Wednesday, December 7, 2016

we are not in this together.

welcome. my name is lab rat among lab rats today. unremarkable. taken
from the sewers to a box emulating the former's labyrinthine
the search for affect is in my ratty hands
that prefer to be dirty

as the dangled karat guides the way to victory.

i am not missing as it has seemed to myself- a word problem
yet to be completed is more like it:

"if so and so has an apple and their brother is two inches taller, but
so and so who has an apple is also bananas and is average-heighted,
the little brother is likely to have either apples, bananas, or both.
how tall is the little brother- that is,
if stasis is really a thing? does the reader believe we ought to
focus on symbiosis, instead?

being something
at the moments i'd rather be seen as being itself

not even trying to look at
or touch
or admire

too much want
too much want for this to be exactly the opposite

and the want is pointing to the impossible
which better not exist

but might
as i do not fit into
the too much want

hate to allow myself a confession
that's been going insane on the back of my tongue, that's been
in the middle of the fucking room.
hate to be a negative nancy- furthermore, to know
that i could easily personify that. fear it, in fact. suppress it
for all its taboo.
live it

as a consequence- that walk on the wild side
of keeping it all in.

it does have to come out at some point

and perhaps reign terror
and you might have to understand me for it.

this is about me not thinking about stuff i care about and such pleasantries.
i'm thinking about the deaths of stuff i care about. i'm
mourning to boot.
hate to experience ego withdrawal. i know

the ego is such selfish shit
whose power is okay only in moderation.
hope my guilt makes up for it
since i feel so guilty to begin with. (hope it's worth something.)

it's better late than never
to open up, before becoming someone
with very high blood pressure caused by stress
unattended to.
better not suicide just to avoid embarrassing myself- my reality
being my reality in front of
the realities of others. that dream of being naked in class. that fear

of being something petty to laugh at.

this is where my propriety concentrates, so it seems. (by the way.)

it's trying to be nice like how we all
try to be nice. who doesn't want to take a stab
at being nice to sylvia plath
as we all do
before she cuts the shit? we might save her life.
the heroism of the ego

could be reasoned!
formalities are mandatory anyway!

and your surgery is surgery all the same; provocation.
it is desire to explore reaction
in a kingdom where warnings against exploration
go unnoticed.

i want you to know i protest today, as it's been made clear
i am no longer a fascinating game. not the intricate puzzle
building up to scenic poetry

as was interpreted last time.
so, no.
i hear the buzzing of operation, the game- horrified
upon realizing the sad clown

is me

with the red nose, unable

to teach
to pose a challenge-

such was my pride and joy.

off limits.
off limits until you miss authenticity, such as that

which i see within myself.
by then, i will be long past it.
dead sylvia plath in a deathbed.