These days I spend my hours roaming the deep dark
Of damnation and self sacrifice,
Searching for pithy and simple Vice
While others might wear their heart on their sleeves.
I found myself almost enraptured in that blessed state,
Much like the one that came before almost all creation.
The one that drowned out the sounds of Christ’s wailing
And gave way to a new form of ultimate revelry.
The strands of DNA that traced us back to our roots
Now falls in tatters and traces of silken cobwebs
But the sequences of sequins and fabric are too many to keep track of,
And it all flows by without my involvement.
An elaborate coverup of intention
In the crosshairs, in the potent air
That too is distinctly a form of instinct,
Of needing karma to work, wanting it to,
And of wishing it never could do that which
My recalcitrant nature forbade it to.
I remember when we were stranded at that trailhead,
And I was left stuck by the water tower,
imagining my ego death
While you were throwing crayons in the lake.
Surprised, as it was not bottomless.
Deep down, down deep into miles of miles
Of layers of Earthen soil, cracks and crumbles,
Protrusions of olfactory jean de plume
That wrapped itself up on a sort of crows nest
And conveniently shaped itself into a covering
That preserves leftover thoughts, ideas, regrets.
Sometimes I wish my dreams were all contained within
something resembling aluminum foil,
That I may keep them contained in preserved wrap
And only take them out if absolutely necessary.
That I may put thee on a crooked spire
Next to a mountain of foil,
And chain thy soul to the wall
Until it is forced to confront the bitter truth,
That the reality we live in is inherently faster
than the one that came before us.
Life in a coffin,
It tests you.
I wrap myself up in plastic,
and my heart spits fumigated oil.
I don’t know you anymore,
And I don’t know you any,
And I can’t feel you any
I can’t begin to describe any
I am not any
Stop.
That cold, silent stare of indifference
It feels like something hitherto unspoken
Has come into being.
Capturing the pathos with persistence.
Beings on corridors, made of twine and
Strands of the web
In the eye of the succubus.
Fun, the revelers say.
You will have
fun.
