There’s nothing to see hereSaid the Internet
One Friday evening
Aboard the metro express
As I sat, and waited,
to be moved by something else.
“What moves you?”
Said my therapist
They had taken the place of Death
In the modern age
A telling told so much less intelligibly than the rest.
“Stories are what we tell ourselves to keep moving about in this- struggle- life.
So what stories keep you moving?”
Everyman before had taken this quest for meaning
And meant something by leaving some baggage at Death’s door
Haunting following generations until in passing,
goes the way of the olden golden days
and gets the hell out of here.
It’s gone now.
Ain’t much for getting lately
only keeps some for forgetting,
hadn’t much else to lose
but whatever an after life could live
after life had come to pass.
Ain’t much these days.
Talked to my therapy again
about how I’m feeling,
didn’t make much sense
but at least I’m learning
how to make symbols out of figments
letters from the metaphors,
created words, constructed sentences
5-10 years of hard labor
picked about in personalized fields harvest reason for my being.
But is only reason ever seeming to be real
that my feeling lenses spy
some spirit lessons
beyond the life
lived in sane transgressions.
So I made up my mind to leave a town thus teeming,
ventured til the road ran out
walked in on all the world receding
hairline like this creeping feeling
you haven’t quite what you’d had before.
Scratching noggins into bleeding
Combed through sands to rake out some relic of a former life
seldom lived but spent believing
in some bullshit lie you’d told yourself just might be healing.
God is dead,
Death claimed her for his own
escaping to a world that we could never know.
No one’s dying online anymore,
some hoax keeps updating
that you’re alive and well and so sorry I missed the party.
What moves me from this chair?
waiting to be moved
by some vision played in gigabitted hues.
If only ever I terror
for trying to give up the ghost in the machine
a call for help like
“Wubba Lubba Dub Dub”
that kept you laughing.
I turned up the heat and roasted myself
lazy days in playing games
but crazy eyes turn to hazy skies
faded grey and sated nightly-
I caught myself mid sentence
for fear of exposing nightmares never caught
but by light of day
leaving my eyes and ears
like smoke as from freshly gaping bullet holes in facing
screamed into the night electric obsessions, laid forgotten in the bowels of some unkept brain entertained
did mind matter mix up it’s shape?
I caught the swallows of an ocean
in rifing lungs
without breath of life
struggled hard to reach again
that called itself a surface.
Such was my despair.
I found little grace in wanton stares
and deflowered pavement.
I wrote it down so we’d find it,
in the rubble amongst the wreckage of a play,
leaving none with answers to questions that it itself had asked of us,
I keep wondering now upon the chair,
waiting to be moved.
A torrent within unshaking Blues,
inertia unwavering in it’s phase of historic stoic laze,
malaise settles in for a long winter’s gaze into the abyss
in which which black which stares right back makes an abyss of Everyman,
the depths of which pitch keeps constant craze.
Gargoyled, I, sat upon the brink, watching man bustle about and think.
I totter atop the ledge, in hopes some wind hence will blow me off.
What? Move me?
How Derae to be a mover of anything that any person could ever dream might’ve been quite what we had thinking we been stuck right in I’ve got four legs sitting beneath me with two legs it looking legs slightly swiping to the left I want to be right again about writing
I want to right my life again
But these legs the six old legs and insect I upon the world and insignificant is only things I know an inch significance is only work I can do possibly even without you I am thinking that me is drinking a little too much of the Kool-Aid that killed us all I mean them 80s babies who chewed up rabies they been bleeding in their bladders I mean the kind of hazy haters the switchback kids I mean the switch blade is broken and comes right out to quaff your hopes of laying ladies like bricks in a big brick road of walking dicks
Detecting not what they could find
Let her hopes run dry from watering gardens by making her cry
Thought you’d two’d played the fool
For making kids quick
Makin an ink rink of talkin’ question stink
Linkin in your thick drinking shit ticket taker
I got you figured out boy
Cakes for fake baking for nickeled diamond dogs licking