in imperfect totality
without great crash or din
reality becomes too real
the threads that bind your mouth together feel splitting at the seams
you want to scream
but the screaming begins in Shokstakovich and ends in as of yet unwritten bedlam
that breaks you
cochlea boiling with hallucination
alleluia, kyrie eleison
the story becomes non-linear
and you're scared of what comes next.. or before?
so cold i
burned my shirt..
it wasn't enough
to go back
and pretend nothing had happened.
i watched him die there
and it scared me.
i need myself a spot
to drink and bleed this sorrow away
for five or ten years.
blackest bile in his eyes
i remember the face of oblivion underneath the stars
how the luminosity of millions d'étoiles could not bring light once more to his eyes
but what rends me with terror, more than all else
is to know that the face of oblivion is not more than that of a man's.
tentative masks adorn aptly adult function
as we rise from metal-framed beds to the tumult of synthetic clock chime
that marks the dawn of the working day.
hands callous as i reach for my alarm,
i can't quite get at it.
oh yeah, i now remember:
i was fired yesterday
my mother stuffed five dollars into an empty fishbowl;
i knew the tooth fairy wasn't real.
i love those avian songsters;
the ones with lovely tufts of blue upon their little heads?
i wish i could befriend one, and that he would walk with me forever
and i would bury him in a cardboard and pykrete-fashioned frigate set ablaze upon the sea
when he died, of course
because all birds die.
courtyard cigarette smoking
i hate everyone here
except the old drunk
tracing my steps in the ward again
the paint chipping from the walls falls in familiar grace
a sick feeling.
my life is passing
i am going no-where...
how they're hurting people.
deprive a man of his freedom
with skilless elocution thus:
"it's for the best"
like a Stalin-era commissar
the indecorous americanery of them
with community college diplomas
are now the arbiter of one's fate
smugly trading corner couplets
with their severed gestures and immaculate tubes
trade me just a drop, À boire!
but you leave me too parched in endless cul-de-sac daydreams,
sweat reeking of substituted cathinones
because nothing else was there for me to wake up to.
because the poetry is the only way i can speak to you.
we are vile creatures virtued in disguise
restless and without anodyne
breathing fractals of orange lamplight cascade through the tree leaves to our bodies
performing their internecine death-duets.
outlander, recreant, païen!
basking in the simple profligacies of our living
fucking to insulate our sin from theirs,
from their inimical innuendoes
hiding away while love still burns in our innards and thighs
camber of your small breasts,
i'm eerily aware of your every breath,
at last, lust overflows into humid summer night.
i had a lucid dream last night
i flew and i fucked and it was better than living.
psych ward windows are tinted so you can't see through
what shit, they don't even let you look through a fucking window.