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Showing posts from April, 2011

Questions

Some of these questions
break apart on impact,
and some penetrate;
hollowed darts injecting deathly poison,
injecting rescuing medicine.

Life-saving doubt defibrillates
with pulses of reality
from a zealous coma,
so one can grow.
Do not fear the weight
or the stone will have
already crushed you.
Lift it and proceed,
grow strong.

Questions scaffold
the steps of covenant
and it all makes sense.
Talk across the whispered answers
to find yourself alone,
there's not even sand
in this desert.
Sedative nerves trap
stimulated eyes
which dart from
vacuum to abyss.
There's no progress for content
in monologue;
Only for presentation.

Listen to the answers,
explore the essential taboo
of questions until,
apprehension no longer
cracks your voice with
conditioned guilt
and it becomes,
merely the way you live,
and love.

Grow with questions.
Written 05/04/11.

Future.

Twisted rails,
flying sparks,
flying soil,
spilt whiskey strips the varnish from the bar,
smiles cause wrinkles.
Temporarily buried in the chaos of questions
all options eat either your flesh,
your bones, or your skin.

I cant shut myself in this chest
if I'm not sure if it's made of wood, or card.

Twisted rails,
an unexpected, completely foreseeable
collision with consciousness,
for the want of a solid conscience.

So you have a theory?
Unfounded and shallow,
like my empire! It is merely me.

Twisted rails,
what?
Room for improvement,
swing at me with
your circumcision;
a mole hill in a garden.
Occam's razor led me here
and it sends me away,
disproving itself, still correct.

Flying sparks
of friction, not attraction.
Of collision, not excitement.
Flying soil,
disturbed surface;
not from raising the dead
but from burying the living.
Spilt whiskey strips my skin
if i'm not careful.
And I'd rather age from smiling
because it is not me in the chest,
it is the body, and it needs to breathe!
Written 31/03/11…

Love This Broken Glass

Do you really know yourself what to expect?
Curses run dirty veins from your mouth
and blisters ambition with indecency,
and the heat of incompetence.

Cauterize your severed fingers.
You can stand the smell of burning flesh
but not the sight of blood,
and you love the inconsistency.

Listen for these special whispers
breathing gold-dust glitter
into open ears;
muffled instructions;
cancerous elation.

Zeal for the self bleeds dry
as death is always impatient.
Ignorance helps, like a sedative;
masking the terrible symptoms of consciousness.

You transcend the self by
pushing it lower,
not by raising above in
ecstatic meditation.

Burning bridges of foresight,
painting individual hindsights,
kiss the sand that will bury you.

Your words are temporary like sleep
temporary like life
temporary like death.
And wait for no external approval.
Written 30/03/11.