Friday, December 11, 2015

paroxysm in winter

where it is now, in certain
ways how it could be, could
always be, if winter is life
cold blowing like sad
slow season. it happens,
you know, every year. it so happens
there are days
like every day, like yesterday,
how i hate tomorrow.
some bloody prison of the mind
that i don't mind, but tolerate, as if
this is something holy, like
freedom. like
old ageing becomes
an obsolesce. it's an absolute
certainty i will learn
to die if only
life didn't get in the way.
obstacles like obstacles,
overcoming or not. suppose
this can be decision, far flung
autocracy at the dawn of self awareness.
new discoveries in suicide, an art,
and then the light is expansion,
a will toward expression,
blending in musical deniability.
so this is a discourse. and it's
magic you try to conjure,
explaining why your explanations
explain nothing. a precision. nothing
says "i love you" like monkey grammarianism.
perhaps i over-involve.
brains pushing on brains. there
have to be words for every word.
no wonder no
one communicates. we don't
have enough
time with the time
we are given, and run out
looking for god inside every
crack in our being. turns out
it's been a defect at the back of the head,
so we had to invent
this most hideous beauty in history.
we could do no wrong, but
we could do no better either.

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