a poem, for you, my dear…
my dear…for whom though “a thousand miles separates us the same mood persists”.
i sit on bank river crystalline.
scraggling scraping troubled exne tornado diskette hatred.
fucking inside people rocking my brain, i feel fussy.
does anybody understand my internal heart string grappling-socie…humani…communi…yet…aestheti…observationesque tendencies?
am i confined to rapture back backwards and just sit alone stark naked tired, bouncing?
i am scratching my own existence to shredded map ache questing.
suddenly, flabbergasted, standing, zoomed out, in open courtyard, with mild-mannered clothes, wondering what the fuck matters “ to matters not. and now…
surrounded by only white (walls and ground) and the camera zooms back in to take view of a surprised gasp: a cynic turned innocent.
i am no fascinating conundrum on bench plate waiting to arrive happenstance.
but rather, one who thinks he’s too entitled for his own good.
an only child bent out of shape, desperately.
none hear the moans of agony of seemingly ‘weird’ people.
and choose, rather, to sit uncontemplatively dangling their feet over the dead walls of superficiality.
i am, at the utmost, figuratively dead tired of samsara.
And, feeling totally unkempt, cornered, unloved, and plastered,
veritably crucified.
I feel that eternal disposition to bottle up, but, in the end, in a hint of wisdom, find that what’s important is to seek pretty packaged salvation quickly.
the rhythm, heartbeat and melody in writing sparks memories of music.
….i wrote this on a sunny afternoon, feeling utterly dampened by the internal judgments-hatreds I was spending on the universe. just grumpy, in general.
