Saturday, March 19, 2016

tongue and gums.

flesh better be enough to gather me, get me through the world.
i do not want to ask my own body favors.
i do not belong to it, though i'm unsure of whether i am
of its. i wake up, look outside. it's a beautiful day.

i feel my saliva slip between my teeth and around my
and gums like come or like angel skin. truly i'm gossamer. i'm stuck
in this cyclic thought of realizing how beautiful i am, i am almost
flying because i am above everyone else- i have no ugliness
inside, no ugliness in need of release, so you see, everyone else

does, even small children these days only care about
mind control as a reward, adults are the same- nobody wants

their ugliness accumulated within their
minds. they're overwhelmed by it, and their distaste for it
drives them as insane as they can go. they cut the crap
with their inhibitions as much as they can to match up
their crises. everybody is crazy; they don't walk bare-footed

in their backyards. everybody is crazy, they're not
smart enough, they manicure everything they've got then say
"oh, i'm so horrible," when they let it go for a moment.

everyone has given up on possibilities except the ones presented
to them, sort of forced on them, except for me. everyone is violent and
trying to purify
themselves and their lives of it, of their focus on being
polluted. "i'm not fire why do i feel like fire?" i hear them think.

then, as they've been trained, they believe
they have to do something about it. they refuse

to let go of it. they're worried

their inner fire will debilitate them, "oh, i know what i'll do- i'll find a purpose. i'll wear black, and find myself in my wearing of black. it'll feel like i'm directing my own movie about my own archetype; i'll go down in dulled, non-existent history and others will go down with me.
"i'll call the next guy i come across on the internet names. i'll insult him over his genetic heritage. it'd be a relieving of my ugliness; i think i'm starting to get the hang of it that that's what i have just like everybody else- but only i am brilliant enough to know. i'll never write a book but i won't need to because my life is turning into poetry. i'm a real renegade- i'm confident in it. i never realized it before that that's what i've wanted.
my allegiances are dark, cloudy secrets- my flag is my ambitions for the near future. (they can be done). something can be done. yes i'm a renegade. i'll take pictures of myself wearing black [at this point the fire is smoking out of their eyes]. the last thing i'll do screaming, 'original sin!' is i'll mold my body against a bomb assigned to me from my sketchy, cloudy allegiances and kill myself and everyone around myself in a supermarket. i'll free them; nobody wants to live, really.
then i will have wings.

(real original).

everyone ever
is envious of my free ride and the space inside my
mouth my tongue occupies as it feels around the
courseness of the roof of my mouth. i am beautiful, protected by
an orb that i cannot leave but also it sets me free. i'll never be dirty only
fear being dirty. "never fuck up," i remind myself, though
it's not necessary.