Dare I indulge? Or does the absence that precedes me
Clear the space I need to see my path ahead?
Here is body at the surface I’ve prepared, marble-white
In singing praises to a state of vacant mind, these dead
Eyes staring and determined to resist, set fixed glance
On what’s effectively suppressed (or some would say,
Altogether disappeared). It pertains to a fear of choice,
Specific sphere of conflict – wherein devoid of moral act,
The same applies to counteract my plurals in exact,
Demanding singular. You may toy with facts, and you
May toy with the Idea – you may leave a trail of words
Back to the worship I deserve, but leave this decision
To me. Every heartbreak has its story. Victory is made
From what’s entirely a purest thing, surest thinking.
There to indulge – or else to atone – for submitting.
It’s less a weapon than you think.
It’s not quite contemplation in this mode of speaking –
Rather something harsh to touch, robust and unappealing.
It resists this. It demands its definition.
Still by thinking up new words to give this feeling such a
Stupid name I know – the rhyme denounces it my own –
Four letters wrong – and meaning: to command a sun to
Still, this one unwilling to fulfill: his shadow form; unveil
Revealing by transformed – tormented – healing.
As if some ritual of harm could turn this stuttering around;
Provide old sounds to share the reading (as is read) to acts
Of seeing myself stare – loaded to the neck with death –
And wearing braided charms of fiber tear, cable ready.
So that letting of my weight becomes – by ample drop,
In frequent turns – this awareness I deserve to see the
World – through blur and flare – care and stir – nice
And evident – despairing.
It happens when the godhood does, by natural occasion.
In the expulsion of myself from self, the tendon breaks as
Sword inflames and I – by manner of prevention – prevail
In ample measure to attend my choice in simple declaration
Of revolt: that I am wont to make – but still is made – as
I take to the pressure of an end that does not come, some
Comfort seen escaping me. My wrists now drawn in ink by
One who sees caress in stab, resistance in this acheing –
Punch and drench in whole of habit kept to feel like, liking
It., or, imagining perhaps: another way to seem relaxed
When faced with this decision. To exist as a man does or,
Chase transcendence down these measures purely for
The thrill of base (if strained) desire. With the hands of
A god, in the blood of a martyr – whatever we say is an
Act of restraint. Speaking less and less. Growing louder.
Under bruised eyes – over orange skies of Babalon,
Converted fields where beast is stirred; old dawn
Awakens. In the bringing of an up to down,
Red to white to brown somehow
Suspiciously reflects the fruits of labour I collect,
Love best kept beneath the belt in basic buckle sheath.
Tranquil, as the fire beyond this wall, the column’s vein
In all we know are temporary temples, methods of escape
We feel predate us.
So kneel that I may worship;
Ravage that I might take.
I am open now. Awakened.
6th, as in all acts of worship. Silence drains the walls and draws its lot;
A heavy pour starts spreading – what it means to summon god is now
Just show for other not in hearing to appear, exhaust and immaterial.
Like the sum of fear, and then nearly – determined enough to resist:
The oz it watches over me, makes chap of chafe and handles me in
Mastery, assent. Its breath communicating age in bouts of puff;
Smeared out, and searching. So that where the most would end,
He is beginning – ripe with the breadth of world, the width of
Heart – a size of hold in pointing out: this biblical proportion.
Green upon a devil’s eye, bountiful and smiling. Teeth made
Round by biting down on all that does surround me and, in
Efforts to restrain his thought, bring something like a want
To out into this dark of night, this stuck of being. There’s a
Presence in these words, clearest message in this rubbing –
That by force still feels confusing; by comparison, too soon.
It was by light he slept,
Curved to the point of bend and
Threatening to break all straights apart.
As from one line that we shared –
Old words we preferred to bring forward
Renamed, removed of their weight, of our shame –
Any breath could become from our labour, libate.
Intending to bear or bring fruit to the room,
Roots to our feet – excuse to our conscience.
It was by light I saw him sleep,
Six now morning and stain-deep in sheets of
Loss and comfort. Ever warm in every other
Whitish corner of my body, still destroyed and still
Recovered to a smallest sense of self, modest not
Withstanding sole to shoulder where we lie.
From dead to alive – abused to experienced –
Upon this light where things must end.
Bear me home – and not for long it says –
By dome of this moronic church the ways
Your anger swings are both the path we take,
And punishment. It is a curse to see this clearly,
It is in fact the loss at stake that barely holds it
Close, pulls the edge together; like the puzzle
We suppose could come apart at seams, make
It seem like we deserve the hints of pressure
Struck our way. Dead for taste is dead for rest
In this sad state, this slim condition. Which
Is why we learn to fake or stage the break,
Give-up the load, abandon senses to the
Need, the mouth we’re breathing in.
Who we kill are who we’re living for,
And somewhere in this paradox,
Exhaustion’s just another form of
Break norm in all preventing,
All disparaging event, non-
Typical prevention of a
Most demanding drive
Are hazards – cez a
Rare disaster and
Us here, merely
Dead in passing.