Spans ((-))

I've been taking a lot of showers lately.
Not so much because I feel dirty (which I don't)
or am always cold and they change that (which I and they do)
but because it's a brief window of time spent away -
not so much a way to temporarily escape the world (which it's become)
but that it's a span of time away from not only the damn phone (it's mostly that),
but a brief pause hoping to bridge the gap from when you last sent word (three hours ago)
and from the next moment when that string of binary will come (maybe after the shower)
In fact I'm sitting in the shower now (on the floor)
but can't quite get away from commenting (I never could)
As you've recently shown me, this hope is vain (which I won't believe)
and I should start living life away from my chain (though I'm not sure how)
So maybe after this brief interlude,
I'll come back and have found these words (which I won't)
and get to take another shower (repetition is key)
Hot water on, pants down, cold water off,
sweater/t-shirt/hoodie up, it's time to pray.

Fucking Ghosts ((-))

Unfolding like ghosts and the spirits that haunt us both, they wavered in adjustments, flickering like curtains on a breezy mid-July evening before finally settling down atop out interwoven bodies. Concealing all that we sought to be, the poltergeists sapped us, twisting visions and dreams into nightmares and phrases better taken back, they took what we both thought was today and forced it into yesterday, and now haunt me unceasingly. The dream polluted, the memory poisoned, what was golden and silver and illuminated by a dark, glowing sunshine turned into corroded copper, better fit in the hands of a poor scavenger trying to feed an addiction, and a dead, blank and featureless white moon. Such are the prices of titles of princes and kinds and you and I - but I hadn't anticipated they'd cost the haunting and damning of this, too.

Kind of Maybe ((-))

So tired am I of falling in love with ideas.
The future not merely unknown, but entirely uncharted -
to gauge possibility, to gauge potential, to gauge what might be -
foolish, folly-driven pursuits.
What that I would give to pursue the now, what lies before me,
not what is to be but that which is -
but the now is rotten, corrupt, filthy and dirty and filled with poison, but, well,
I always had a taste for poison, an insatiable yet unpalpable taste for venom,
one I both crave and detest but cannot escape or avoid.
So tired am I of falling in love with ideas.
Such future I see - not saw, but see - such is it that I fall, fall forward,
in backward and into myself like that time you asked me if I loved you
and I pretended to be asleep.
I fall, -
Because the future I saw was not merely to be, but was rather a dream,
an idea, no, neither of those I see now but a delusion.
Such is the cost of idealism, of dreaming that maybe you might rise above,
that maybe we might not change with age but grow,
that together we might become something not better,
but ideal -
That you and I, springboards for one another, could grow so strong
and so well both into and out of one another, that even though the world might not
consciously envy us,
it would secretly hate us for becoming aware, for becoming aware, becoming better,
for getting as near as possible and even beyond that, to superseding all the world around us.
So tired am I of falling in love with ideas, that
though the death of the idea I built of you be torturous and murderous
to an infinite degree, to such that even were your flesh to whither and your eyes to dull
and your journey on this mortal coil to conclude that I would take all of that before
I could handle the departure of your idea;
Yet, such is the folly of foolish romanticism, as
always, always the idea dies long before the flesh and eyes and journeys of mortals end -
What that I could cease in this, this dream and fantasy of a golden tomorrow,
of hopes not of us but of what we might become,
of travels we might take as two and complete as one,
of finding ourselves on solitary paths but merging at the foot of the sun,
of beginning so distant but, no -
So tired am I of falling in love with ideas.
So tired am I of falling in love with ideas.
So tired am I of falling in love with ideas,
that I think kind of maybe I'm going to just let this one die.

91616 ((-))

91616 .. 91616 .. 91616 the odometer reads, and forces me
to wonder what yours, a thousand miles away and under the
furthest star from me, reads. A hundred miles, five hundred,
thousands measured in not as tens but thousands, each inch, each
millimeter, representing not another twist of the knife, not another
falling of the axe of the headsman, no - each pathetic and
small increment not any violent or murderous thing, no -
each increment nothing more than that - the shortest measure
of quantifiable distance,
that singular roll of the tire on your journey,
and it is enough, enough to destroy the ego, enough to crush
this psychii, enough to damn this mortal to wandering forever.
Each brief spin of that axle, each inch further and further away,
another inch and increment and spin is stretched, not to the
breaking point, no, as my heart is elastic and refuses mere distance to
be destroyed, no -
Each breadth of an atom, spin of the axle, uptick of the
odometer, each increment of variable quantity,
am eternity away I feel my solace and my love,
my dream of a white-sheet embrace, fell further and further
away, further towards the void of the furthest star, that
star that permits the lack of reciprococity, further and further
into it. I'd journey there for you into that depth, but
the only possibility is your return.

Monsters and monsters ((___))

May my heart be but food
for demons,
the pumps and valves
decorations for the
morbid and hateful.
May my heart be but
a sustenance for
lesser things, as it's
worth without you at
its center is not
merely questionable, but
damnable, a thing not worth the
terrible toll it exacts in my chest,
a thing cruel and empty and terrible,
to any request I would surrender and
destroy it.
I, a mendicant before you, beg
and plead not audience, not voice,
not kisses, no -
I beggar your return to it's red
walls, I beggar a return to the
tomorrow we dreamed of, I beggar
and lay prostrate before -
you.

Robots of a kind ((___))

The forger of this world designed me, designed me
to interface with you, built me to be next to you, but -
No engineer is perfect, every blueprint flawed, no
manufacturing process without error and defect, and -
thus, I, in combination with personal accidental deficiencies, I -
I, too, am and are imperfect, and will never be anything but,
yet -
yet even flaws aside, imperfections and errors, the simple,
beautiful truth of my creation remains intact:
I, I, I was built for you
While interfacing and networking are decided advantages,
I believe them to be incidentals, side-effects of creation -
to be a companion, to hold hands and watch sunsets
through eyes made in biology, to worry away at incidentals
until the oil of our machines run dry,
the lines of our circuits governing us lose their power,
the gears moving us fall silent, -
I, I, I dream of someday losing functionality and dying,
connected to you in wires and holding hands in sunsets,
and I was programmed to do so only with you.

((___))

Yeah so maybe the now isn't so perfect,
I think I believe I know things never were but,
the now never really can be but for isolated,
compartmentalized moments and then
they're memory,
but -
but tomorrow is dawn, a new today,
a tomorrow to build on that I see as beautiful
and gleaming with the possibility that
maybe maybe maybe, maybe there is
maybe there is hope to be had and a new solace
a new day a new dawn a golden paradise a
happy pleasant exuberant golden ray, but -
the specifics do not matter,
the weather the clouds the sea the air the heat the rain,
none of it relevant, the context
is pointless
as
only
one
thing
is
:
you

Time ((___))

Never before has every moment been such an eternity,
each passing inch of the clock held such anticipation,
such anxiety, such stupid, blind hope, as, as as as
I hope I can maybe make something of it this
time,
yet the dread of the likely, the dread of
the now
and the status quo, they -
the fear is crippling,
the venom entangling palpable,
the goddamn anticipation is swaying and distorting every frame of vision, but I
I can't stop thinking that the only pure vision, the only clear sight,
that illuminated and sharp one, no -
no qualifiers
no statements of truth vailidity
no explanations of value, no -
just that
I can't
stop
thinking about how beautiful you were
in that black dress
that night in Chicago

Expanses of Unfolding ((___))

I dream I dream I dream of those white sheets and their infinite expanse
the gaps they bridged, the purity and solace of their ever-unfolding
volumes, they were - the journey, the destination, the goal
While everything assumes the yellow tint of decay and nicotine,
these sheets, that room, you -
you glow and shine and the light pouring forth is both
blinding and illuminating,damning and uplifting, as -
as the source is gone, internalized,
compartmentalized into a small liquid-crystal box,
a box
that
while
pure
is
removed
but I can taste it: the glare haunts the periphery,
it brightens and shines on all things,
and the memory of what was is haunting and cursing and enraging, but -
the memory serves, the memory serves, the memory serves
not well,
only in vaguely in uplifting the heaviest burden of
yesterday, but -
the memory serves

Planting ((__+__))

To be on fire would be a relief, to -
..to be consumed by something more than -
....more than this pit
I,I,I - am kind of missing consequence,
..that knowledge of moving and maybe of -
....a possibledestination
That challenge, that strife, that conflict had -
..meaning, it had some sort of impact, a -
....resolution, a forseeable end, a - consequence
To be allowed to burn would be a blessing, it -
..would be permission to walk from
....these walls I built with words and inaction
But these walls are higher than words,
..wider than the gulf of a collection of inactions,
....the due rewards of letting things lie
Lying and rotting were the goal, the pursuit and -
..the chiefest of desires and yet -
....often harvests yield bitter fruit
What harvester of seeds can know their yield,
..their final outcome the results of their reaping,
....with only precedence as guide?
This one can - this one, that planter, harvester, and
..manager of stock, this one can -
....this one should have known

and did.

stupid ships of green lights ((___))

Between anger and resentment and bitter jealousy and contentment
I rage, the volumes of this vague nausea and twisting speak, I -
am confused;
I -- need to know, not the words of prophets no, but I -
must have resolution
But resolution is an external force, the culmination of the actions
of others, the building of consequence upon consequence upon
consequence, and -
but not this time. How is one to put words to
one's heart, to know genuinely and in the context of
all things that something is?
Of times past, aught not these feelings that came
before count, be weighed against the now, weighed against
the sinking? They no longer seem relevant -
as always, only the now and tomorrowmatter -
and that is fair to nobody.

untitled2 (((((_____))))))

The pressing of your clothed backside to my lap, the
rhythmic gyrations of anticipation, the awkward, inefficient
dragging of faded jeans from your long and ever soft (although
on occasion prickly) legs, the pressing of naked flesh to
naked flesh, cocooned by felt and plaid blankets and
love, I thought I had found ecstasy, but no - no, I was
wrong -
Ecstasy was not to be found in the taste of secrets you
kept buried beneath clothes, nor the soft, supple breasts
accentuated by the spongy pink flesh of a nipple, no, ecstasy
was not to be found there -
Ecstasy was not to be found in entry, those first or
last moments of how beautiful our love-making was,
though humbling and astounding and mind-shattering that it was,
no - ecstasy was not to be found there -
Ecstasy, nirvana, the culmination of life, everything in a thousand
worlds rendered nothing before it, every dream and belief I had
a pitiful, miniscule thing held up to the blazing inferno of
your flesh, all of this and a thousand more rendered irrelevant,
no, none of this approached -
Ecstasy was when you looked into my eyes, those beautiful vibrant
sunset eyes aglow, -
Ecstasy was when you told me that you loved me.

d3lusions

So many like knives they walk,
Sharp and flat, long of stride and angled of tongue;
Their trail wafting, cold and so dextrously-placed --
Calculated coldly with cruel intent to draw blade to flesh,
To crush the self and with intoxicants to drown the lung

So unlike the glare from the edge on the good sun
Are their eyes, so dull and pale these milkwash orbs;
Dead; so far-gone that internal spark, their vehicle driven
Only further in their pursuit in the entrapment of further flesh,
Cast far they can that seductive chord

So few those that resist, so many that end so entangled
Yet with eyes equally as dll as the captor arachnid,
How is better to be hoped for choice but chemical thralldom?
Yet twice-damned the same, be it fated or not --
As livestock to slaughter led

So singly they who defy the Word, who --
By mere alone gaze and very sense of presence,
Render unto new laws of calculation and shatter intention --
They that manage, above and superior to the chemical
-- to not press for undue advantage, yet - leave none to chance

So wrapped in singularity twice-bound we sit, wait --
Yet therein lies the struggle of relinquished solace,
As all movements lead not to nauht, but -- but rather,
To points of origin, forever fleeting from destination,
Leading always up to, as it should not, a cause lost.

untitled

Though these hands be bloody and cracked,
they be also wonting and stagnant;
the sun falls lightly not
This blood that once carried that sacred fluid,
that giver of charisma and bringer of lightning,
the lightly falling sun has sapped and dried pathways
and left us as wretched, desperate, gone:
what is thought without synapse?
emotion without endorphin?
ambition without drive?

Ships fit for Sailing ((--))

It was in that brief pause of a second, when all the world stood still and yet revolved around us, a centrifuge of the meat, spinning and isolating us from the mass; it was in that burning flash of a moment, that pause when the meat was superseded, and there was only the eye -
and it was then that I saw you - it was then that you were there, the longing of the meat removed, the ties of the mere chemical seeping into the earth as the blood had,
and the weaving ephemeral serpents coiling about us;
in that place of uninhabited and empty sails.

The Descent ((--))

Sitting, waiting, hoping for the delivery of a string of ones and zeroes that may deliver unto my pallet that same taste of your breath, that soft biology of mouth and lip and saliva, a glimmer of luminescent, glowing eyes - a system for interface. A fool's pursuit, as cold digits of any technology fail to emulate effectively the intermingling system of cells that we so recently were. And yet I wait, baited hopes and withheld breaths, for that sequence, waiting in the vain hope that it restores even a fragment of what so recently was; waiting again to descend down into life.