retching, roiling
writhing in the empty pit
of fading flutters
where his words were kept
heaving up wings and
kaleidoscope colors
as if the butterflies
which lived there
have died suddenly
dead birds don’t sing.
it is an art
the ability to disappear
in front of their eyes,
to magic away anything
which means something,
to empty at will
and remain vacant
that you may echo
their performance
without spoiling the
illusion.
saturnalia.
with her deep, red eye
soft and heaving
swinging, swaying
rings to count the men
the meals
the miles
rotating in pendulum
on a fleshy axis
cumbersome in mind
and body
rippling, writhing,
as they recoil
from her gravity.
nothing humane in humanity.
Nothing is altruistic. Nothing is dignified. Only self-preservation is sacred. We are pathetic, we are sloppy, dismal, repulsive parasites crawling in and out of each others’ lives leaving trails of slime and filth and heartache on whomever we touch, leaving insults and contempt wherever we go. We flop around like foul fish on one another’s bodies dropping beads of sweat and revolt on hungry faces and no one is ever satisfied. No taste or touch is love. Each movement is purely depraved instinct. Every drink, every clink of glasses is a contract, a consummation of who shall devour whom in a gluttonous, greedy attempt to eat or be eaten. Each kiss is an attempt to consume another being to aide in digestion of our own self-pity and acidic words and bitter disappointments of the past. We leave every plate empty, licked-clean, before piling onto another like flies on rotten meat. We lay our eggs of inadequacy there and overcome so-called human spirit by deplorable mutiny, infiltrating from within beginning with one’s heart. Tearing the flesh from inside out, we remove each others’ souls with our teeth, fingertips and false sentiments before moving in on another and another and another to ease our own pain and lamentable self-loathing. We cling to other beings, pulling them under to save ourselves. We writhe on top of them, smearing them with sorrows and tainting them with our shortcomings while filling them up with empty promises, selfish needs and our own clumsy, carnal atonements. And when we’re done and they’re dripping with our own worthlessness, we’re disgusted. We’re disgusted with the salty, used up, disdainful shell of a being we’ve drained dry and left hollow and lifeless. No one wants to fuck a carcass.
bootstrap paradox.
this fragile thing
made of glass
carried on high
by an effete Atlas
is both a catalyst
and a consequence
of isolated incidents
when extrapolated
and amassed
reflect the fractures
of his past.
“Ego, in and of itself, is a contradiction. It is both delicate and very heavy.”
Bootstrap Paradox: A causal loop in the context of time travel or the causal structure of spacetime, is a sequence of events in which an event is among the causes of another event, which in turn is among the causes of the first-mentioned event.
gladiator.
ancient wars ache within my arches
do not fight me, I am no gladiator
but the Colosseum
elliptical echoes of a fading façade
hold these human ruins as I crumble.
45 feet.
warm in its stillness
a neverending summer eve
with the heaviness of a Sunday
from 3 storeys up
suspended in reprieve
with the company of melancholy
to the edge of forgiveness
with the weight of potential
only 45 feet
dripping paragraphs.
Would listen to you
say my name
as evening fades
to light of day
in every which position
coaxing shudders
where your words have been
as the syllables
roll off your lips
trailing letters on my hips
licking consonants
moaning vowels
dripping paragraphs
from towels
while your tongue
beckons heat
shout me, sigh me
learn my name
between your sheets.
out.
smoke her out
huff and puff
come out
come out
little ‘fraidy cottontail
in her snuggly wuggly
hidey hole
wheezing
seeping
not by the hairs
on her whiskers weeping
ashen ears
sooty snout
wherever you are
lights out
lights out.
