Monday, December 29, 2014

11-5; 11-5

Two months progress betwixt the Skewer and Army of One
Where have I been, and in the long-run
What had I done?
There is naught to be told of days that brought nothing more
Than the same of so many moons passed.
Feelings to surge and overwhelm
To bring to the brink of more nothing-
To reach for and let go of-
Time has diligently laid down its life
Yet no markers to indicate abnormalities have arisen.

I look back into sixty-some days previous and see fog
Useless greyed mist to blur the degeneracy of 2 more months of idle
Most days' purpose are bathed in familial bliss
Colluding with the contaminant of 'complaint' seems bratty:

Porous limbs never cease in their duty
But to ramble on too, to their silent cravings
Seems fucking irritating and degenerate, in and of itself.
Maddening these limbs to alternative actions are a conclusion- preferred.
To take this mewling skin's misery up the mountain
And beat it into submission- Yes. Yes.
Now, I feel I can get somewhere.
To sweat out the impurity of 'need' is an addictive contemplation
To leave arduous yearning on the dusted path of rocks quickly passed-
Yes. Yes, an innuendo is forming.
Comprehension- lifted.

Trip to trip-out and overwhelm secret creatures
That dwell in the casement of all that lie open to any ensnared
Yes, try as I might, to underwhelm and emit contentment
The boiling excess of everything untasted burns the muted confessional.
Fuck the longing, fuck it into oblivion.

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