how the air is heavy burlap threads
and the rain, a black pill of slime bursting in all of your chambers
an orgasm exploding into a system of veins
that is the wellhead voice of the root
as it breaks
precious effluvium
whisper gods into the oil
We must concede that meaning, then, is an illusion created by our minds to comfort us in a hostile and unfathomable universe filled with tendrils of random chaotic destruction that could at any nanosecond strip our flesh from our souls. That any sense of understanding, of empathy, etc. that we are blessed with, is a gift that was accidentally slipped to us beneath the curtain of our entropy.
That to understand anything is an impossibility, and that to feel as if you understand something is a miracle.
vosotros coséis los
ojos cerrados
se injerta dos
tumbas en la
en la colina
your heart needles the tomb
through the barrows
Adam Itkoff just launched a digital magazine called The Internet is Dead, and featured within it a poem I wrote called Spoliation of the Subconscious.
pour-torn blooms of graphite in resplendent sterling bursts
kisses of desorption wet chameleonic
explosions eclipse
anemic cheek subside
cold morning, unfathomable fury of calm
blush with scarlet flame
alar orbs of brass
crooning subtle slithers
of floral storm
sphere-slices of
a flesh nest of petal-gentle
milk hot eyes
sop blue abrasions where you should see
a line segment of ligaments
and martial tissue
false glows vibrate tiny beaks from circles of liquid skin
rise and fall and drip through the gates of matter
far in the distance there are skeletons dancing
“There will be a time when you believe everything is finished.
That will be the beginning.”
- Louis L’Amour