once circumspect- what was mine
seemed like glitches
sparking whenever the fuck. that's fine,
but the colors of the sparks were
disjointed. monochromes of blue.
black dripdrip. penniless green
petrified cat shit. rainbow. rainbow
turning to shit.
spark-hibernate. snow white.
my throat is not mine: things that go in
and out of it? i want them to be mine.
they are not mine. such routines
happen to keep together parts
of machines rather than how it did
my teeth hurt, and my voice slows and
enabling cruelty- ignorant
innocent godless fucker. god how i love
your soiled asshole, your inferiority complex,
your cries for mama. crying
beside myself, hugging
what boniness i can still make sure is there,
it's you i'm underneath, taller
tower than totality- a non-dna strand.
i come at the tip of you being disgusting
inside of me, whether
in my sleep or
in my sickness that keeps trying
to reproduce with me. it's sterile.
more and more
i learn that i cannot destroy.
it was never like myself
to ever reflect light other than how i happen to.
i turn it onto me
being a creep, because i know how to do that-
that "real or perceived" discernment
has turned me into an
mother theresa said everyone faces poverty.
my poverty is sort of like
things not sinking in- and a refusal
that i can't connect to.
things gather but don't
reach into my stomach. they gloss
over the oceans
in their pussy-rowboats.
i'm the titanic
rediscovering this reality for
breakfast, each morning.
identify lotus, forget being
in the middle of doing that.
identify other flowers.
associate with other flowers.
this frog-hop is what the
lotus man would've wanted-
i bleed belief that he happened to me; i don't
give a damn what others see.
i'm never going to fuck up again because
in my reality the lotus man is more
and all of this/that; neverending.
i'm going to cry on his shoulder.
it seems that's the only thing left for humans