major prophet

I was a being molded for nobility. I was concave, seeking the weight of that which came from heaven; primed for the blight of that which is holy.

Ah, but tis a balm. Tis a current. Tis a voice. The assuaged have woven their nets in which to catch visions, but often they speak in colloquialisms.

Yet I am incapable of duality. My neurons make it so. My organs make it so. My vessels make it so. There are none righteous. There are none who understand.

Is it I alone who can give my hunger a proper name? If not, dare I share the feast? For none could bemoan my false burdens like I do. None could know my nauseous raptures.

 

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she is me

like so many baffling paint-by-numbers; different instructions each – we taste each color but know not the hue that is spoken of and so, the flavor becomes sullied – our best guess an affront to the submerged, swaddled, beating heart

like so many connect the dots, whose meaning is stolen by the dimension of an entire dimension (and the feel – how to hold a human hand without a thousand glistening synapses begging the question(s))

lost. standing. looking on. lost.

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my alarm on silent, again

there is no longer time enough,

the days when hunger was slicked with work – the clink and clang of suppositions falling into wily, dimly-lit phrases, tugging on muscles in the mouth and drawing out higher temperatures across the span of an unseen face;

have nearly vanished. a step bypassed as an appetite changes out of necessity.

atrophy makes for heavy fingers; a light and pliant set of corneas, eternally swelling on tides of stimulation; a pair of jaws forgoing their innate function for something which better serves their master.

but their master has tired of giving orders. it gazes at an altered reflection in a darkening room and draws a finger lustfully over sharpening edges and rounding portions of flesh and catches, over its shoulder, the wavering and tumbling of another distant planet

one more portion empty. room in the canopy for the surplus. kingly gifts brushing ancient pillars. somehow the interaction is acidic.

 

 

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your servant, saul pt. 3

I would pit the world as my enemy sooner than –

but the ‘world’; do I not treasure it despite my impassioned words?

if I could make up my mind as to how to deal with this tragedy, that would be a sure thing

that would be the catalyst

that would be the bridge

what a predicament, truly. I find that for all my wealth of words, I often prefer to use the shortest, meanest (at least they are vibrant enough)

‘no, no, no, no, no’

what a tragedy.

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I was hungover; the word slipped my mind

I will call myself in all manners a coward;

hear the slight lurch the slight crunch the thick skin splintering amid rivulets of translucent fluids – even so I mask it pettily in sweetness

but the state of the teeth disagree; the angle of the jaw protests

I want sweet words and gentle whispers but I shall provide all manner of rot, all depths of intoxication; don’t worry that you’re still finding the means to bear the sensation

you’re just one of us. and maybe more so than I think.

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bad try

the imprint of my limbs has been understood;

made script, made mean.

faint over epochs and thin through inches of mass

clues come easily enough, diluted and proverbial

but mark my words, marks on my arms, marks above my head,

if my true mouth could feed itself –

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