nihility, 2019

Posted on: Sunday, March 17th, 2019

“Tell me more about how you like to live. Tell me, tell me
About how you like to live DANGEROUSLY.”

HELLO!! I am Nihility personified, and I wake to some world entranced
with whatever sort of batshit Bathsheba shading this is; or if it’s some,
some fast-paced paste and go, so swoon and swoon into scooting,
and tailing for overdone stuff and over-sexed saviors I don’t know,
so much build up, then nothing– a sea of nothing then cowboys
and cowgirls from another world of nothingness–
it’s all just displaced replacement and a track that’s full of guilt
hightailing the nonpareil crossbow where my baby lay my heart;
my broken art, my broken compass, my dear, dear
burgundahlia of the past– she who inspires
such hit songs and singles mingles;

have formed a sort of non-moderate spite for my sour speculations;
and they sieve a sense of vitriol dramaturgy in the artifice; and I see
the taphonomy rising, slinking, purging back like a remedy and a trim–
I’m kind of in love with being sober, I’m kind of doing fine at letting
the stalagmites fall over; but, mostly, I do not like to brag, only counter
with the fierceness and finesse manners of the fifty-fifthy suns, they
hover, they hover; for I am kind of in love with my new-found sobriety
and clarity where you’d be thinking, thrashing like a leper in the corner;

“Tell me more about how you like to live. Tell me, tell me
About how you like to live PRECARIOUSLY.”

I’ll trade the world for you, you little asshole,
I’ll trade the world for you– you and your little asshole–
you and your messes and your guesses and your processes
which are overwhelming and undeserving, if that shakes any sense;
there they are, I guess– the things you chase, the things you stay for,
born under chambers of our most erotic dystopias;
but I find no point in harvesting pain in the summer–
pain and grain, pain in rain, pain in every pit stop and
motel rooms and truck stops and airport bathroom blowjobs;
I just found you visited the ropes and gropes and pulmonary timetables
and namesakes and rice terraces and cobblers and hendiadys, okonomiyaki
on your table, on your photos, on your tongue, on your feed for the feed;

“Tell me more about how you like to live. Tell me, tell me
About how you like to live WITHOUT ME.”

on standing down and staying down,
the caravan rocks, the caravan mocks,
and the vulcan dweller erupts, the typhoons in my thyroid
pussyfoot your autonomy with these privy wazzocks and their
underpriced coats coaxed with broaching la agita suffrage;
and I try all my most haggard bests to avoid being
backed and confused, but still haggling for some attention;
but still back on the holy venison, the murkied notoriety–

I just want a book and I’m good; I just want
one good look and I’m good; I just want
a movie that they say must be good for my mood;
I just want a good place that they won’t stop tweeting about;
I just want to see something; something that I shouldn’t,
something that I should; something that I could;
and good food, and lewd prudes, and scoots and scoots, and a scooter
and a sour and vacant scour and vacant mood; scoot and scoot and scoot;

if I could belay a day, I’d save that card to not display the execution that greedily awaits,
getting and keeping awake for me; paragons of pain, and disdain, and love and comfort,
paradigm shifts run reeking like a river;

there was never a cruel world who was into you, into this,
into the nimbly berth of your birth, all worlds just ruling out your skills.
and the fringe by the fridge, and a lack of friends, and the hue with which
burns like a satirical satyr’s ass; and the alabaster world is corrupt again…
the worlds make claims, and so you make claims
for these roaches and their declarations of fake fames
in games for days leading to nowhere
but grand abandonment, Bed Bath and Beyond The Grave;
dead flies and egg sandwiches made out of love and no love;

the smoky candle end of time declines;– and, it will be well to begin
with a little gossip about the Marches;– OM BHUR BHUVAH SWAHA;
baby, baby, baby–

“Tell me more about how you like to live. Tell me, tell me
About how you like to live OUTSIDE THE BEAUTIFUL
GLORY OF ENVY.” so envy me when you’re out of the bushes,

out of blushes; envy of the academics; envy of the circuit gays;
envy of the world-walkers and travelers and philantrophists;
envy of the do-gooders and those married to their chosen
forms of art, always so occupied with fame and money and heart;
envy of the spineled-fingers and chefs and complimentary people;
envy of the genetically-giften, the tall ones, the hot, short ones,
the celebrated, toasted-upon, non-ductile, barely-been-bruised
healthy people whose wealth points to un-revved friction, and mans
the enviable Coupe de Ville– drunk-driving with aim towards the sun;

envy to those who learned their dreams from a very young age and never gave it up
for temporary obtainments, and tags and tags– richest of richests, poorests of pours;
stumble onto the changes in the body; pancakes, regular pans, and pans with broccoli;
how awesome is nihilism? how awesome is your treatment
of your own nihility? (“Dangerously, that’s how we live.
Just dangerously, baby. Just dangerously. Just dangerously.)

nihility, 2019
pulsations, 2019
deteriorations on sunny Sabbaths, 2019

 
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