Brittled and frolicked along the edge of a twisted rope

Lying against this weft of broken vapours and swollen clouds

I have come to realize my inability

To grasp what it is

That clings to me

like some forgotten man

Off the glacial brims

Of sidled mounds

clings to himself

Yet indeed I see

What it is

That he mourns

Yet tugs on

So inexpressibly

That man of scorn

That man of boldened angst

That man of pure nothingness

How I wish I could persuade his grief

Just as the sky coaxes the horizon

Just as the wind strokes the grim of my hair

Just as the thought of thought coaches my feet along

closer to the edge

I could renovate my thoughts

Breathe logic into what it is that I adhere to

Gratify what it is that suffocates me and

Fills my lungs with some black tar drenched languor

Break down what it is that deluges

My thoughts so profoundly

So Fairly

Or so

As to truly

Allow itself

Ariality

Saccadence

Abreaction

Blood

Freedom

At the small cost of my own flesh.

And so,

I solemnly drip

And follow through

Wallow,

And misconstrue

What it means

To be alive:

I took to your skin the way a marionette takes to its strings, obediently: each additional step pinning the weight of a gravitational pull against me, anno domini, until my legs were but stumps of marbled soon to be dynamic reflections of the Gaelic depths of a fiery hellish demonic tongue.

And you, my oh so loved assailant, are but an eye for conservatism, engineering and impersonal rites; Your steps trace Aramaic Easts and agglomerates and metallurgy from the west; Your lips, Imitative sheer fronts, id est an angelic reprise, brand a healing vision so powerful that the purest of victims fall from their floating rafters unto kneeling before such an absence of mind. The way your tongue, leather studded beast of wrath, suckles upon the breast of a poison hemlock, spitting out the seeds as to grow and sprout from my delicate body language, a canvas of a body, a body of canvases. Your words of injustice dance upon the grained soil: sons and daughters of Terpsichore, all forming an inescapable vitriolic circle, complex as it is dire, from which I must leap and escape into the vacant remnants of an emotional dalliance, as to find shelter. My fascination keeps me submissive, INRI (Iesus Nazarenus Rex Iustitiam), to the strings of a drifting cloud, from a browned daisy like vapor your breath exhumes, from the frolicced shards of light, modern tap-dancing entities of goodness, lost along the documentation of time and space that penetrate each and every one of our bodies like a satellite collapsing past spiraling out of control.

ボレアリス (Borealis), I stumbled upon you, incandescently, as I soar along the alleged land of the free with whom I share a thralldom of cyclic, rigid chain reactions.

勇気 (Bravery) allow me to consume you the way a black-wood moth worships the bark and sap of its amber home.

愛 (Love) Possess my body so that you and I may become an impassioned “we”, a coagulation of adjective currents.

許し (Forgiveness) rest upon the tip of my tongue; however, do not make the mistake of vividly showing yourself all at once. Package your humanistic machinery into a gentle box and hide that box within the floor and roof of your brain. 

Allow the constant surge of electricity and truth to guide your every muscle unto betterment, into a better world, gold lashed and divinely suffered,

Forever.

Floral blazons always join at the crevice

gently plunging

toward their own individual cessations.

Illimitable warmth

amplify me

against the tip of my trident-bones

negating any proof of our correspondence.

Lying against this bed of pines and shriveled stones,

I have come to the conclusion

that life is inevitably sweet and divine yet treacherously pure.

Events dancing like broken shells and bits of soot and brown

falling against the ground, welding into place.

Skies drifting about like mangled tongues

stripped and devoured

thrown against and through,

a greenish ritual of utmost beauty and grace.

Birds with beaks as glass pitchers

holding beds of water as stimulative as they are simulated.

Yet who am I to spew such parsing diction?

I am but a yearning heart sprawled over like a corpse

hanging from a bridge, hands nailed to the concrete

yet breathing scarlet-blazed cause and not boiled reason.

My rivers flow empty with clear tubes

and subtle worthless meanders that crisp and thrash so silently.

I am but a stringed mass

A pale pendulous body wandering about, wondering.

An individual with thoughts of stillness,

feeling trapped and caged,

lying here alone as one: a composite whole, a singular projection,

distant from others by lunges and clouds of colorless, virgin terrain.

Yet we all bleed the same, don't we?

I am anything but the needle in a stack of grain.

We all embody this ambiguity, this frailty, this solitude.

This intimacy.

We are all somewhat of able-bodied streams of ire.

Prussian blue shades of boisterous life.

Lax and lustrous shades of death.

Shrewd and wine-like shades of time.

An aging pack of tinted blotches.

A withered, elegant frame.

And a painting of skies and flames waltzing about,

filling each others missing pieces

like a liquid so generously takes the shape of its container.