when you're cut, "it burns"
<here is part one, it is in possession
of said tools of circuitry pleasures to pain,
it is an infinite ritual nine tenths
of life's laws you may or may not
come to know>
I live in fantasy
moment by moment calculations
I wear bubble factory glossy burst fashion
what I want to want to see most often
is the very thing I pretend
convinces me to open my eyes
whatever that time
of day or night is
what constitutes my morning...
morning is reckoning time
it comes for its balances to be paid
and surely it comes
always hungry for
evenly yoked books...
I sometimes take to yoga
the inhales and exhales
help when rectifying
all of my self(s)
in the accounting
pious with pens
at mythical gates
cast wobble langley(s) serve
as decorative entry wounds...
your soul
has been caught
with an irradiative culling
Morpheus says
your cell life is breakdowns
and build ups
telomere connections
discovered and disconnected
what rainbows you call to
when your soul thirsts
for more bones to cage...
<here's the part of the poem where I am alone behind bars>
I found bottle caps and other discards
made a chess board and rudimentary
allowances where there were once rules...
the warring self
is a hell I know
both internal, infernal
and willing to grow
<here's is a middle part, it's part working title and parts on hold at a lay-a-way counter, where others always bought my Winter clothes, watching me beat myself>
my preparations
are conscious of after-trails
I'm more sweet when bleeding,
they wade through
what patterns emerge
or are seen to seem as such
the scourges
discouraged here
are my urges
of destructiveness
and they are
sold as is,
charmingly so...
here, the poem says stop-
take a beat, be near where
glass housed thrown stones
skip one last time
before succumbing
to why skin diving
the meniscus is
the risk we take
when seated in a
dark shadow theater
the puppetry and pageant
attention to demands
of control for any light remanded is...
and when bearing witness
to the fight between
your frivolous and enslavement...
your soul
is hitting
the pavement
in litter patrol
the kettle bell rings
warden and prisoner
being the same
chained gang person
you're hell bent
on receiving
forgiveness for...
I wear many hats, lately but I like
to be lazy and keep my hair unkempt
and without cover, in wild bramble reaches
collecting oils for the grease that keeps things
an easy glove of sheen folly particulates...
the air is an accordion lung clock
and with its faces awed an unclean
it keeps progress, savory and sweet,
and what don't we eat,
is ground and woven into
some sort of vestige humble
some sort of allspice
what we think of ourselves
around the Yule time
assailing patent injustices
with assurances
of our purity when wassailing...
<the last part is nostalgic with a crass patina>
my mind is wandering, wants to leave the train set and Christmas lights tells me there is no sanctuary
or certainty beyond your current breath
there might be more things real enough
to die for but I haven't the time for that
and this price suppressed coffee
tastes of good rattles and roasts
the so good char and sidecar
of indica and a few nips of bourbon
for what ails my lack of courage...
any sort of life outside
of feeling fantastic
is harvest reparations
archetypal searching
while reaping sheep
and tending gingerbread
while giving myself
the cartoon treatment...
and poem says,
"now is always
the time fantasy begins"
EJR ©
I am undone by this:
ReplyDelete"I imagine her as a lens
and her algebra
as something to be
undone by"
I am flattered...
Deletefeeling, much appreciated...
to know another soul, is looking on in...
catching hold of the sometimes, when...
this is where my poems go...
reaching into endings to begin...
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thank you for stopping by...