pastiche of self

the softness of subtle under
tones sounding silence the
hard friction of a loud mind,
a tangle of confused tunnels
built upon waves tearing asunder
solidity, stability
is only
this vacancy, within.

a feeling disquiet,
ordinary
like disrepair.

there exist no
words for this
existence. a swelling
tongue to touch thoughts
that embrace that
final exactitude, the
heavy humidity
of descent, the unconvering
of the forgotten
inside. inside
is everything the outside
could not keep
away from us.

a lurch, a
trundle, some
stumbling disarray.

this fog in a mental
trapping, the crashing
reality through the windows
of the mind. losing itself
as circles becoming
other circles, as time
tears through all
dimensions, an obliteration,
as if one's self is
becoming oneself.

to live is to die,
to scorch water,
the frozen fire held.

as bones are buried
beneath the skin, inward
we are a collapsing, a
drowning down to who
we become, staring our own
former deaths in the face
of our distant depths.
these are the ways
of those who think, feel,
love, beyond even those
meanings, as meanings
are given unto the shroud
of misunderstandings yearning
to be understood.

a self pastiche,
as a trace of life,
a future becoming.

the way our lives' present
is a cast of the past,
the shape of shadows
in the form of an echo.
we are never who
we are when we are
who we were, except
i cannot be
me without you, and
you've never been me.
but here we are.

drawn into circles
upon circles, leading away
from ourselves toward ourselves.

this is how we find each
other: within ourselves,
a pressed in condensing
like dancing to the silence
we inhabit so loudly.

art mental

thoughts, the
words the
mind
scratches from
its flesh, its flesh
flogged
as
feelings, skins
peeling back
revealing
the diction of
desires and desires
are lairs
for liars
to twist truth
into being,
bleeding
from a loneliness
so desperate we
invent words
to tie us to
each
other
in a
mutual
punitive
passion.

these are
the ways of
thoughts, how
we each
interpret these
scars scraped
from the fleshed
out mind, hollowed
out from marrow
emotions these
conceits and
pretenses pretend
to be, to be
honest
or
ulterior, even
as we fail
to understand
each
other or our
selves.

and
here we are,
at this
border
of each
other, not
speaking
a common
tongue, so
othered
we are in the
ways we
taught our
selves to speak
within and
without, without
considering
what we do
when we paint
our mental
picture we
invent
for our self's
world, onto
the blank
canvas of life
that every
one
else lives
with us.

and still,
we hope we
will
find those
with which we
can blur the
lines sensibly, whose
colors
we can blend
with, bend
to our will
as they are
willing.

thinking
as art, as
an interpretative
representation
of feeling,
a game
we play
together, often
this
one-sided
competition,
winners losers
and i, spectator
of my own
dimishing
capacity
to participate.

still, i
scratch
this flesh
of mine, mindful
of words
giving form to
thoughts, my
art of mental
hemmorage,
homage
to giving up my
life for life
lived within
this
loneliest lexicon
seeking connection.

coming back (from death)

i am
of my own
winter this

       lone

branch bare, where
none withered
along with
me, de
           composing
into feel
             ings bleak
as whiteness
                       streaked
str  etch  ed    toward     oblivion.

perhaps i
planted my sor
                   row
like spring rain'
                         s
   wind/s/wept
tears, a
future of dream, a
flowering no
                     thing
                             ness
where none
remain but
me,
tasting these bitter
                     sweet
fruits of sleep
                     less
                           sleep.

a
  lone a
            gain, re
                        suming this
journey toward
perpetual autumn, to
shed every
shivered skin, to
bear myself, bare, as
                                 an
                                     other
winter
lays down its blueprint
for long sought and drawn
out re
               birth,
a redemption.
some
          thing
a
  kin to
for
    giving my
                    self
of these aching
sea
    sons.

mine/d fuk

the grinding blade
of the perpetual
imagination broken
into wingless flight,
a mind's sharpening through
blunt
strikes of reality's hard
hammer
driving things together,
smashing them
a  p
       a  r
              t
                .

as in what occupies
this grey matter
nexus of anxiety
and confliction, these
phantom voices
making up this
mosaic, a compart/
                              mental
narrative
             reality,

and what the fuck is it
doing, torturing itself
                          myself
all the time, all the time
trying to re
                 cover
from its own
oppression?

fuck you,
brain, says
the captive
audience trapped
in its theater
of dreams.

fire mind

this
possibility
of thoughts, as if
the ocean in
disguised
creeping steps, how
reality
emerges
from this
horizon on fire, the haze
of mental
vignettes, incremental
murk lurking
like sinister intent.

somehow
life collects
these waves
upon receding shores,
asking always
for more, less
like death more like
waiting
for the inescapable
thorn
buried within
the heart's secret
rose.

sea soul

as is the water's
weeping, sighing
over the sand, a quiet
secret sadness washed
over the rocks.
the sea like my soul, salty
placidly frustrated, always
seeking, never arriving. merely
present as a witness
to strange wetnesses descending.
as if tears in torrents, drops
in droves, driven
from comfort.

an idle despair, inch
by bloody inch. a closeness
of what is
to what was, but
never can be.
blinding silence, mute
light, deafening darkness. this
expectation of nothingness.
too much of a good thing
gone astray. thoughts
awry. still, the stillness
being reborn. trying
to exhale.

?....?....?

i am this
     air of stillness
contemplating, lost
     in thought, or
have my thoughts lost
     their way from me?

where am i in between
     myself and not?
a green smoke of canopies,
     whispering shelter
that birds sing for, nothing.
     i do not sing.

lost in thought, thoughts
     running away,
the dead path of the estranged.
     i cannot go back, lost
and forgetting where
     i began. silent
is this song.