That emblazoned tie looks good on you.
Should the wearer be so corrupt?
A photograph wetted by its library–
I’ve traced more books than in your background!
Does your soft white trigger like the forthcoming?
All secrets in this universe, could they bow?
How pow’rful, the stand-in locust swarm
Singing in his rain, tongued to his chain
I blame the men at work for motions fupped,
The sorcerer severed, gracious.
The masculine boat rock.
I am wooden as vessel, unsafe, unsalty,
Like watery trees, preoccupating,
A blindful forest where the grass go to die.
To where the end then lie?
He: cinematographic squid ink! Tabouli!
What an incorrect, inabsolute god!
I’m gonna scrap that conspiracy, put it in the battered box, and lock it at the back of my Seychelles-like bullhead where my surfeits go to never see the schmaltzy sunlight or the stretches of my face again.
Stability is such an evasive maiden.
Take me back two decades and eat my feelings with a spoon.
There’s so much to write about Love–
Love in all it’s brutality, Love in all it’s onanism.
The way my man baptizes me every icy night,
And I rise beautified,
Only to be dethroned again so I can later
Be seeded in again.
I know you think you can muscle your way into the heart of millions. I know you’re right.
But youth is temporary, and so seeks temporary attention.
You lace your signature with every station of the radio.
I tarnish the situation, simulation, I try and venture to
To elude into something new and you turn it about you.
Always sure without the harm of fifty roses’ ruin and ruminating,
Turning to a light ball, snow-globing, more balling, throttling…
Your tweets are the rocks that keep my body from floating.
You bring me down to clown with you.
I’ve bathed myself so unhealthily.
Uranium in my cereal. I binge your body on my body blue.
Pity, to have bruised such a fine connection,
But it was the right thing to do, the right thing to lose.
Maybe we should get a chance to choose our gores and glories.
Maybe we all should be insane and inane, too.
Park in allegory.
Walk the crypt– Out! Sprint, if need be.
Leave your shiny, ugly automobile behind.
It matters little. Matters not. Only you may matter to me!
Inventory and control, repetitive like a gull– Forgiveness
Is such a rare commodity when it’s time to ready for a war.
Had it been cheap, we would always be painted with
All these mouths and arms furnishing the bedroom, upchucked.
Love has been axed by the cancelation bear! Tear! Tear
The towering trivialities, our contingency plans– they bleed opposed to what we only understand
And I, on the other hand, only want everything to be about me, a map of steering selfishness where all gets lost,
Grief is a piece of moonlight escaping through a funnel.
One cannot negate it– not from under a lake, nor deep within a tunnel,
Not from the broad thighs of my town nor the arms of your other outer space.
I sing to it at the bath tub. I rise with it to make my head not clear.
But it speaks the truth which my heart doth sing,
And tears like a tiki bar where all drunkards hath been.
Justice to the drunkards. Justice to those who party.
They have melded themselves with the world’s richest vices to know themselves in evil and in saintly,
And will exist better later because of it, in spite of it.
Because of it…
I am appalled by the level of inauthenticity and insensitivity displayed by my fellow kababayans,
Much as we have been tuned to dismay at sophistication.
Diminishing others is such a parlor trick pantomime of mine, and I line it so effortlessly cool like coke that I am now some 41st-century Caligula cunnilingus, the labyrinth in absinthe and sinning.
“I am so happy you’re grieving, too,” is the best line I’ve written today. Yes. I am very happy you’re grieving.
I spoke to three men I’ve had relations with and it amazes me
How none of them kills me like you do.
Not one of them, not all of them combined.
O’, how greatly have you become the Master of escalating and updating
The tenors of my heart– fine art fashion, fatass finesse arc!
The problem is your radical attempts to awareness.
I go out to the balcony to not breathe with the newly formed rain
And choke at such the breath of calm productivity after the listlessness of the summer days’ proclivities. I endure. I endure,
Payola, you didn’t– payola, you do!
De hemelvaart van de niet-zo-maagdelijke Lucille Le Fey!
De afdaling van de paaldansen Kei!
Some times you squat me– some times you move!
Maybe Love really changes a man.
But I am heading towards the long journey of not seeking to it–
The fractured memory,
The earthworms colluding at the back of my mind, back of my blackened lungs.
My world results to it, as the market turn its back, arguing, demanding, compensating, losing its edges,
Losing our luck. I give you now so little fucks.
The cruelty of a professional critic is called for, so called upon.
We depend on it as creatures of multiple senses and a billion desires.
I find the armpits of their houses harrowing,
So much gratis pain have been honed from and boned from me.
So much curation, a robust grace! A recidivist disease, so often lost, so often laced!
I found them– the thin markers, here and there, prim and improper.
Listening to Hozier’s Work Song and Better Love just made my soul ascend.
There is no going down from here. Good bye, earthly waves of woodland wastes.
Andrew has taken me. Andrew’s taking
So many more.
I wished so many nights to snake my hands around your hips, waist, this way,
You, love of my life, soul I most desire…
We are, in ways, all sorts of obscene,
All sorts of violence and melancholy, and behindhand exigency.
Two more weeks until the cruelest day. Two more dips.
Two more leaps.
The brouhaha of the bruha,
The bleeding, the mastery of it,
The excruciating willingness of joy from toys and all the other
I saw how so many have poured themselves over the overweighing of prices,
And the gas being sold like diamonds now,
Corned beef, veal, the marina like gold,
The absolution, the absurd with their absurdity absolved,
The cannon ball and the finite markings being laid into commercialist rest and,
Used to be just a lonely, confused little Poet with a remedy
In my one bedroom apartment where the walls are so thin.
They used to try and stop me
From laughing all sorts of loud laughs,
From crying at the pace I need’d.
Now I’m less alone, and all sorts of less confused,
Celebrated by a welcoming city and all its shutdown libraries,
I shut them down while being operated on,
Because we liked
Tearing the already dead.
They guessed so I guessed, too…
I lied and I rely
So heavily on you.
I found an abandoned shrine that smelled more like piss.
A hundred, maybe more, strangers have deserted the decapitated shrine where the stone monk laid.
“He dreams more than he does,” I cringed
At the burrow, squarely and squirrel-like,
Where the grass dead laugh and divide,
Immune to the world’s weight
And folly like shimmering thin, light carcass.
Brief moments of certainty thunder like the bathymetric.
I found a thing of beauty that the world’s youth
Had wallpapered their faces with,
Fading sketches, fading folly– I have crossed the forever line.
It is the voyage of the voiceless, the sorrow of the resenting
Voltage, finishing. Orilla del mar ergometer, and
Booty tastes like mignonette.
Why do I get the feeling that I live in a small world where it is cooler to hate?
To admire is a cascading fraught. It is bitter and endless and escapingly blunt.
To Love is to overwork.
But it is worth the time I put it without knowing what to expect.
Still, as the rainy days start gouging the eyes of the road, I resign,
A defeatist wanting to know an asphalt home.
He’s emotionally absent and I’m fiscally irresponsible.
Our relationship is building a dynamite.
And will I ever own him alone?
I have been keelhauled by the uselessness of situations, like a wicker basket Montessori-moneyed with turnips.
Finding the meaning of life is an honest-to-god waste of time
For better minds have failed and tried.
But can we really resist this graveless allure, this dance in hind?
Pretty prayers from the precipice.
Pretty prayers for the people who choose to ignore the body.
They sure have a knack for dreaming–
The absent, delicate men and women who burst with ambition
And lack of follow-through.
(I admire their inventiveness, their ability to come up, every single day, rinsing, rising
With a new excuse.)
I don’t want to lose the ability to bother and be bothered with.
It is a good skill– being confident with the unknown,
For if I only resolve into the resulting tragedies and fast talks,
Then I can never truly in ruly evolve.
I look forward to fermenting with it–
The agony of so little change.
He was incapable of starving, therefore, was miserable.
Healthy little sound-alike twig, never learning, so overcompensates.
I used to think that daybreak had always been the end game to all these monstrous nights–
Starry, to humid, to blank and vitally viral,
To calculatingly borrowing, placid and flaccid, and modalized.
And maybe the old boys still do. I still have half a pack of Marlboro Blues to keep me company.
If I could do nothing for five hours, I could wait for a few.
There’s a sort of finality to you today, and I’m not into it.
I like you bleeding like a newborn,
Wrestling with aged territories,
And eyes bloodied, and red with lead.
The Overreacher, my Lord, The Overreacher