Thursday, May 7, 2015

O Gentle Highway...

To take this in segments, may be the very necessity I belong to.
Having not known any other paths to placate assumptions
Am I to tolerate the devices that now program my method to love?
I tinker on the dashboard of all my design

I shall see, in the murky light of all I follow, as I dangle that bone of contention
Grasping the tendrils of freshly ripped oxygen, decrepit, these elbows that punch inward.
The beat of this evening drum, assaults me as I scramble to wreak carnage on mirrors
This wreckage is blatant, carnivorous and all-consuming.

The Lovesong of The Detached, is now roaring into muscle
Burning the surface of all ache; skin is useless here as I wander into the oblivion
Of all my unknown weakness; brandishing knives in dark corners
Looking to slit veins that bleed broadly among organs that double-task

Sing me a song in Swedish that I may assign my own meaning
To allow the molting of decay to begin, and not stop until the rosy sky of dusk returns.
A quandary of cells has belted itself in strong, stubborn iotas yield a chorus - grotesque
Muslin for skin, stained with restraint; who am I amidst this busted glass and drivel?

Scorched, tempest blares, bloated deformities rise, as nuances of destruction become exalted.
The disdain plastered to my temples, recoils in the abject humiliation of recognition
O gentle highway, remuneration - nearby... Come coax the mountain down and away from itself
Glorified in the rubble of forgiveness.

This dark hair frames a stranger with eyes too solemn to recognize, the basted glow of loneliness.
Had I burnt my history to a crisp, where would my today reign?
Iron-encrusted epicenters of emotionless frivolity latch themselves against-
A buoyant determination to hang tight until comprehension exceeds doubt

Quilted care immobilizes all I seek to burden, these words - these words - this ink...
This ink that crawls blindly, withering away at my resolve;
What, in this night, believes in, believes if, believes in belief
Futuristic plateaus dart about in their discovery, irking some semblance of acknowledgement

A banyan tree to shade these feelings, to umbrella my urge to wail; to waken sleeping comfort
That roams in a brutal coma of deceit. This turbulent aura is tiresome, seeking care to elucidate calm
I crave a gentility from life that I am lacking, to lengthen the meaning of strongly pumped arteries
Prowling for some good on a night akin to softness and the ethereal flow of contentment.

How can they not go hand in hand, the lover and the fighter - ever spinning on the root of existence?
I suspect they tango long into that night that whispers faintly, of love without boundary
There was a time when to analyze a moment meant to capture the bewilderment of bliss
Bliss found in the sigh of understanding and reconnaissance of pleasure

Pleasure, a syndrome that  pounds the halls of unwise choices yet continues to love just the same.
I seek the glistening nutrient that covets erogenous meaning, built on volumes of depth
Not flagrant, misguided satisfaction, burned down by the wilting memory of delusion.
So, to carry on in wisdom-infused purpose is the order of my 'now'.

To bow to the feisty spirit of adventure, with remembrance that life be tasted when the ardor swells.
Anything less is an offense to the many memories of youth and all her wild abandon.