Thursday, October 28, 2004

just take the sharpest bequeathment

just take the sharpest bequeathment, take it against it. this slightly round maybe oval sallowed thing called a head housing the indenture - the lips - mouthings of a face – break it open. the flesh is apparel. hiding. make the incision to start the severing. inside is the spaghetti matter, the locale of all that’s me. this is what you came to see.

i’m full of hippocampus blues. my endorphins are through, done blotting the pain. what’s left is the wracking in a concussioning skull. the cerebral cortex is an unknowing tangle of lies. i grab hold of each thin strand. dredge the teeming mass. we’re always looking to the past. basking in what could have been. grab ahold of my scalp. this will be what should have been.

crack me open. seep inside the grate. disturb every part ever belonging to me. this grandeur is smaller than it seems. far from beauty in the dwelling environs where i precede. the mind, the centerfuge of this machine. with its networks its entreating lies. its hypocrite logic streams. contradicting seams. all the open valleys. as we’re wallowing in this following interstate of real estate owned by me the road’s nothing the end’s bellowing someplace far away. today i build closer to the edge. closer to the trailing nothing of termination. i’ll discard the knowledge of this place to the dreams.

the mind’s an endless weaving of upholstery. the endless scathing land of a being. ripped open here’s the circuitry the functioning entity. the uncouth standing ground of everything. it’s an organized mess that’s so free. trod upon all this that’s me, there’s much to see with wondering eyes. much land to map with depth. take a footing then a step.

sadness is welting the surface in a fresh coat of luster. placing a sheath over the reality. if you dig your hands into the somber cover you’ll uncover a swollen uncaring sensation. a numb invigoration. a pointless desperation. a sans all of creation. in this brain’s nation there’s a downing fall. nothing feeling worth it at all.

the world in my head is my bed. it mothers me in its semiscent hands. it holds me unto all i can. frees me from being barred in the outside’s cell.

this cold winter is the most irascible fire ball of a hell. the leaves fall from the trees, in my head i’d like to believe all is fine. it’s only fall. winter breathes a cold hint on my bare skin. autumn readies itself to leave again.

soon to freeze over in permafrost. soon to wander through artic tundras. frigid, shivering to myself in the breadth of my brain. cold to all i’ve come to know, all i’ve named. there’s no haven there’s nothing to gain. i go on and on but still feel the same.
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