets
bare writhing bodies
reflected in a warped carnival mirror
glowing embers of a fallen star
Your strokes
tentative and wavering
in an unsteady tremolo

find me where the shy dawn
dare caress the black crystal waters
that sparkled so green
amidst cold oceans of metaphor
and warm, streaky peach jam skies

gift me, make me, break me, grant me
may i find nourishment and sustenance
in suckling the dripping honey
from your velvet rose-tinted lips
slake Your thirst
sate Your hunger
drink from these fountains
and eat from these briars
revel in my sanctum
but let no blessed water
pass my parched lips

i will etch soliloquies into the nape of your neck
i, the calligrapher, you my masterpiece
monet's soleil levant and water lilies
botticelli's map of hell and rorshach blots
i will find god in your twinkling sepia eyes
and repose in the contours of your body
chiseled with conviction bold
i will trace lines traced long ago
and discover you anew
lilting auroras behind these tired eyelids
sweet aubades of clotted maple cream
embroidered into the
buttery cashmere shearling
of Your lush being
knotted, blistering lilac and rose
in this churning ****** sea
of flames and sculpted ice

bold sensual soft
caress but never kiss
it's five a.m.
and i still can't sleep
we're out of time
there's no stopping what's to come
but the taste of jasmine white tea
still lingers on my tongue
i'm still shouting to the void
and playing piano in the brazen dark

More *******

While covering tracks
written on monkeys backs
falling into quiescent wells of black
tranquil lakes of ink blot
(Rorshach commemorative  untitled selections)  
discovered accidentally uncovered
A light beyond the precipice of night
Between the horn on the left
and the horn on the right.

All's well behind the wall of time
beyond these simple symantic assimilations
Yet the spirits due to run it's course
Revolution upon revolution
until the spirits desire is filled
and man succumbs to the other will.

There’s Batman, Superman;
a herd of Deadpools, Rorshach.
There’s a Borg, Darth Vader.
There’s Master Chief, a little sister, and Ryu.
There’s a ******* clad big breasted anime character I know nothing about
but would be open to learning.
From every universe, there are characters galore.
This is not Halloween, though.
A wonderland saturated in smiles and so much joy and cheer.
Yet, it’s not Christmas; but it is indeed a holiday—
a celebration of all things geeky.
The almighty comic book convention.

A sea of fans flood the floors,
locusts ready to devour every morsel of entertainment.
Everyone from casual readers
to those with a superhuman ability to retain every panel,
every iota of detail about their favorite hero universe.
There’s little boys and adults alike dressed as their hero;
the fan who wanted to join the Empire so badly
that he jumped out of his Death Star sheets and spent the last 8 months
painstakingly recreating storm trooper armor.
There’s women who like to dye their hair, cram cleavage into tight vinyl
and wield a sword so comic book geeks can drool over a fantasy.
You can find the rare print comic you’ve been scouring eBay for–
like Amazing Fantasy #15 that first features Spider-Man.
You can thank your favorite writer for issue number 29,
page 7, panel 3 because it changed your life.
You can shake the hand of the man that drew
the ***** belonging to your first crush;
catch the first preview of your favorite character
moving from small page to big screen.
Booth after booth after booth is a yet another world to get lost in.
At 4 o'clock is a meet and greet
with the actors from your favorite show based off a comic
Forget mouse ears and kiddie rides-
this is like ***, maybe better.
This is where dreams come true.

I came in costume, myself.
Before I left the house, I paced tracks into the carpet.
back and forth, back and forth in front of the mirror.
My hair needs to be perfect,
My smile perfect,
My clothes perfect.
Everything about my appearance needs to be perfect
The convention is the chance to be a work of art,
a way to be the most super of heroes, the most vile of villains,
or the most obscure.
A chance to be someone
you’re not but wish every day you could be.

It’s like I’m the invisible man,
no one recognizes this costume.
But I did this for me.
Today I get to be different.
Today I dressed up as someone you’ll never let me be.
I cosplayed as your lover.

Back then they were no
angels

just Rorshach blots
in the snow

wingless
sometimes headless

never more than just an abstract
musing

coming going
in cold

sunlight
with a stiff wind

Whit Howland © 2020