They honor me with their lips, yet their hearts are far from me.
Dammit Descartes, leave me the hell alone. The only problem is modernity doesn't have anything to replace you with. Mind and emotions can never be shared with the same person that the body is shared with. How can the immaterial interact with the material? That would give one person everything. There would be no escape plan—it would be total bondage. Take my Pineal gland, and you take it all. It’s total black leather bondage every step of the way up mount, hands tied, but with no ram in the thicket. Abraham holds the knife, and you must sacrifice.
I’d hate to think I’m in all this pain only to find out I
A double-quarter pounder with cheese is about as holistic as I get these days
I’ve spent my days in reductionism, cutting out independent variables with paper scissors
Too bad I can’t super-size my internal locus of control
I shit, therefore I AM THAT I AM
Just found out that all my intimacy is binary. This keyboard is what I come home to. I caress buttons, not bodies. Cut, copy, paste, kiss, hug, taste. Zero one, one, one, zero. I am my own taskmaster, my own Hero. But where is the two that are to be one? Just me and these codes that no one knows. Just these files that I’d kill myself for someone to see. I just want to be heard—maybe even understood. This is too much to ask, though. So I google for love. I google for binary representations of bodies. Others loving, others living. I wish the proxy-power of the atonement worked with porn. But it doesn’t. I haven’t been touched in years. My afferent system wouldn’t know what to do. Not enough
CTRL+ALT+
I can’t sleep with these dirty feet
Give me rest, give me a sequence of peace
Take me home Father, taste the crumbs of your feast
When I slip into eye exercise, I have recycled dreams with reduced themes. Okay, just one theme. here it goes, but I already know, and I’m really just talking to myself. In these dreams I have to expose my genitals to a girl in order to solve some gigantic, life-threatening cataclysm. It’s not awkward, it’s not weird, it’s just what needs to be done and we both know it. It’s a matter of life and death. Somehow it always makes total sense in the dramaturgy. I don’t even need to ask anyone for what it means. It’s pretty damned transparent. Pure, uncensored truth usually is.
(nothing censored is pure)
Black lights uncover hot nights of
never ending fictional friction between those who
want to be discovered and those who die to be covered
with acceptance that they are incapable of drinking with
their lying lips and sharp, tilted hips
I wish you could see me now. Read this while I sit here with a hood on my head, a cross in my heart, and no pants on. Watch me struggle with these Saphir-Warf semantics that speak of my limits more than my talents. These words free my anxiety, my soul, but like all patriots, they are also my captors and my jailors. I can’t think what I can’t say.
There’s no word for “jam” in Hebrew.
But that’s okay because we’re all Nazis here. Du hast, motherfucker. I’m rigid on the inside and open on the outside. Like a Skor candy bar I guess. I give everyone else my sweetness and leave the rock-hard reality for myself. It’s a beautiful, life without the French.
Excuse me, but you dropped my name on the floor next to his—
this must have been a mistake because I know that you keep
us in separate containers that have completely different
scents of axe body spray and reinforcement intervals
King James never stops his commissions. Neither does Joseph Smith. They are demanding architects. Keystones or seer stones, they keep a hammer in my hand and a weight on my back. Hymns are scripts sung to lull the sweating. Sing ye sirens, sing until I believe again! Sing until I see, or believe, or whichever comes first. I don’t know what to believe anymore. If God is perfect and perfection is an absence of sin, the God cannot be sinful. Yet, sin exists, and God is everywhere. God has seen every rape, every slit throat, every child that knows that taste of her own blood and her uncle’s semen. He was part of that. He witnessed it. Further, he didn’t do anything to stop it—apparently, he is no Samaritan. Even further, he ultimately created it. So either God isn’t perfect, or sin isn’t really sin. Then he has the audacity to call this shit the plan of happiness. Life is for us to be tested, suffer, and be exposed to sin. No clever nomenclature can convince me that this torture is happiness. Plan of redemption, then. Wrong again. One must fall to be redeemed, so it’s really the plan of push-you-off-the-ledge-and-let-me-save-you-so-I-look-good-plan. Plan of salvation works just about the same way. It’s for our own good. But that’s not answer to the questions that the existential “answers” have stringing along behind them.
Just purchased, for better or for divorce
This wedding dress never felt so good wadded on the floor
We’re just going all the way—back to the source
We all live and die on the threshold of the cervix door
Never wear seatbelts. They only keep you in, they don’t let you out. Pulling safely into my parking spot is my deepest regret. No life-ending wreck, no obituary to heralding my dream has at last come true. They will mourn the loss of another bright-eyed youth with his life ahead of him and cry tears for my all my potential. That’s what I long for. Cut me down before I grow twisted and knotted in the corner of the forest where the Son refuses to shine.
This is how it has to end, you always knew it
No matter what happiness spills, fate sees through it
Face-down in a tangle of limbs, I threw it
Square in a circle, there is no new shit
Decadence without recompense is robbing innocence with broomsticks. That rhymed, but that’s about all it means. That’s all any of this means. Unfortunately, they weren’t even good. Sorry about that.
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