Don't know the meaning of devotional
Pictured me hanging threadbare on the blacked out wall
Purposeful, in your weekly disguise
Surrendering to arms, fixing up those seeded eyes
Dress it up, down the alcohol
Feeling so much better
I was a partridge in my childhood, twenty seconds of blind mercy and a pillow paunch materialising. Some adipose. Some anti-pose to humanistic calling cards like Hallmark and the Great Scottish Bender, or so I fancy coining an in situ phrase. Consider this my in vitro lullaby. A fare-thee-well malintended and hollowchested, just the crunching-clatter-scuff of polyvinyl tin foil. Some cessation.
That's life. An apostrophe. An afterthought. The last word and laugh and sudden shrill wracking. It will go on.
Just like that. And again.
Sorrow forths forward on aluminum gaps and swings, seesaws snoring through the spruce blues of aquamarine life on land. {pointless} {touche} There's geese booming against the tight-skinned sky, besseled, a hazel iris stretching out in the umbra, each eat brilliance failing in capacity. But so you'll be getting it tomorrow, the point unlikely. We write too many checks on the empty pages; pages meant for blessings and wine. I feel like a stroke, heat-sealed and tongue-tied, a marble or two swollen in my womb. Just pills, and a stuttering companion tilting. Just tilting. Into phantoms and burning feathered pillows, an eider-down night; we are a canon. Give over your bible and tin-halide bells, and give in some halcyon, some codeine schwag, like Dogma was ever your name.
Nane here. These word idylls, objects unto themselves, they only vanish at the narrowest hum of a lip. Have we castrated ourselves, strung up on barbed-wire fences. This is my rushblood. A pounding quintessence ablating the courser torn memories, wrung astride. Loom me some opticality, a contextual hyperventilation of weave and pigmented astrocytes.
I like drowning in the aura of cataclysm. I like the part where the film ends.
No comments:
Post a Comment