There is a poem in my head that begs to be written, it feels like the universe pushing in from me, trying to rattle my vessel in expiation. In answer for every time I have sighed heavy with phlegm on thenar space, thinking of all that have led me here, how my life flashes before me as the sum of all folly, to be fair, self preservation is a myth for the body itself calls for implosion, so what is this convulsive emetic threatening my apocalypse?
What gives me fear? Is it
the lack of another or the fear of having one, In the ready smiles of stranger
lies sinister thoughts; Is it Culled from the fear of danger; danger born out
of the self worth and self esteem form from stupid social constructs. Shall we
not stop be bare and end all games, fully live and bask in our naked selves how
many times will we wash our clothes till we get tired. I imagine something sees
me a monkey wandering and wishfully thinking of bringing this world to its
knees with aches all over, navigating through disapproval and acceptance on the
bruised yardstick; humanity is the most foolish of games, the senseless of
existence the height of folly for a berserker with no purpose. I think I would
be calm but for others, how then do I climate others how then do I sing through
this hail, pulled and flagellated at sides. All I am is an impulse, a jolt, a
pinball, worse when they are and crying when they are not. So adieu all men we
too shall end. It is not because I feel it within but because I see it besides,
swimming against a current toned muscle on a dazzling corpse so futility is the
actual sum, cursed to impale, to like, destined to bite, control and grab, actions
in a multi-dance of similar microcosm from clitoris to feces, seventy onanistic
years to show what? I imagine you think this is the poem I end up writing but I
tell you it is just a distraction what nags my mind is the search for a truth, a
word that will send me flying from the bough into the moat with a cinderblock
tied to my neck to a kind death, to know demise is to know time not life, What
can we can learn from the chicken and the cow as they transcend our fear, eat, hold
us prisoner and send us about. Let us say for a moment the world is mimed out
and you have no one to impress what would you do? Why not do it now? For they
are all corpses my friend; black, light, and short corpses pity them as you
pass them by for they can never be alive unlike you who have truly died.
The world is a spinning
sphere you are supposed to stumble and fall Trials and tribulation
Flouring surely for things
who aren’t themselves in slow marching always aspiring in a hamster wheel
squeaking greed, hatred, agreed hatred. Sucked by the ground some are louder as
they are pulled they get the momentarily look their way, others are curious
quiet and nonchalant atop is big screen portraying onanism for the meantime the
crude shy in an accursed beast of burden with an un-budging load on a cyclical
path, Tandem worrisome our engines on display while we cough and splinter running
on empty, to who exactly? how much is enough and why is acceptance hard to find
in this anthill? This too shall pass?
Unless you are used you are not useful they claim
to be quiet angels with lots of love but once you defunct, hyperbolically
discounted. Slave to a statue we implore on deaf ears our tongues long for blood
while we drink salt water; a moaning tap set to the base Shake yourself loose
and feel nothing Rest in a peace got from the death of our hearts, hopes and senseless
expiations and let the world grim on us, never give advice, just smile and say
sorry, let obsequiousness be your manner
Why do we swirl and ogle
how many times will you give? You, who should never have walked this path,
never should have born. The breast I suckled have morphed into a sickle and I
hang in the air pleading while I am tickled at the balls by Love peddlers in a
madhouse devoid of values Stinking to the bone overheated and at the tail of
lives, lives confused for Sexual ignominy just when you try to look ahead a
skirt is opened, keeping me honest are you? Save me from myself, myself. Can
the ink in a pen tell of it purpose? Does it have say on how it is used. Am I
an ink in a pen splattered around and spread thin by a mad child on a very
rumpled sheet I blackened with lines and through lines, sometimes I see myself
most time I see others eventually I finish. Asking myself why was I pleading
for Just enough to see me through to where exactly? For just enough strength to
get me by to where or what really? I cannot say. Pain is the only emotion I
trust, but what strings the pull- Prisoners, they lurk in the shadows waiting and
putting Munchausen cuffs of loves on you, You are not their problem when you
are on transfer But at home you best behave who will be your therapist in
heaven who will sponge out all the pain, is it lewd jizz us, Be prepared for
hatred and disappointments give into them at your own peril for many who can’t
ride a bicycle will stop and laugh at you for trying and failing. Check your
pain very carefully and see the greed you hide, think of those to who were
poets how good their intentions were before they sought other options, and
remember also those who defied vehemently remedies as long as it came from you.
I try to
understand but still I can’t shake the hate Overtime I have sung sexuality as a
cure for these unbridled hate it’s all mucus and phlegm I might think, one drives
me mad, another drives me mad, should I see what they look like asked will that
make good over the person once and for all, but what of those that I have seen naked
who at the sight their back turned become attractive again? Is it a gear? a
panoply of actions the mad oils of emotions mixing and clashing how can it be
washed clean how do I unnerve ones animal in a flesh, how can I be purged off
anger and hate? Let’s say I do grab said eros and mutilate, maim and impale do I not come undone myself is there
still not hunger at noon with the same unhappy pangs of entitlement. You are in
a constant battle with the world with how they see you and how you see yourself
I guess Someone must have at one time called Buddha a stupid ante or Jesus a hypocrite
and let’s admit they were hypocrites hiding under the veneer of altruism where
do you place the anger and resentment when your hustings is only a toilet bowl
When temptation occurs yield, what if by the
transient blur of action one is tethered unrightly to a filth a warthog of
greed and greed with puppy eyes, a juggernaut of selfishness, There are thoughts
that bundles in a penis I am not a swan nor orangutan in a jungle where the
stink of terror will not catch me in my next jump. I am human sequestered in a
box so all I pull comma to occupy beside me you are n a pang and what do you
know that you do? For even at your moan you are evaluated and policed. Rinse
all emotion for they are not to be trusted or given precedence. The world have
lost what it means to be human, for to be caged and civilized one must hate to
be a new man in an old animal body. Most times those with a lot to give, get
used and ionized in pity Everyone uses with the currency of sex, help me I am a
good fuck protect me I promise you I am a good lick Making attractive face
having conversation with is a relentless sex sale to the cave man heuristic; to
duplicate and dominate.
So am I the one to call out for wolves or am I just
being selfish a tired once relentless seller in a melee to detach my supple, it
is rather safe to say I’m prodded. Hate for one leaves one sometimes blind with
anger their smiles brings ache to our heart our inability to change them leave
death as their only option, unable to kill them we find ourselves doing for them
even when we don’t want to and they for us nonchalantly, as we seek attrition through
this baseless stubbornness they will rather be chided than be together
It will be a miracle to get us off meat for the
reason we hunger for it comes from pain and heartbreak the moment because when
you feel empty the taste of carrot will not beat the metallic taste of flesh in
your mouth, when we truly want to bite how we feel, whatever we voices that we
are okay is spent in the most of our correct decisions instead of just making
endless mistakes in the swim of opportunism and damning it all
Angry young man eventually becomes agony Uncle and
since all roads lead to Rome, It is only just Daddy and money issues and no
mistake. After the fashion he goes ape surreptitiously who through bants hope to
a pile a polish to the Caesar, please we hope there aren’t any more like him, for
his is to suffer, why argue the toss of another arm chair critic, rote memorization
and regurgitation are the arrows in his quiver when wishing he only ask for the
moon what is new, A man always in low ebb in a county at its beam ends with people
still sprawling and foaming at the nether crackling and popping atop each
other, We are at our wits end while some still purchase and gallivant cars
bough on debt doing away with the fairies in an atmosphere knife worthy, elected
babes in the woods cry incompetence as they are fed the wet Mache of our
collective income, dreams and aspirations in our clash of bones, we only try to
foam lather no tether, none at all, just walking curses set upon their
counterparts as beggars and thieves, victims of unbridled lust to fight who we
are, well comported compatriots of suffering. Nothing is said. clitoris to be
reopen of the grasp of little devils they become weapon against a very confused
man, Confused, very confused in the clash of the oils of emotions a man who
have to hurdle through the cable and the vulva, planned for frequently, his expiation
gotten from a pulled penis on interval, you cannot win. Sometimes we luckily
strive through this tar, you the result of another’s senseless lust are
mystified in jargon as you sniff crotches in the facsimiles of collated
suffering thinking you are the shit correctly if I may say as you look for
palliatives in skirt no one tell you are just another victim of social
construct another idiot herding on their belly will never get full so you might
just stop fooling yourself as you climb the Golgotha of the debt machine blinded
in the blood of martyr complex till the day you die you remain a machine
spewing sweat and sperm and money prodded and check for good living you reek of
alcohol and cigarette you run from home to work and suffer for what 5 minutes
of a month prepared masturbation, all so you can walk a corpse littered gangway
and say you lived a life more than hue.
By
Victor Samuel
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