Congratulations to anyone who has stared long enough into the abyss that the abyss stared back, and a conversation with the abyss ensued, whereby you learnt that the abyss is you.
As they walked through the field, their eyes and fingers met, and they nodded, and said,
“We’re okay with this.”
Always ask the cows; check with them to see if you’re going with or against nature. But some people – some who are seen as worse than the pastoral pure but are actually higher, or deeper – don’t care for what the cows think. They want to make a nature of their own. They actively seek to spin the cows into herds of despair. Hysteria.
They seek out what it is that the cows wouldn’t do. They do it – take up those activities with haste. We can call these types carnivorous, for sure. They want to eat up all of life. They supply their minds with feast and fury, each in greedy measure – in so greedy a measure that the banquet table at which they sit folds at its middle. It becomes the upturned crescent of the herd’s frown. Looking up, though, not down.
It eclipses any at the table who made it (somehow) to the party but, actually, listen to those cows. This is when the party can begin: rid of those who bleat, plump with those who eat, eat, eat.
You might think that when the cuts of meat have been washed, sunken with that same sour destiny as the ___, whose habits of self-restriction are ___ they’re scared to make a vice of ___
___ on the axis, marvelling the ___
And I am counted among them:
How the flowers do not shake from the tree,
can be still,
do not breathe,
do not leave,
I’d want to be just one of them,
have my life taken over
just wait on floors to
It doesn’t seem a challenge just to view –
from tilted windows
without rooms –
the way life brushes
next to you
I want to be the quiet one,
release your desire: that need to control me,
just hold me,
don’t scold me,
attempt not to mould me,
When will I learn my lesson?
Sometimes they’re not so quick to learn.
Still, we take turns,
myself and I,
to turn blind eyes,
smile with hard cheeks,
and be awash with mystery.
Beneath the wall it’s hiding:
comes out to play, this misery.
I never fail – precisely when
I’ve struck the lens on gold
just then –
to surprise myself,
is it that I never fail
to not surprise myself?
I bore myself.
I’m fucking bored of climbing miles;
I’d swim the Nile to get back here.
I fucking despair.
But round and round in circles
until the road is paved.
the centre shaves the edge off,
and I fall in upon myself.
It’s all I’ve known
to act this way –
habit dictates no difference.
It’s difference that will make me change.
It’s them I blame –
they’re all the same.
Can someone show me difference?
I need you to be different.
Down with the them/us;
up with the us-is-the-only-way.
To say that is not to shun them,
but I can’t see a place for me
in being, any more, a part of
I’ve been here before,
and, not only that,
I’ve tired of being here before.
You can be sure
that my judgment has led me
to leave this place before,
if I have to.
You’re clever with the way that you touch me
and make my thighs tingle with words.
Your footing on the doorstep to this feeling
lets me know that you don’t waste your verve.
It’s not that I’d call you “professional,”
and I don’t see your moves as rehearsed;
it’s just that I trust what I’m sensing:
that something about you just works.
“Play around with me, then.”
I’m asking you to,
And the reason I’d call this thing playing
is cause simple is fun when its true.
how you have made me pure again.
So, fuck the fucking scorecard.
Games like this, they don’t get me too bored.
Ignorance – feigned.
Perceived – bliss.
screams, like a night-car,
lust for ears.
Like a fallen tree,
be back inside,
Oh, the words I could not muster:
“You hurt me,
so I came at you