Sunday, November 28, 2004

the writer choking on the sputtering feel of words, and wrapping them in black garbage

in this most gracious spacious place i’m walking all around. licking the walls with a tasteless tongue full of unquenchable dirt full of grit and grime and useless hurt. walking through the tome of my time, full of repentances, full of lies. full of wishes and wants and designs. the intricate, the books the tomes the fine wine made from the grapes of lust. the steel banisters of rust, holding this place together as they must. a hopeless hell i’m walking in, a useless knell i’m bellowing within. this is where it all is.

this wall tastes mingled with a culmination of sweat mixed with forget. this wall, it tastes like a pretty flower withering openly in the summer’s hands. this one, it tastes like metal and hing, tastes dull and tasteless and has a little aftertaste of mud. this one tastes like the rays of the sun cut asunder by the shadow of a form, it is reminiscient of light stolen left forlorn.

i walk along and taste upon my tongue like rain falling from a ceasless sky. i furtive over a prodding eye. i cannot see anything but all that’s around me. i hit upon the walls and beckon to be let out. it does not calm me. i am a hamster in a cage running back and forth and all over the place, not getting a way out. i continue to shout.

walls, walls, walls – and walls and buildings and enclosures and bricks and steelwork and overhanging roofs and girders - all of them covering over me in an endless panaormic view, i’m paranoid i’m afraid i’m claustrophobic, i cannot escape this place, i cannot erase it and blank it out, i cannot shout it all away. this is all of me in the warehouse. a storagehouse in my mind. i’m locked inside the key’s gone away.

walking into the kitchen i take out a knive. i stab it on the wall and write my name. i search for a box of matches, and that’s what i find. i take the match and strike it upon the gritty floor. i drop the flame and watch it burst like a star. irascible and burning far.

i’m burned alive and all the paper i’ve written on, and all the tomes of tomes of tomes, and all the walls tasting so different go down. burn to hell. are ruined. all the words i wrote are my tomb. i bury my eyes upon them forever as they’re burned out and away, as i’m turned into ash and go away, whence i came.

---

the feeling
in my nose
is so it makes
you want to
rip out your nostrils
and feel the flesh tear
away and the clogging,
watery, stuffed-up feeling
go away
and all left
is the bones


i shall
describe myself
most completely
in two words
flawlessly designed
by my own self:

“apatheistical anachronism.”

---

there was that one day our minds were taken away. we were bereft of our intelligence, left to wandering around without knowing what we were doing. returning to the ignorance of innocence, our childhood daydream days. walking over we sat down under the shade of the tree. an apple fell, landed at your knees. you took its succulent sweet flesh and took it into your aperture, tasting its sweetness. soon enough time made us wicked, wandering twisted & gnarled again.

---

i am what you want
what you want what you want
me to be
and i am
what you want what you want
me to be
i am something
and i am wondering
where i’m going to going to
be
if i’ll do it correctly
so just take, just take me
please please
make me break me break me
make me
please take me
away away
from here
here, here
escape me shake me
away away
from here from here
from here. . .here
still still still
right here, here
so take me take me
please please
away, away


tired, dulled
this useless hull
this frame support
contort, and abort
all real thoughts
to a uselessness

---

tired, dulled
this useless waste
this worn face
peer, and sneer
at the mirror

---

Fear the fear

---

I
what i feel doesn’t matter
it doesn’t matter
it
doesn’t
matter
it doesn’t matter
what i feel
so kill kill kill
let the blood stain, spill
so kill kill kill
let the blood stain, spill
it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t
matter it doesn’t
matter
it
doesn’t
matter
. . .matter
so, kill kill kill
let the blood stain, spill
and spill
and spill
. . .and spill
. . .until
the wooden creaky bucket
is full of sacrifice
and then throw the blood
to the sky
and with a cry
watch it splat on the ground
and evaporate before your eyes. . .
and eventually the sky will cry
with blood that paints
everything in red
a bleeding boring dead
falling all over everything
because
it doesn’t
matter
what i feel
doesn’t matter
it doesn’t matter
nothing left
to say
pointless, pumping away
the heart has no way
the blood will leave some stain. . .

II
burn, burn it all away
away away away
fall over fireball
burning, fallen
slain
over, over, into this
crematory
burn it to
fine ash, fine ash
. . .fine fine ash
that feels blackened
on the tips of my fingers
. . .fine fine ash
that feels grimy
beneath my toes
. . .fine fine ash
that’s broken burned and past
so fast and so far away
carried away in the wind
sweeping through
the fire
weltering and sweltering
beneath a smog sky
burning burning burning
burn all day, burn all day
burn away burn away
never stay never stay
don’t come back come back
this way don’t stay burn all day
burn away never stay burn, burn
all day all day
away away
so fast, and so far away away
so far far away
burn burn, burn
all day away
to fine fine ash
. . .fine, fine ash

III

oh, oh, oh. i don’t know. where’s there to go? what’s left to show? oh, oh, oh. let me go. let me know. let me grow, grow, grow. oh, oh, oh. to grow to wilt to sow, to reap what you owe. oh, oh, oh. nothing left, nothing left to germinate or show. so low, hanging on the ground. looking around. oh, oh, oh. roots crossing over to the side. grasping with coughs in desperation, but there’s nothing to find. oh, oh, oh. oh no. oh, oh, oh. oh no. falling over, slanting down, going down, going down. drooping, looping around and around. . . falling, falling, weaker and less full of life. to the ground: to the ground. a dying flower has no reason to be around. falling into itself, dying without a sound. let it go. oh, oh, oh. no reason to hold myself up any longer. just a monger letting go, like all the rest.

Comments (0)