Wednesday, May 4, 2016

staying awake to die normally.

how is it one sees one's self? how sweet one is, to think
positively- and too, to enforce
this bullshit on me.
one's interpretations of truisms i in turn
interpret as
polite at most.

i draw myself in a house with a triangular roof.
reality disbelieves a relevance
of appearance, so this may as well go to hell.

i see myself staring out the window of that rented car
forcing the belief that i'd never forget this.

(i remember being as concerned as i was
not remembering much.
)

i see myself in my shredded house, in my old
bed, accordingly acting to this royalty
of the greyed anticlimax, watching myself

proudly eating ice cream, pretending
i don't have friends, or a chance, or a future,
maybe fame after death, as if that's what is
important-
and there's something intimate about the

cut off weight, forgone, half-assed smile
of nihilism.

stuffing wrappers under my mattress
is the only way i can see myself and see myself
flourishing in vitality. i draw myself this way.

this will be forgotten.
until then, a beam of sunshine; crocuses

keeping me enchanted during the day.
legs spread, unfucked at night,
speaking in tongues when poems about

the moon aren't burning holes as lasers, somewhere.
tear this embodiment.

everyone is a slowed, uncertain soldier of violence- we know
we must.
tear this embodiment- dusty, unloved knick-knack.

this will be forgotten. this is how we start
our days, everyday.