Sta.sh
The familiar dread:
an era of days that never obsolesce,
creatured by clowns with warpainted smiles,
weathering hokums, undressing the exomphalos.
This polysemy is nameless like ugly penetralia
collecting in dimensions across the street, where a man is always leaving
with my life. The whole entire world is such poor theater,
the original atrocity is reenacted without veracity. Will I be
beautiful,
this time?
I'll always mourn how the empiricist
murders
me.
But
you do
inspire some magic, as evidenced
by a thousand future empires
plummeting
my shower drain.
The gallery fades in and out of their seats,
an orchestra picks up a sheet of blank measures
only to disband like wintered oak leaves
before the strings find a voice,
and I cry for what I've never lost or had,
jealous, like an unstrung guitar.
I have nothing,
so I'll trade all my pride for love, I'll give you a poem
for every shadow cast by the way your hair disappears
into the air, against the solemn oath of light, against the star that
dies in reverse, a birth and then abstraction.
For what is really left for me here, if I cannot remember
you
(were always [with] me)?
My life story is without a depth, flat as a razor
blade. I'm going to sleep and then wake up
when I can cast this holiday to Hell.
But I'm not allowed to convolute my passion into verse.
I am required to be crushed by the preponderance
of time and gravity and obligation.
My histories leak into the cache,
are spent
and then we're met again as newborn
tragedies.
My envious goddess, I deplore my acts.
I need a revolution; bloodletting the old devils
and plucking out their bobble heads,
the job,
the terrorist,
the parents,
the disease,
the money
and fear
and death,
they are the violence of Spring without a Sol.
Give me new virginity
or take these remains . . .
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I still am.
They hold the universe inside.
I'm not surprised. Turns out you are a good poet. Even while sometimes I can be off-put by your choice of words, I always just keep those pieces of yours on the back burner until I feel like thinking (or there's a dictionary handy.) It's always worth it.
I really like this piece. There are so many absolutely stellar lines.
Again, you amaze those who can see what you have to offer.
It is mind-boggling how such darkness can dazzle, how these shadows become brilliance. I imagine vistas only revealed by the infrared light that flows through the cosmos like blood, on sunless planets populated by lonely spirits.
And you, a lonely starchild from such a vacant place, trapped in all the bitterly shallow frivolities of our Western holidays.
Maybe I should base a poem on them xD