This is my favorite month of the year and I have let it go to waste. My pulse is a wrecked ecosystem. The corruption of my insolence is the adolescent dialect of a human that doesn’t want to be human anymore. I don’t know if it’s to transcend or to revert; I don’t know if this is birth or death, but whatever it is I will go about it with an aptitude for growth. To yield the dynasty of the next generation of my atoms at my own disposal — that is the method of discovery I lust after. Whatever it takes. To heaven or to hell, I have unwound the chains hung limp on the suicide of my courage. To wherever the stars guide me.
are you trying to play word association with me
(Sorry for my absence. Work is very demanding right now, but so rewarding. Preparing for relocation!)
I am in love with the black widow of Ego
I murder the distress of the dreams I can’t afford to live
I hinder the success of selves that I get bored with
I explode within the passionate undressing of my nervous system
I examine the reason of inquiries my atoms are too tired to possess
I dismiss the bedroom experiments of my feral
I shake in the vibrations of an algorithm
I fuck the synthetic disease of
I excuse the damage done by the empty space
I seem to take up these days
I’m categorized by sin; here,
the cauterizing of my will
and why not transplant this organ
with something that won’t hurt
when it rots—
that would’ve saved a lot of heartache,
maybe cured the headaches
better than the drugs the fuck the sleep
the wake up and repeat.
There is a catalog of my neurons
my mind doesn’t know how to order from
and I can barely get out of bed in the morning
so how am I supposed to make blueprints
to rocket into the stratosphere
of someone I don’t really know
how to be anymore.
Wish I was something useful. Wish I knew the authority of poetry again, wish it’d boil my veins and ask God his surname. Wish all the big bangs of my heart to stop trembling in the act of becoming. Wish I had reason for cumming, wish the dialect trapped in the pulse of my ecstasy’s binary spoke as more than an illusion. Wish it made sense. Wish anything made sense, wish I did, I didn’t, wish I won’t. Wish on endings I break the spines of to immobilize their departure. Wish I didn’t. Wish it hadn’t come to this, wish the sunrise not to melt on hipbones I don’t get to taste anymore. Wish I wasn’t mad for it, still still still. Wish the tender of my mind to seek the pleasure of atrophy. Wish the tragedy of my head a good night’s sleep.
god i’m worn out. i am so very worn out. empty, empty. i’m running on empty.
one time i had a high school teacher mentor that would discuss the mechanisms of poetry with me and at one point i was at her apartment and she told me details about her love life and to cross that boundary with someone that is always associated with an untouchable intimacy was one of the most beautiful moments of my life and even though we don’t talk anymore, thinking of it does things to my heart and i am intangible vulnerability.
Deep in the mind of mankind
resting in the womb of question
sucking answers from the ambrosia
of an ecstasy no human knows.
Do not fall in love with me.
My bones will swallow you whole
and I will stand in the rain waiting for you,
just like I always do.
I am not ready to give that away again
except when you look at me.
Except with every lung full of
the pollution of your mouth.
I don’t know who I write for
or what my heart thinks its doing,
but I’ve learned to trust where it goes.
So if I choke on ash and dust
there must be a phoenix I’ve yet
to master the art of becoming.
to the infinite void of minds,
My symptomps include: autonomy, poetry, curiosity, restlessness, desire (the sort that feels good dying for), feel good, lust of pleasure, indifference to indentured servitude, ready to fuck, ready to love, that great leech philosophy and all the meanings of life.
Please get back to me soon. The drugs are wearing off.
your alter ego