I didn’t think I cared for photography

And even my weakness, I despise for the wrong reasons. It’s not a question of whether or not it should be despised, in that I have made up my own mind, and each attempt to shake me from the familiar stranglehold is met with more than barred teeth. You don’t understand at all. Even for this, I fought.

For precious little, I fought.

The microcosmic narrative into which I waded, eventually escaping the chill of the air, for this I fought.

And I despise my weakness for other reasons.

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embarrassing love/hate song

I like you pressed like this, compressed, oppressed –

(I know you protest the word, but we know her, love)

You don’t become geometric, refined(able); for all your sting there is no chance of slicing a finger with a playful stroke. Instead, you seem to grow more non-corporeal.

(Your dream, I know. That’s why you enjoy it. The feeling that your words will phase through their targets and your fists through the tops of your own thighs. Keep up the violence.)

But you imagine you can finally be seen.

A torrent. Two eyes fixated ahead to direct a deluge of hopes and dreams. Call them what you will; they will always be sweet, tender little things to me. You don’t want to be weak anymore. You don’t want to be afraid.

You want to kiss my foul words away.

 

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making plans to drink too much

you read yourself in the gold-crusted words of narcissists; humming their benedictions with innocent submission to their cosmic missions of suicide; I can feel the world growing wide in your eyes; sense the way each bone in your body becomes a conductor for the will of the child’s mind; they taught you to seek a sanctuary in low lights and racing hearts, but they never thought you’d make it so far without a single word; now their words belong to you – you take them for yourself – you wear them like perfume; they cling to you, and you cling to me

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major prophet

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

It was just that I discovered a better source of pain.

Seeking the image of a creature bereft, I recognized instead the bounty of “man” – that they are given first what they snare between their teeth; second what they hold in their open palms. And I understood that I had been feasting for decades.

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.

But – “Ah, tis a balm. Tis a current. Tis a voice.” The assuaged have woven their nets in which to catch visions; they do not use their hands at all. But I have no use for such contraptions, despite my need for them.

On a great mountain top, I make great declarations, “There are none righteous. There are none who understand.

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there’s a blonde out there saving my life

roots torn through soil;

this crusted rot our inheritance snatched up from below in armfuls, in mouthfuls; endless regurgitation in all manner of forms; a breeding ground, it has tasted of us in return

yet our lungs have vindictive capacities;

our minds have capricious visions;

and at the base of my fragile fumbling tongue there is a wailing – at the base of my trembling medicated heart there is a stampede

UPWARD.

savoring the gashes on my skin

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