smearing opals of sense into the rush of reason,
you seek to soak up the mess with surplus of accretion.
your words find open egress, but reach the cusp of bereavement
as they leak awoken regrets, faucets with ducts out of Eden.
benchpressing astronomes amidst aporia,
the excrescent patronome emits its scoria.
possessed essence collapsed and thrown in torrents of
excess, hellish fractured zones, dysphoria.
reckless subordination to contortion’s basic sores and phase shifts,
coordinated swarms in waves of gory shapes with storied faces.
i’ve torn the laces that reined in ancients,
now they convey a store of prehistoric traces:
phantasmagoric blasts of morbid
ghastly forms and patterns,
it’s Goya’s Saturn eating the boy from the cavern;
the scream of nature released from the weeping dreams of glaciers,
the aspens quake for their absent maker, captured in tragic lake cores.
just tics and grimaces of the primordial soup.
the repetition of difference is life’s horrible loop,
around a shore it pollutes,
eye of the storm on the dunes
of the real, reveal seals that are formed from abuse.
beyond the night of the world,
apparitions slip in past my vision,
primally plural.
abstract excision to the crack of diction,
geist in the neural,
synaptic systems in a lapsing prison,
spliced into verbal with violent dispersal.
dare to rend the veil and deconstruct the self,
breach the central jail where the ego hunts in stealth.
it’s an endless trail of eaten secrets sudden felt,
but never men avail to see what’s summoned else.
deracinate your fascination
from that placid basement to the cracks adjacent,
the fabrication of elaborate spaces.
the labyrinth’s mason is stagnant, pacing,
as i relapse into a state of mayhem—
did i create them?
approach the glass and behold the collapse of Proclus.
expose the lack that opens a trap for neurosis.
trying to close the gap with the vocal track’s verboseness,
or else scroll to grasp the motion’s lasting locus.
it’s a task a social class of locusts sold us,
cajoled to pass disastrous boulders slopewards.
disowning that provokes attacks from vultures,
but that nodal blackness holds a path to gnosis.
a poet’s role’s to grow his own psychosis
and show you folks there’s always holes in wholeness:
inanis quod nullo modo satiare posses,
mirages cloaked through bogus hope for solace.