the parasitics within they make us
famous for things they say we should
a realness of one of me that none can see.
invisible to the naked eye
it is not
rebellion certianly not
in this strength only
in isolated instances.
It's just that we
wanted to go the same way
now over and through it is blood, burnt flesh
a dry empty body waits to be
used, reused, discarded, recycled
Laying on, not near, absent use
emptiness reverbates, then shatters
it's literature and drugs
to all who wonder at the sameness
All of it is
nothing more than this
there is not more than a modicum of challenge
but for the vulgarity of some life some live
it was not a happy time but only the sameness
hiding these violent loathing selves
there is nothing of importance here
or there, only you.
spiritual liberation is not yet
liberation of any sort breeds fear
like the wavering signals coming in over
late-night radio snuck under the pillow of a stick-figure
girl, a caricature is all and so
neither can it be true what she thinks they were
did or she saw felt.
Empty lines never fill in
Nothing is until it is
They refuse to see what is in front of them.
WHat is behind them.
They refuse to be seen.
Then we are not.
Bridal March, Part I: Scything
13 hours ago