This is a symbolic infection, trust me.
Your systems are fine, the mind is the rotting corpse of your initial fears and assumptions.
Fantasy is not delusional, it is this mad clinging and clawing at reality that is the sickness.
You do not exist except in the fallacy of culture, capital C.
A body is done, not had. A fire can spark good but burn bad.
We accuse each other of not doing enough, but can anybody ever do enough for anyone or anything?
It is the resistance to arbitrary closures that has our minds in the bear trap of bare life.
We all stand in the foyers of death, ready to check in at any time,
So why slash each other’s throats for one more drop of delicious plasma when there are pools of it in heaven?
Fact or fiction is not the question here, for both are imaginary.
It is these titles that require close reading and deconstruction.
Wildly uninspired, tired, but not exhausted.
Had something once, but lost it.
Tossed it in the trash, unwanted.
Not sure what it was but its spirit stays, now I’m haunted.
Lately, precipitating meaning
Is like rubbing lamps and waiting for the genie.
Constantly qualifying concepts
Makes me feel like I’m doing drugs I’m not even on yet.
Any feeling of the concrete
Slips through my fingers like water, to hold it is beyond me.
These provisional existences dovetail like carpentry,
Maybe if a few more do that, then I’ll start to see
A pattern making actual sense
Instead of phantasms I consistently invent.
Life as ‘life’ does not exist, there is no single human,
Only organisms constantly producing and consuming
The waste of the other, of the other.
If we decide there is any single way to be human then
We unconsciously decide there are many ways to be inhuman,
And that just does not sit for some.
Sat in my office, this sarcophagal space, this coffin of time and place,
And furiously worked in a fervor to replace
The dead inside me.
Their desires are heavily in contempt of my own,
But the dead are also my own,
So who gets to call this new body their home?
This fabric has a complicated texture,
Wrapping all around a madness full of ill conjecture.
It is not we who are uncertain, it is the uncertainty of language built directly into our deepest methods of
Grab these instances and energize them, open them to critique, and explode with counterattack.
A camera fixates on your soul and catches machinations it did not predict.
You should have stopped the director before he started selling tix
But now those frames of indignation are an Oscar-winning flick
And all you had to do was dodge the frame, avoid the pic, but you slipped,
Now you’re grounded in a cage and wings are clipped.
How many people stream in the streets screaming, “there’s a first time for everything!”
Yet they never trip lysergic, never lay with those equal parts man and and woman,
Never crack knowledge over radiant losses in entropy? Swine! Unkempt beasts unfit for literary representation, Let alone a spot in top honours of rock-solid idols halting mountaintops from massacring the falling refractions of a blue sky!
What version of authenticity slips by their censors? What odors and visions slip by their sensors?
What wretched plights on humanity’s backside walk crestfallen in their gluteal shadow?
It is they who cause diamond degradation into granite,
And leave a hollow mass in the center of the planet.
Untangle my sentences before they carry us down fleshy rabbit holes,
For their teaching power is beyond reproach if only for a moment we arrest
This dystopian synergy of sense and nonsense and rectify ourselves before the altar of the madman.
Let us proceed with a noncriminal putting-to-death before the lawyers get involved
And pure human exegesis is corrupted with the festering foul stench emanating from cavities in the mouth of
Her scales are full of shit and spilling over with fecal ineptitude.
My drop-in hours are from birth to death, or by special appointment.