Gospel of Tempers 2:1 – The Satelliting Thoughts of January 6, 2019
The bad edits of me are the ones that are sticking.
My students, my bees, please think and never blindly romanticize.
I need my students and my bees to be happy. I need you all
To be not like me. Eventually, eventually
We’re all to discover that even the undiscovered flower doesn’t need the validations.
Even the wildest of us doesn’t need the copouts and pascals and parabolas;
And flicks and films and drugs; and occassionalities and alkanes and prelights;
And the suffering. O’, the suffering is an endless thing, it seems;
But everything must, too, temper. Not every unabandoned bee
Are lost in the bright lights. Not even those who are like we
Are pained forever.
What is more reflective to me could be retching to everybody.
Retrofit my body, then, tactically. Tactically,
I would like to be drowning in methods of exhaustion.
I have a conceit that is the conceit of everybody.
I am commiserating and lugging and buying in into the high octaves of the higher forms of love.
The tongue with the octane is facetious. The love– which is to me, reflective– ‘s the love I can afford now.
It’s time to stop pissing at the face of the gods of the dogs and the gods of the bees
For myself affording nothing else, or even nothing above.
Nothing is more merciful than a god without mercy.
According to the much more evocatives, I must splinter myself.
But where is the power and the calm in having to exhaust myself
If even in the shelf I am a slave to the restlessness without humor?
Humor me then, ladies and gentlemen, family and friends,
If I can afford for myself nothing, must I be shamed?
Must I, in my lowliest, be even more persecuted?
Make me laugh.
I have excuses. These must be worth something, right? Me, me, and my many excuses
Must learn that not everything is about me. Me– Am I blind? Am I living for nobody else?
Riffing by the disparate foyer, rolling about, drunk with the works of Jean Béraud,
I am made even more unrelentless. Revive me, dear sir from the undeserving shore.
Peg and unclasp my wings. Bring me the requel deserved. Bring me the requel un-averted.
I know that the silence within me devours. I know that I’m ever so swayable.
My collarbones hurt from here to Port Alfred. My heart, under influence, so incomparable.
“He’s m-kay, but he’s nothing you can exhibit.”
Somebody say they don’t want to exhibit me, exhume me.
I want to believe my hero but life fighting for nothing, from the outside, looks meaningless.
If to die is to rest, what about a reprogram, a re-reset?
I miss all the criminal antics.
But what use do I have of the thing that robs me of days; robs me of time that is twinning;
Chroma-keying the composite; time that is my god perchance alone?
If I bleed, then I would rather be bleeding what I’m to leave behind.
If to die is to rest, what about what I’m leaving if nobody ever would attest?
Arrest my love, motherfuckers.
Unattainability dictates worth.
Then, I want to take what is impossible.
I want to be riffing by the disparate foyer, rolling about, drunk
With the works of the self.
The many nerves of me protest.
EURIDIA, EURIDIA! Santo y Santa!!
(My neck is hurting… The medicine! The medicine!
The movie! The medicine!)
There, there! To Dolmen, Cunha Baixa,
Either way and either wax or was… Ether or ether!
E LO A-LE-IA A-LEI-IA EIIIY
,,,, , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
There goes the assistance to my soul,
And the help goes as well,
So do the cooks, so do the gardeners,
So do the mechanics,
The inferno soul now litters the driveway,
Heavy and hoping for OxyContin and hamantaschen,
To the grief undiluted, the grief unconcerned.
Perfidy, perfidy, perfidy!
Perfidy to the lucky stars!
Stars falling and plopping into me!
Time is power.
Boom-boom, boom-boom, boom-boom boooooom…
Hosanna to the highest.
Breathe upon me the power of Hurricane Huzzah!
the gardener with the self-spiked drink; the glass, broken beside him artfully; the sun above making the piebald look unhappy and, the flowers, confused; and the flower that ages only through denial;
So, I reached the gendarmes, finally. It wasn’t as good as promised, I was out of breath and freezing, and I hurried to climb back down. In my descent, tho, the mem’ry of it became more lucid. I have something either to keep or to tell, the same way everybody in the many dinner parties attended have decided to tell theirs just a little bit differently. “O’, it was amazing! I could feel the breath of God on my neck!” “O’, it was perfect! I’m already deciding on the next mountain!” Me, I decide that one is enough. Clearly, one must be, until I get bullied into climbing something else… I am nearing that, honey. I wish I weren’t so easy to bully.
The Incandescent Thoughts of an Irreparable Basterd sounds like a film about me… I take the bleakness of the world with the magazine’s most beautiful models-to-wank-for,-inspired and the proud kitchen’s best steak, really. I’m vibing for the next festoon. I elide and elude. I make things more beautiful. I persevere as well as prosecute.
All the world’s careless thumping reaches to me, reacts towards the rational me. I, too, have not made it easy. I am here, moving like the liquids of my tomorrow, liquidizing my faiths and all the foolishness I’ve borrowed. (But I want to borrow cheerfulness. Does anybody lend it, and if so, for how much?) (KEEP OR NAH???)
On the off-days, (which is to say ‘most days’, for ‘most days’ are when my heart is turned off and my body is flooded with painkillers like god’s most beautiful flowers) I keep on scrolling hoping, unconsciously, to find some thing to amaze me. (The nights are quiet, and even I do not want to be disturbed. I have been disturbing my neighbors for too long, with me observing the roles of the soul.) But I should be looking for a job. I should be looking into travels, into churches, into beliefs, marriage, and testimonies– both which are non-committal and non-irreparable… I should be looking for some one or some thing, then shifting forward to what will be the most lucrative. But, heck, I am looking for the crazy. I am looking for the lost. I am looking into injury.
Looking up old flames fascinate me. (I then pray. I then decay.) Looking up the closest dentist, the faraway acquaintances, the same-aged folk I went to college with who have visited ten times the many-er countries; and then locking it all away. Then, a dark rumination from the world’s most celebrated drunkard, whom many fear they will evolve into. And then, I say, “Not today. Not today, Bukowski.”
I pride myself of my demarcations and conquests, my countermeasure and counterweights and counterpoints and counter-strikes, counter-attacks, and the lack of bounty on my head. (Although I’m sure I have reaped already so many.) I am a being of pride and haplessness, but “it’s the end of the line here, homie. Your hours spent with the expedites– yours and their’s perimeters of uninterrupted jigs and dreamboats and dreaming of safety, and nobody spell-checking– will topple soon. Trust me on this. (Trust me, trust me.)
As the body withers, so, too, the bodily desires. I must have convinced myself I had always been to special. I’m sure nobody ever honestly dreamed about being ordinary, and being looked up and muttered about: “What an ordinary honest– ordinary and working on the hourly.”
Low-key wanna re-enroll in the university and study Food Tech, but that’s just the choice of the week… (What else is good for me? I mean, I knew I shoulda taken Philosophy… I MEAN… I MEAN–)
Imagine me tryna make new flavors:
“This is the Climax flavor of Doritos. It tastes like just your best cumming. You’re all fuckin’ welcome. Good day, gays and madams… I SAID GOOD DAY!”
I told myself, / “One rock-bottom is enough.” / Then ‘came two, then three, / Then twelve, thirteen…
It took me up ’til my twenties to realize / There is no escape from going down but looking down, / So I looked down at my former self, and laughed at / Myself– the gestating clown.
It worked… For some unknown reason, for me, it worked. / What the hell… Why on earth, after so many trials, / So many failed attempts in escaping / This unguarded limbo / Did my condescension work?
“I guess,” I told myself, / “This is my thing. This is it. This must be it… This is my thing… My thing… My thing…” / … / *ATSHING!* / O’, baby. KATCHING, KATCHING, KATCHING!! It’s chilly.
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