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Journal: Entry for Panorphaeon

This is it.

Author: Panorphaeon Send a noteboard

Posted: 19/05/2011 10:04:33 AM

Views: 2785


i'm curling the outward in,
extending the strands, now hands hold
barren womb...
i'm shooting toward my dark undoing,
which will never occur...
this does not require the right music or perfect weather --
this will not unfold for the bold smiles of waitresses, coming to fill up my coffe or water --
this comes apart in handfuls of hair, suddenly pulled, wisps ripped from the skull's broadening center --
this will give vent to the aggravation of inferior intelligences, this event will not be activated by a hit, nor be hampered by a an absence of it --
it is not recurring on important anniversaries -- this is not the stormy image of gods and ravens -- my will be forgiven, this is merely loss! and simple derangement -- it is begging for sleep or sweet relief from insinuating dreams -- this is not a vacation plan, pipe-vision of sacred butte, or whim of mountain-seclusion -- but in chains in continues, in bars it construes truth in playing pool and staying up all night and whiskey and cards and it is not breakfast just for the smile breakfast affords...

i am tingling from my roots, upward from them shoots tense anticipation, smells like broken blossom-stem in april rain...
this is wearing away at back pocketseams, then new clothes in the nick of time...
this is curling outward and leaving surface bare, tender, let it, bend over, the world your unburdened shoulder, wounded i, atlas begrudged...

but you've got to admit it's getting wetter, wetter on my spine -- it is not about april, may, june or july -- this will not be finished on time, such as it is it will go undetected, only visible by the operations it will undermine, subvert, casually reinstate later in new disguises -- this is the forced excavation of defunct guises -- who knew their awful prices? paid every time i shower away dead cells or wave a white flag in dismay, or take my longing to a diner awake for
20-odd hours then
nap next to my kin, lost
in love with him heavy
blankets applied
for maximum sedation

later arise darkness encroaching sweat-matted fears to my clothes, only to go on and on, indefinitely, into a nother morning, stretching out this stress-acne breakout teen nostril flaring fit of bald frenzy -- hold it! hit it! load it into a pipe-dream to burn up momentary flash acetycholine, rest now, in peace my fraying hair, the seamstress is still sleeping...
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Sometimes the reason I like the Beats gets fuzzy.
Then someone reminds me. That's not to say I found that derivative, just very reminiscent of them.

Going on is good; sometimes it's only thing that is. Where there's life there's hope, and if you move you're alive, so as long as you're doing something you have hope, if only potentially, hypothetically. In the interim subsistence on passion and sensation is viable, and bitter frustration is nothing if not passionate. Some days are better than others, but most are better than none.
I like the Beats well enough.
But I think I probably wrote something like them long before I had any exposure to their influence.

Anyway, I've held to somewhat extreme sleep patterns lately. This is a sort of result. Frustration can be passionate, sure, but most often not.