Babel

Posted on: Monday, March 23rd, 2020

The idea is to oppose your masters, not because of the idea of being an opposition alone, but because of knowing what could be bettered.

I. Babel

Floating with the common asterisks, risking the future by ignoring those who dove into avant-pop and the grin and gripe. The murder descended upon her holy lid. Their beaks as dirty as the ground above… Ten granular years to turn myself into something that appeases a palette. Bodied and doling, painfully unrevisitable… Come! Come, and coddle your heroes! In the place that knows no drought, we’d have to swim rising!

But yes, come to think of it, this desert only knows of drought.
I am in the Holy Land appointed by no god but appointed by my birth.
Yes… Yes! This is the Holy Land to me! This is the land of lovers. This is the land of failing poverty!

Always up. Always to the above… I never dream to be at the mercy of the silences.
Scheherazade would be proud of me here. Mr. Aquinas would be mad at me here.
I have danced with the probates and reactors and
The anti-thesis of the peering storm-maker. I have,
With the curvatures, with the factory-rolled bodies,
Made something new to a world that wants something old.
My mom would be proud of me, so forget Aquinas and forget Scheherazade!

A one, a two, a three declared…
Why are we waiting until we are deformed? Why am I waiting for a parliament-level of care?
Only on the foggiest day do we dare dance! And now, and now… The factory-rolled bodies do dare!
The trees have formed their gauche appetites. The money-makers die right around its roots…
How unintentionally funny, they all seem– red and brown little lively insects, just passing by!
I have no intention of waiting for the day I declare myself deformed.
I have no intention in dying in a nightmare!

Interlude:

The journaling mansions are startled. The economy buckthorn have stridor.
The nursling, the freedmen, the men from Spinalonga, the much gossamer guildhall plugs,
The malware, the malware, the repopulating windscreens and the roam relented–
I eat them all. I leave nothing to be taken by change and chance. I chase the moon
As the moon chased the mansions. I have startled myself. I am the aerokinetic man neutered.

…I maybe the Mozart of Rashness. My rashness is truly overdeveloped. Rashness, woefully unmatched.

II. Golden Babel

My body, my body, my mind, my money-making… They all need prototypical vigor.
I really thought Time was on my side. Now wouldn’t that be a lovely thought? When we are miles away from
Cutting away to defrosted parts of the inert self… Acceptance sucks. Acceptance sucks, I know it. I feel it.
I maybe Mozart of my own, repopulating lashes and dismal romances, but I am no godling next to Nothing…

My body, my body, my mind, my reputation… I need better sets of testaments.
I need to practice patience within the pecking order. There is no other aim for the tower
But to be away from the soil. To the silence and stagnation of the soil, I will never surrender!

III. Mustard Bomb

O’, but hallowed be thy name of those who recovered!
For to people thrust into daylight, there is nothing else to dream of but more daylight!
For all the people looking for happiness in all sorts of places, the obelisk black is not just a place. It is the place.
For the wretched, for the miserable, for those who know of nothing but spinning, sinking soil…
For those who have decorated their years with blisters, for those with the most hideous of boils…
I have spent all my interludes in quest of the fancy. Acceptance sucks. I will never surrender!

          I rise to an imperfect world, and my thumb ha’n’t healed yet, and I’ve been waiting for three days, and I haven’t written anything unlimited in three days. I mus’ be like most, but I mus’n’ be like most.

          I say no poet had ever lived without their soul half-extinguished. Because most poets write as if the medium itself is limited to their heartbreak and self-reassurance, as if their biography came before the stars and their problems before the sea. While they carry with them both the vulgar and the earnest, being genuine comes at the cost of absolute freedom. They are slaves of either emotions or audience, and have already been topped by others before they tried. And while there are more times in the lives of people that the sea and the stars are less thrilling to look at, look up, and read about than the growth which could be perceived as more personal, this very assertion of the personal anti-finite had become beaten, scorned upon, and sworn against by those who have read it all. Because dystopia, to me, is a world full of poets– people who can’t see past themselves or only see past themselves, without even considering that a world before the humans had flourished, and possibly would regain uneven control of a longer and indifferent uneventfulness. After all, neither stars nor sea ever really cared about us. And thus, I upend myself in this tower. This lover… This lover…

          We spent so many days straddling from irrelevant thing A to irrelevant thing B. There’s so many specifics being laid down so we can chase caprice and networks of geniuses had been wasted for years trying to take full advantage of how we are impulsive. And our impulses then become time-wasters. And us time-wasters then become too sleepy to even advocate for anything actually good or efficient.

          When we fall too far from our ideas of freedom, we cage ourselves with practices that never truly leave our little gadgets. We perfect scripts that no one ever is meant to discover while we use our madness and illnesses as crutches and excuses and we get sick of life. Because life had always been meant for the tireless, and the decent, and the sharing. And if the neighboring morally-superior ever catch the indifference that most of us have perfected by the age of 12, it is not as if it would all be over, but goodness itself will be all delayed and there is never any reason to delay anything that is truly good.

          I have hope in these people that I envy so much because they do not put the goodness of self and society ever on hold just to answer a certain day’s thirst or take a month off just because the beeping of the world had already required much of them. They know where they are rooted in, and they know where they belong, and I envy and admire their sense of belonging and imposing and that there are people who worship them. But I could never personally admit to those I admire these vagrant’s deficiencies and desires for flavorless violence for nothing is more downing that the downright admittance that– if left on our own– we’re all royally, eternally fucked.

          Even when eternally fucked, I do not dare be let emptied. I do not dare be caught sweatless or unshowered. Acceptance sucks, but I will never surrender!

 
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