The mind is a funny thing as it runs on its own. Self-perpetuation whizzing and burning on a course to soar out of your mouth on its way to the sky. The pulse beats in the bone orb imperceptible to us. Until it complains. The pounding of an overworked thinker beating for a moment to feel weaker, a moment for the body to perpetuate on auto piolet. Fatigue is the crucks of the breaking of genius, that grand moment to test the mental medal. Wave after wave of sleep washes over the over worked and yet still bored mind. A and B fit the same and reverse in singular boredom. The trick of the weary and pleasure of the bored is to find how A & B are never combined. The mind is a funny thing when driven by the bored
The juice beads to the surface
And the sugar kisses your lips
The sweet rests upon your tongue
Sinking your teeth deep
Slurping, as drips fall down your chin.
A flush comes to your cheeks
And the fruit slides down your throat.
This is how I drank you in.
Every meeting as succulent as the last.
The heat built as steam on glass
On and on sliding down my throat.
You clutched my one.
You clutched me twice.
You clutched my mind.
The bitterness of fruit is that it goes stale.
Washing down my gullet, repeated.
Again and again the same taste.
Stale, bitter, and ever fresher.
We found new ways to remain dull.
Maybe this, never that… Try?
Unadventurous, sweet and delicious
Is the fruit you know too well.
When the aching doesn’t stop
And your legs trudge on.
When the tendons scream
But you don’t drop your hands.
When your feet crack
When your skin tears
When your tendons begin to rip.
But you push on.
You never stop.
You will never.
The thump of the heart
A skip for some paint
Flutter for the beat
Pause, ative A
Pause, ative B
The types the flow
Buh bum, buh bum, buh bum
Blindness falls on the children of the privileged. They come up and up and up and learn to replace themselves but not to better their surroundings. What care would they need put in anything that is not themselves? What effort should they really exude? How could they really make a difference? Their each only one person. Each only one. One made of each ignoring the problems around them. One made into the mass of blind that can no longer observe themselves in the objective. The one who breaks from the many has learned the subjectivity to be objective in an ignorant world. Our ignorant world. They have come up from the slums to the highs of education. And sad, sad knowledge of the truth of oppression. But the blind will not see if they continue to look at their own two feet.
I have a love of which I knew nothing of until the day she walked into my life. I can no longer see what is beyond the cloud of my horizon. For it is no longer only mine. But a future that is shared by her and I and if I were to use my powers of foresight to see what the world will bring for me, I would be excluding the beautiful possibility of that which is now mine and hers; to hold one another. It is the love of my life in my arms and on my shoulder as oft’ as the night falls. She is the flame that was waiting to burst forth. That false flicker I felt before has flittered back into its flint beginnings. Now a roaring inferno, hot breath of flames has brought me to the point of desperate infatuation with a woman I call my own.
It will never hold you
Like my pillow cuddles me
Un-objectively, and full of nothingness.
The void is welcoming like a lake
It surrounds you, silences you
Could drown you, or float you.
Bliss of unknowing irresponsibility
Surrounding the bright eyed coward.
Boldly going where none ever could
So, say I start. I pick every flower for ten miles? How far does that get me? I sell them on the street like Shaw’s girl? Do I get lifted from my plight? Does the gracious Man come to educate and show me the ways of His world?
Say He comes. Say I am taken to the home I have stared at; inside the door, over the stoop that I have so often drooled. I am brought in as a bosom friend; a confidant. He gives an idea and I chew on it for weeks. By the time the saliva drenched figment has dissolved in my mouth there is no other taste than that of its sweet pontification. It is now a locked and needed fixture in my underdeveloped pallet. Next week the Man gives me yet another morsel of His ideas. I chew harder, ready to devour all that newness in the vice of my teeth. It takes the day. Only the day. Feed, chew, repeat. He educates with the spoon until I no longer need his hand on its handle.
What have I become? Am I the man who fed me, or Shaw’s dirt covered debutant? I am a force. An educated force pitted into power; the one who knows the underbelly of the spoon better than its cradle
We have come, and we do not mean to stop. We are here and we do not mean to effect the world as we do. This is it. It all comes to a point where no one, not the cleaver, not the bold. No one can stop the unyielding force that is our next step. The progress of progression is programed to step, step, step its way through existence until the abolition of all life. All needless life. The life that is preserved is that life seen as important, the ideal of the kind. Not too kind. But the courtesy of my name is that it is privileged enough to protect me against domestic authoritarian terrorists. The terror, the pain, the strife of a nation. The all-knowing know nothings of our land ready to consume the world in a fit of rage and fiery breath. Consumed to fuel, the lower has a purpose. To drive the fire breather on. Be the gas in his metallic belly.
It comes to a close,
The year that I oppose
While knowledge grows
From your throws
Every lie shows
Yet no one knows.
No one even cares.