“in days of heat
sticky, sweaty
a carcass living
casually weeps
in the shadow
no ordinary tears
but tears of blood
the tacky wet
red, moist
as the ripping
waves pulse
like a blow dryer
an antagonistic sun
the hairy face matted
the guilt, the rage
hot issues all well
spent with no
mention of rot or
decay featured now
a carcass dying
in days of heat…”
out of Context;
‘a dangling whip-like appendage, the Clitic, stands distinctive in this corrupted linguistic trick of the mind… the process of control seems like a theory of control, different for each unique character scripted in this act, and appearing as continuous variables uninterrupted by time… even as our vertical awareness stirs our soul, the opinion mentioned earlier is responsible for sending out batch quantities of life for specific end results, to control a discrete robotic assembly working to manifest its will… a theory on process theology could be described as not everything is god’s will, but god has a will in everything as all experience contributes to the process of reality, you could further break that down into god as persuasion…’
the world warps around the continuous consciousness that grows…
emitting a signal that replenishes the dynamic of energy that gets drained
as the cosmic joke funnels our souls into this chaotic state of matter…
we wash ourselves with the pity and sorrow and laughter
inherent in the suffering of succotash…
the diabolic parabola, the learning curve where the junk collects,
whether at the bottom or in the middle of the air…
the objective? the collective? a struggle…
we were meant to juggle our reality by the thread of a yo-yo,
and by then the merry jester tugs back upon our dreams…
like a simple-minded fisherman reeling in the catch…
the imagination gets a fierce degree of gravity from the inner child,
bearing the bubble back to the ground, but quickly caught off-guard
by the up-thrust of windy retreats…
where is the imagination left now?…
gliding off into gilded realms unknown…
the karmic …
out of Context;
‘this linear adjunct gives me the bends, a series of twisting and turning inclinations, and yet pulls you back into place for the next round of shit… not too much to sift through with these haggard ideas of the ways things should try to be…’
out of Context;
‘was there ever really anything left?… or was it all just a series of facts?… the poetry translated through a tormented scripture… no, just the repressed buttons and switches and levers that resist the finger, we down play the mutant suffering motherfucker unaware…’
out of Context;
‘the rape, the rape of ourselves and the land, and this misery translates again and again… tearing the tainted thrust apocalypse into the wind, and savoring that drastic sigh, as all hell broke loose in fits at night… the mind an unsavory stew…’
out of Context;
‘to grow from pets into people as we take turns soaking our bones, washing the conformity into our minds, but without the discretion that ages left… some people see the patterns inside the ones we are all given, the symbols that trigger the fireworks rise, like acting the phoenix willing to able…’
out of Context;
‘decisive devices carry out the lords of destruction, I find myself cringing with my fists out in front, and the sudden impulse to strike out… lashing only against the sides of hell, the silence felt so deeply when all else might be alright in some way, but cannot be…’
out of Context;
‘plodding with what condemned fortitude that only a hell-fire furnace can create… we summon the demons that taint our dark sideways glances, lacking any real forethought to the unmentionables, and dirtying those unclean and defective wholes…’
out of Context;
‘i feel lost like this… saving up for an expulsion into the abyss… loveless, disgraced trip to falling… what can I give?… errant in divine, a fool’s proper wisdom of conceptual content, and nothing you would be interested in by the end…’