The sky was like dawn trying to break all day, and the grey of its lack of sun was not in any way a counterpoint to joy, the miasma inspired thoughts and pleasantry, a hiding need to lurk indoors. Now the rain pours down, and the horses muscles in the pasture gesticulate and shake it off of them like the invisible. I watch them like an equestrian obsessed psychopath, their nostrils flare: a poems opening, or a bad and pornographic escapade.
My home is a warm navel which i cling to, and outside the chaos of what i do not control takes place, totems have been disenfranchised of their godlike power, in here I’ve witnessed the fall of realities held so dear, watched fools riot over victory, and men who have lost the greatest game hung up by their innards in what we call popular demonstrations.
Here what is humane is merely what is expedient for those avoiding guilt. Here, power is nonsense peddled the correct way, given yearnable flesh. They’d have us take for pleasure what is clearly pain but slowly given.
Everything is replicated and we have all been told there is a way, when clearly there is not.
My oddness robs me of the comforting touch of narcosis brought on by sleep , I roll around two hours a night with a cancerous pain in my heart and i lurk like pythons in the branches of nightmares, running endlessly in labyrinths of repeated actions, these are called dreams but they rule the night so i say they are real, as i must exist half of my life in them. Ive no patience with Jung or Freud when it comes to this, as far as i can tell they mapped the dreams of day squandering fools who were mostly bourgeois functionaries, as if one were to dissect the reaming dreams of Jeff Sessions and find a meaning for the whole of man, a template which to apply.
And prose, that broken mechanism i use to float my thoughts down canals of clogged nonsense , it is hindered more by our control of it.
We used to be constrained by the structure of poetry , now we are constrained by the overly free use of verse which has no end and eats itself like an ouroboros. Everyone imagines themselves some genius no matter how shit their skill, everyone gets a medal, everyones a poet though they suffer less than real poets. One could come home from a war a coward and receive medals for mere participation.
In my mind i wonder what silent prison I’m supposed to send these thoughts to, what oubliette would be sufficient? Is there one? I think not, one begs before the monuments of what we construe as truth , imploring them for one more go round, Please! one says.
But quiet answers, like the voice of god.