Friday, May 13, 2016

the dispossessed curse with wisdom of their curses.

i.

though i know my expectations are not met is why, i feel infuriated and insulted that i haven't been warned to be silent. this war within ourselves and directed by the secrets of others is dulling, indirect- it will be taken from me, i will realize i was never cared about, and i'm certainly not cared about to be blacklisted or assassinated... and i will feel left empty, not knowing what to do. then is when i will finally say something to myself that is very direct: "my god, it's a war i've been nursing the whole time." this is my anger. it has been either righteous and ineffective or it will become threatening.
we are not wanted for our gifts or for our capacity to channel love. we've all been stolen from ourselves. being stolen is not an idiosyncrasy. it's evidence of terrorism- this, on a global scale, we understand more than all else.
we will be left alone once used up, shocked that we had capacity for such.

we are ruins. i see it in everybody. we continue seeking.

ii.

ode to the atlas insulting to unconvincing of the truth of change, change itself, our function-
the known is germinating into unexplored territories.
the world is a reminder of itself as our entrapping we are used to knowing.
unclaimed nations drift unhurriedly, prepared
is the heatening determination of human hands. human hands do
that which they believe is assuring for
the securing of the future of themselves. if not secured, not
counted on.

my paranoias are trivialized.

approaching now is aphrodite, who has split a part of herself away- a huge, writhing worm- the penis to an invertebrate body to a male named hermes. he is white, blind, and small in her arms, small as a human babe. hermes' original body will be the form based on what will one day be the male penis.

the lights turn on, splashing a yellow color of every symbol that has ever been. aphrodite smiles. her apparent poignance is envied. the latitude and longitudes of the world tilt. oceans pass by, seeking new floors and motions within. the lands slip beneath. those of the lands learn to swim. disliking it, they hold their breath and drown. nobody is starving anymore.

aphrodite watches from far distances, carrying hermes suckling at her teats as she remains poised, her arm she had torn off, regenerating, barefooted, exhausts her changing ideas which separate themselves from her. she seeks to appease the drive inside of her- a force that could be the core of a bursting star, a force that could be gravity she wishes to destruct. this power that is inside of her body is sought to be deserted outside of her body, to be in charge of its own destruction. this is an act of abandonment.
she walks for a suitable place to lay hermes at the very moment she is sucked dry of her breast milk. he is either wanting or needing of more- aphrodite is confused with herself, as she cannot seem to decipher which.
this moment is when she has found a pool filled of other fat white larvae squirming against one another, unwanting of one another, stubbornly, as though each in a stupor of self-perceived superiority. this is a fight.
aphrodite sits on a bench carved of marble where she can see over the huge pool in which the larvae live. the larvae send chills up her spine. gently dropping hermes into the pool- hardly tolerating such discomfort as that which she is in- she leaves- to birth something of her heavy conscious she centers her refined tactile abilities around. she releases her mind with half-hearted believing that it will relieve itself knowing itself, alone, forever.

defense is sought for a vastly puritanical trial in which we find ourselves never innocent, though unaware of crimes committed, and of what constitutes crime- is it what the group accuses the individually considered human animal of- is it the accusatory tone that is the matter? crime becomes a philosophy.
there is no protection for those with leprosy.

hermes' body is white and graying. my body is white and, too, graying. there is no protection for those considered the most powerful in the world, the least terrorized. my life is hell as is yours! my life is hell, we scream to be heard, but it hurts!
proclaimed leprosy is no longer only leprosy, but also all caught which people are afraid of catching. we are even afraid of shaking the hands of one another. we are expected to eat our own bodies, expected to be barbaric upon being quarantined from the world i do not love. the selfish panic we are reacted to with is hardly any less an epidemic than those with which we may always be surrounded.

after growing so wildly like weeds unpulled from earth, i sought freedom- but it seemed not only horrific and lost, but too, impossible.
i became a baby again, suffering tremendously.

there are numbers carved into the arms of everyone i've known or imagined to have known in this blood-drained nation and the nations with which this nation plans innovations upon wars- wars upon each other, and wars within ourselves- those that are proud survive.

i stand on a plank over a spectral field in which blood swims underneath, like huge minnows, giving the understanding of the preparation of volcanic eruption...barely a ghost yet, i've yet to learn what's to come. and you? is it not your sense of self you fear when you see and point fingers at me? are you not powerfully afraid of your markings that possess you?
i am barely more than neglected of roots, neglected of the truth of love, neglected of independence- distractedly fed shit and barely noticing so.

tell me you have not yet fallen in a reign of terror. look not into yourself, but around yourself. these larvae unnourished are stunted of growth, unable to move forward. the larvae continue to squirm against one another.
these larvae are victims not yet let go; this is not yet a grief. there's everybody to accompany them. nuns believe they move them to grow longer, further...these are not dreams- if they were, they'd be killed slowly inside themselves.

everybody wants to kill the dream, but we believe, although desensitized to violence, that the act of direct violence is inhumane. ultimately, this is disappointment we push- disappointing altogether because it fucks up reality.

feminism has come a long way. what hasn't gone anywhere and remains transparent: the oedipal barriers that do not discriminate against anyone remain encouraged- once an epidemic in my mind, now, made clear, a rite of passage demanded from the darkest, most intricate valleys of our genetics.