[x]

pentadactylism

you realize
and in so doing
something breaks.
every minute
you deign to make
some unknighted landfall
in a mime
of an irreversible
act;
all this time
wasted
going someplace.
when we’ve gathered up the last
of roadworthy flowers,
touched our final
sundance
in the skull
then
we’ll settle
on leaving . . .

or,
you’ll say
we’re still together
hungering in underboards
dog-fed on blood slivers, whiplash and improvidence.
why
do we pick at moments
to unlock their gnashing
guerrilla war?
i have no reason for what i want
just . . . be my collaborateur
my psalmist
my letterhead
be everything that is outlying and forbidden
the cavus which cannot bear the weight of waterweeds
and i promise to keep you
burning, weeping
or whatever
it is
you’ve
been needing
ever since our funeral

in that godless hollow
of a mind

ParamnesiaI've tasted the richness and emptiness
Of forever,
Hacked my way through abstract forests,
Somehow it all made sense.

A scene gets deleted,
I'm looking out and watching myself
Walk backwards like a Hollywood ghoul:
I hear you say,
"Only hummingbirds can fly that way".

You are binding stars to everything,
You tell me it is sunlight catching on dust
Particles.

My self-taught body can utilise these fictions:
Irrational numbers which bend in arm-crooks,
Closing eye beams, who shrivel fjords
And shutter planets;

A wicked, living dissolution (without a will,
Without successors)
Defeats the twin which light has dreamed . . .

beneath

it goes without saying:

everything

the air that settles
on your chest
awaiting sound

the language of your local fruit
the swirl of rind
their glyphs and runes
like sun-bent cheeks

those
bulbous blots
in utero

and creatured time
that sleeps between us.

i needn't tell you anything
or speak my way inside of you
you've doctored in all my aspirations

your furious dreams' wild successions
no longer carry
my peculiar
cursive

because
i am written
on

dead1.

i hear these words
and something happens
in the yard;

it doesn't fit
a poem
or planet.

i see it squeeze
into the slits
beneath your shirt.

i feel it fly the smooth
of you
from off your back. it turns

and hides behind the acres,
stock frontiers
of jagged rooftops,

kept far and safe
and free
of me.

2.

the squirrel
has left the limb
as light would leave
a photograph.

i’m staring into its absence
and some new kind of animal is made;
one where
only
its reversal is alive.

it doesn't move or breathe.

the park is wintered over, and i don’t go.
the poppies
are all gone.
and when they do come back, they never chan

PositiveLeft to me, your worst historian,
to pick up, in a daze, some depth of diction
I never found while you had lived

and I can only now pretend that words are capsules
of sanguinity, that they’ll unmask the symbologies
of sound that bore your binaries to their realms
like sacred dreams of Hypnos.
Regret’s a simple word.

I always thought of "A Separate Peace", and in those scenes
you were this Mozart in the rough, a perfect chord, one
which I would meekly channel through cracks of light
shown through the fist of my own interference,
steady indifference.

newshours no longer whittle into days
strangled and uncalendared;
forbidden rituals of a new dark Eros
clothesline sheets and bed throes → blunders in a blue face
collapse
and sensing your reversals, i’ve grown and grown impossibly old;
god’s bad math:
infinities as remainders.
however they lapse
i spend the better part of them
burning through the flyleaves
for mandalas sealed in hell bank
notes
for ashes of your epilogue
for the end of throats
in songs and news.
no one can regret their past
but of futures . . .
like when planets will re-purpose you
into interstellar fruit bats or thyme pulled from the brink of comets
and you’re wondering why i'll never find you
when datebooks write us in the living.

religion

nowadays,
Autumn mornings can be like this: near to nothing.
they do not sing
exactly
or hold to land
but mangle in the chimes
as gaslights huddle for permanency

and so, failing.

where have we left our-
selves?

i feign allegiance to it: eyes and dreams
and life, as dyes turn glass to hollowware
and wax to fruit,
as brindle on these bones
makes me your passersby.

but somehow, i still believe in you
like fragments of a mythos
which have calcified to faith.
you’re lingering in setscrews that i cannot touch,
waiting in the code of loins and blood-belief.

and as sudden as October sun,
you will rebloom from every pore
and bleed from

18 Tornados

news of the night:
they're madly searching for fresh acts of God
(or quantum luck) on second floors,
scattered tumblers in trailer parks.

nevermind the great uncertainty
leaning down your neckline,
the untelling weight-hood and period-luminosities
they teach you to ignore in school
until your comfortable derangement
can be seen from a dozen parsecs away
as one more animal armageddon.

why don't our hands,
hovels,
and spirits
prove
against our weather?

shallowit's not your beautiful face
that i love

it's how you ruin it

Loving AustraliaYears like bilbies--
days like kangaroos.

Want lives in a pocket womb
(salt suckle; scrape
of your grey-brown curls.)

Heart-split
by hemispheres
(birdsong way
you shape your words.)

Sleep
dredged in red dust,
sprawled across half a world,
night-lit
by wrong stars.

Spring is the perfect time to give up, completely

in place of being
anywhere
our dual contours and divinations
spooning needle eyes of space
and throwing hands at truth the way
a stroke of grass will seem to seethe
with secret oaths
collapsing circles,

you've been leaving braille and bokeh
wings of Hypnos and slow debridements.

won't you swallow
all of it: Spring,
eidetic
histories?

forget about me

don't listen for it, anymore:
the ugly balladist, the poète maudit
unbosoming his delustrants,
strangulations and subglossal annulments.

i want you to find my secret life, the arrhythmia
of spoondrift oblivions.
open out your palms to me; i'm over-swelling with octonaries, octonaries!
that is where i've been these years,
shimmering flush
in the night between kneeholes.

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low T

by `thetaoofchaos, Jun 23, 2012, 11:46:22 AM
Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

i'm too soft and rotten
now
to enter
into anything:
closets, contracts,
secret orders'
sacred blood oaths,

or thresholds; a frozen inch of face
the same as light years, oceans,
never meeting

i'd rather brush my mind with pills
and stick these artifacts of wealth
hard inside your origins

and keep the grass
from living
long

low Tby `thetaoofchaos

Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

no longer inspired by your chemistry

-----

edit: featured in Friday Night Features LIV

---

preview image source: [link]

~schriftsteller Jan 19, 2013 Writer

Well, at least you don't have ED. Low T seems much better to have than ED

But seriously-- I really enjoyed this. Of course it's sad, but that's why I love it so much. There have to be poems that are sad because people are sad sometimes, which is perfectly normal. But there is a big distinction between good sad poems and ones that whine. This is obviously in the former category. There's an underlying ache, but it's not overly self-deprecating or said in a way that makes someone want to say "oh, just shut up." And it makes me sad, which I like too.

I'm finding it hard to work my way beyond the first page of your gallery since I keep seeing things that pop out and beg to be read. This is troublesome considering I like to go back a bit and see the older stuff too haha. I'll work on this!

`thetaoofchaos Jan 20, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

i'm relieved you aren't thinking "oh, just shut up" while reading my art. i can be a bit of a sad sac as far as the nature of the poems i write, so hopefully it does not bum you out too much. sometimes, it satisfies a strange part within us to experience someone else's sadness, which may be why some people dig my art, maybe not.

haha, no, not suffering from ED. and this poem was somewhat metaphorical, but it's also an honest portrayal of my current biological as well as mental state. all i ever do is confess to things, so hopefully you're into that sort of thing. thanks for reading

~schriftsteller Jan 25, 2013 Writer

It would be surprising if you knew how many times I think that when reading things here...which may or may not make me a horrible person haha. I'm picky, what can I say?

Nothing wrong with being a sad sac-- I tend to lean more towards that too. Well, more than lean actually. But yes-- experiencing someone else's emotions is why I read poetry. I feed off of emotion-- whether it be my own or other people's. I think that's why I'm drawn to your work so much-- it's visceral in that sense and it's refreshing and amazing and honest and I love it haha.

That's good. I feel like if I were a man and I had ED I'd probably be very depressed. Sorry to hear you have low T, but I hear they have meds for that now so I guess it's not so bad? And I love confessions!

~flawedfairytale Jul 7, 2012 Student Writer

Yep, I concur 'i'd rather brush my mind with pills' is just beautiful.

`thetaoofchaos Jul 8, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

I appreciate that. Thanks for reading.

`dreamsinstatic Jul 6, 2012 Professional Writer

Your fantastic work has been featured in Friday Night Features.

`thetaoofchaos Jul 6, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Hey, thanks so much!

`dreamsinstatic Jul 7, 2012 Professional Writer

You're welcome.

~ExistenceWeSummonYou Jul 4, 2012

Dear Sir Entity,

You have written a poem, and thank God for that. We are currently surrounded by consumerism and mass media, being bombarded by brightly painted shells of abyss. But this thing you have sent us - well, maybe we can escape through it. Yes, I think we might just be able to squeeze through the space between 'secret' and 'oceans.'

In your debt,
Entity (Another One)

`thetaoofchaos Jul 6, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

I appreciate the co-entitative discourse. I would very much like to believe that I am adding something of intrinsic and lasting value to the common consciousness denominator. But I'll settle for being at least mildly relevant to intelligent people like you.

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