Battered Clamor

Tuesday,
June 21, 2011

12:48 AM

6/21/2011 12:50 AM

Cornered by the
consistency of it, turning into better expectations, my old dreary day-dreams
finally subside.

I’m a new castration
of an old ideal, my finger tips tingle, but the force is not hypnotic, I stall
pause stutter, start again, a straight on shot from the direction of the
violent sounds.

Emanating from the
origin, plausibly disastrous, the words do not contort, you who stumble over
achievement, do not recognize that these feigning symbols bear nothing on the
substance, will wake up, feeling smarter than yourself, pay attention to that
oxygen, nostrils dismiss my flack.

Have you ever wept?
Boredom in the response of tragedy, fledgling emotions, from a wannabe mystic,
until my own ego supersedes the needs of the observer. I hope your finger slips
on the cursor and you ctrl-a and delete your connection to the universe. Don’t
hover in the cut-copy-paste cache, turn the spinning disks of your hard drive
inside out, and cease to record characters. Let animosity of spirit upholster
your soul with scorch marks, die a thousand deaths, and be reborn in a neon
jumpsuit, clapping in time with the new solstice rhythm, lending your hand to
the frightened paraplegics, whose eyelids flutter fears that they cannot dance,
but whom drive to work daily.

This is not the
world of actuality, this is the world of pre-prescribed know nothings, this is
the earth, where imagination dies on the vine, when time is static until death,
when your open wound is fingered with filthy nail-bitten reachings until the agony
subsides due to the acceptance of a continued sensation.

I will dance out of
the womb and arrest the doctor for his lack of sentience. I am the miracle,
life is substantial, from this moment on, your efforts are to be directed
towards the proliferation of spirit. May the ghost of mirth haunt my corpse
until it leaves me breathless in the unshackling of reaction, until my top
spins out, to rest upon its side, for good.