To driving sleet and mist, or else just ice in shapes of cup,
Concrete and barely held together. By the rinse of acq & ig,
Trace of how it melts is kept on fingertips and scrape, torn
By all false pass I make but still – return to whole, react
Accordingly. In the measure of what bounty is prepared,
What evil reared to pour upon, act full and passive judge
-ment on these issues of my flesh, matters of disinterest
From perspectives as suggestive as your own. It turns
Into itself: comes full circle. Round as what is made to
State its form, develop from the flaws upon this shape
New meaning. Hermetic and hieratic – and devouring.
Pain from short of breath, from long of thinking.
From the empty spaces cut in palms of hands,
The weight of ink flows ove’ becoming name
And work and burial. Finest body held to feral
Shape, discipline discerning and distasteful;
[autos] where the thought of might suggest –
Less to keep this closeness in affecting change,
Rather how so young can make impressions
Last for ages –
But I’ll admit, I’m yet to see an end to.
Origin to suffering in garden of no light,
Words to bring no comfort to the mouths
Where they might land. For briefest of spell,
Lengthened of least likely to assume some foreign
Form, cis-matic way of teaching – taking normal
For supposed avail it’s not, suppliant plead
Entreating a reaction from the Void.
More to keep from showing how what’s
Empty might fulfil, uncertain will its
Way to being plain, more of the same
Bland nil, still bursting.
As they’ll admit, the marks on this man could be
Misleading – by following, refusal acts itself
As the acceptance of a need not understood;
Neither good nor bad; fragile nor persistent.
From obsession changing hands, novel urge
Demanding anxious breath, and grovelling.
Seems easy from the vantage point, held to east by some conjoined
Attempt at consternation – rage within me now – flare of gut and stern
And how just anything may falter. As men around the camp have taught
Us well to not resist, trained us in the arts of systematically say no.
Like age without you now – a dream wherein the name resounds like
David, Alexander – best among my worst in these familiar affairs,
These points of pressure. Tired and tearing from endeavour what
Said happy might retain; whatever they proclaim I must accept,
And to protect myself: I can. It’s the circumstance, I mean – it’s
Historical context. Here’s a visit: there’s a protocol to kneel, to feel
It aggrandise toward these fields of ars telesphora. Sporadical, and
Then: reoccurring currently when: abandoned to the circle of a buzz
It makes, the evils it perpetuates: insurge/resurges late upon this
Frame of mind, this fraught of thinking. Like a costume to the clothes,
Unsought, unwilling – you lay armour to the pose you see surviving
In a testament to free the weight of the world from me. It does not.
All is pointless. Every turn that’s tried is worthless as we hide from
What’s the else – animallike and treacherous – dead with the songs
Of night and all the privilege of someone this allowed to roam,
Thus free to feed. It acknowledges us now, and makes to meet me.
Arms the size of flesh it’s torn, cheap prophecy it rides on – diabolical,
And then: near galloping. As what laughter I find inside me is, first
Choked up, then unleashed. With a sword to the horns if you will –
As it wishes. A matter of pulse if it feels, erratic. Awash in blood.
To strain, or let the palate think itself selective.
As stag in a leper house might do, the act of coming
Clean could come right off you, thrill to the base of
Cut as you spill from the same tense gut you’ve filled
With a liquid pour, fire manifest in restive metaphor;
The best of my tearing urge to play an active role in
Loss – abandon to the sense – learn to keep by accident
As close to the skin I can. This is the all I own; what
Little I still care for. I am not a wealthy man. Still by
The measure of the trade I’ve picked, the interests
I keep in check – some shape of value is peaked,
And offered: in all manner of disgust, this waste.
To res-, or let what’s restless take some way in
Resolution – impressive or, restituting. Danger
Is a dogtag worn on neck, ankle-black in ink
Professing what the message is/could be.
It comes to me now in desperate moan.
Suggesting pain. Demanding sobriety.
It feels like the fix is sure – for him
Perhaps – just not for me.
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.