Tuesday, February 7, 2012

day 10

A gently tilted day is not much to awake for,
for if pushed to the side,
none would like to half-ass a triumph.

No knees would like, in a particular sense, to
bounce about and walk as if mimicking a pinball;
falling, pushed from bumper
bunker to bunker with flashing
neon scorecards and chiming audiotags-
points for concrete bounding-
points for breaking urban bondage
in terms of city blocks with freezertinged
homeless haired vagrants screaming,
admittedly, they are past due, but only
half late and are, as it turns to be,
three terrible mistakes down the road from relative success

An alarm, half ignored and fully basic,
sounds for hours, scribbling in appropriately low tech
notebooks that would gladly scribe humanities'
cruel secrets in the margins and log, in
perfection, the way in which
several sleeping students should awake,
like a long walk home from some metaphysical afterparty
in the dark to arrive at a flicked light,
eventually falling asleep to the humming mechanics of
the wistful thoughts that pertain to freezing to death.

Red eyes, half black, drawn tight and forced,
sunshine stains the shades in an attempt to
hide the daytime from nasty nighttime sins
while all young buck against the flow to
perpetrate errs. Articulating an ignored passion inbetween
stories of vicious
vicariously living through empty
cyber skeletons, I
attempt to carve some simple life into
these half awake forever bones-
for even some self destruction may suite me,
jumpstart waking up. In sleep I walk the dead halls
where religion becomes folklore, where these days become
history, where vacuums steal virtue and significance from
those who passed mildly into some fair unbecoming:

For every tilted day will cease to be.
Every artificial moment will die,
and transform, rebirth to clouds of
alien skies and organic manipulations in some dimension-

For every pinball game played
mayn’t be won, but in terms
of bondage, when the game ends
the chains break-
when the basics implode, explode, magnify,
and loop around to pat God’s back,
perhaps our specks would be to small
to be recognized by the impending nothingness.
Perhaps we’ll hide in some cosmic corner to disappear like
crumbs in the darkness.

And no joker, big, small, or beheaded shall
play me the fool,
unless every gently tilted day
lies, speaking in generic hostility.
Urge the several
hallucinations out of hiding and coax them
to become tangible, No
Nothing studied or calculated-
everything Alien and beautiful,
no stars, no moon,
all perception.

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