In Lethal Doses, we find out the art of doubt…
Pyrenean high, yet bound to collapse—
to-bleed in brooding salves of artlessly acted self-infliction—swelling, parlayed for temporary ambiance—climbing us back—upwards, upon crags of insurrection—dangling by design—for if should fall, would be the solvency—SHALL we acknowledge, HOW, it got to such a state of never ending questioning?
Let us examine…
Lien, foreclosure’s cradle en-
Slaved—dry, so dry, but push
We may, until blood conforms
The eyes reading corrupted signs,
Soldering the ends to bray—WHY
Cloistered reins of fiery pasts, bisecting whole its eyeless scads of insolence—participating, without armor, falling upon the swords left in honor, over Dover’s drift, a rarity unobserved by patiently disgruntled emotional appeal, falling, falling and falling over—the cliffs of enmity, awash in the sprang rhythm of the imbalanced obfuscation—the clang and wrung—broached of delicate sentience—the heart, the hearth that erupts its shining glorification upon the countless harassments of haranguing quilts of mimicry ashamed in variance—
Those of the Torrid spoke, spew a spigot, full off spoken blame—unchartered distortion, a voice with only speechless words—sung in tune, yet deaf their notes and citations fall the fate of the same, shy, shy, and shy away, from a world
So bemoaned, it’s identity’s turned a dullish
Cold and broke fragments into ashes that scatter
Across the graves
Fidget, portent, aimless and calm—
How can one’s aim be so wrong, when the collapsible panels within their version seem uncountable and unattainable to our
Cyclical evolutions of command—
Failures breed hypotheses—distance drains hypotenuse
Colors mingle incoherently, fade, fade, refresh—tumults wake, pour the liquid we create, in toxic disillusionment—fingering the delicate denials, with a fervor of fever slaked in static states—numbers and digits incorrigible and dagger-like, the types of notable disconcertments that endlessly striate the ghosts within, before the harp begins to pluck its strings…try…. but why?
Whence the governed become the unifying force, will condemnation ignore its frailty still?
Apportioned liberations are left in want, searching pigment’s unashamed sense of efficiency, destitute for lack of tarried tales, bare-heart, busted knuckled beauty, an artistry unto itself, and the canvas, in all its bloodied abasement, may be the masterpiece we’d been pining for—the question is not why, but how we devolved to such a state, where devastation bears more interest than fate…then faith itself?
I never understood why people wear their hats sideways. It makes not a shred of sense to me—haven’t we learned anything from our feline friends, where whiskers span the face and out they sprawl, in order to direct the body’s ability to transfer their estates through the most limited of space—and these eyesores, with their side-held statements of fashion-ever brimming upon society, as does the cold, gray sky that ever looms above an over-populated tract of earth— again, I ask, why
and it is not merely the hats that find them parallel to the soil. There is this growing illustration that is constantly thrust upon us, the unsuspecting and diligently disregarding public, where handguns are all the rage, held in hand despite isms, laws and the like, but not just there, is this at odds, but the dignity of it all, why are these pistols being shown at all as held, let alone fired, while being held to the side—it makes no sense, I can’t contrive explanation, nor am I prepared to waste the time to attempt bearing understanding
Sometimes I feel as if my mind tangents into untamed space, and occasionally I believe you’ve been the cause of this breaking state of cranial escape, for far too long you’ve existed outside my immediate realm. You do things I cannot digest, yet allure me the same, draw me in like a magnet to metallic space, and yet wear no tread upon the patterns I so consciously try to create…. and so I pretend, I conjure scenarios of impending fantastical delusory context…spending much too many moments encouraging such deceptive and damaging appeal…. forcing the thrust of adrenalin, into the soul of this junkie, one time I saw, once I saw—ravaged by a self-induced stanchion of invisibly deigned parapets of ignorance—binging ever so graciously—in spree, alongside the dwellers of nocturnal cabernets—hunting, pecking, seeking, searching, ever searching—for sera’s out of reach, for trained ambiguity, left with but a solitary recourse, a drip to vein, a solvency that keeps, the flesh from eating itself internally, gnawing and gnashing upon liquidity’s infused pseudonym…finding that the end is not always the end of things
Frayed ends don’t always have to snap, but they are forever weakened…that is undeniable (and confusion’s rigor inhales deeply, purging the atmosphere, only for exhalation’s bellowing roar to perforate the scars to which you care)