lit/parapraxis - howl, 12.10.16

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• published: 15 Oct 2016
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_lit The filament is right here; light-years protest the seed. Incandescent spirit is fire, fire is synecdoche. I’m blinking with ideas perpetually; perspectives gleaned from the perplexing beams I cast. There’s ecstasy through the looking glass, exiting sands pass inexorably through porous hands. Pouring, as some sort of author plans though it’s dawning this might all be the force of chance. Man, it looks unnatural: the tie, the suit and subway line commutes provide the gel cap for the bureaucratic capsule – you swallow it, I might if I had that orifice, or some kind of tooth to bite the con but I’m busy kindling love for torches: lighting books of right-on with my sidearm. Recognize it’s bright if the sense isn’t numb or stoke your fires by the warmth of the Empyrean. It’s all aetherial -- ad infinitum, except we’re too worried about bills sinking the funds and the cost electricity runs to ever have that symphony done. That’s ok, not bothered with it - I’m constantly lit; literally, Sun. A half-cocked old concept waiting to flash flint from a gun. The heat of three AM whiskey liquors that dig in your lungs to sit on your breath, but I’m best when thinking upon notions of feeling, theory, meaning - opinion. It lights me up, being dim’s insistently dumb. Filament wires tie us, then in sequence we’re spun, chain-linking hands to fence in seeming oblivion. Seven point four billion currently conducting currency, no current weaves between us. Mind’s bent towards Time spent despite charge being intravenous. La petite mort relates to more than just that which leaves your penis. Still, I can’t say much – dispossessed of the most loyal intent: sparking up cigarettes to discuss the post-coital tristesse. One flick of ash, cinders crash into moist soil. It’s dense. I’d collapse the light into Earth in hopes it’d reflect, just to know it, I guess. I confess to be a blunder. Necessity’s mother elucidates the path – abrupt in ending. The light at the end of your tunnel’s not intention, but invention. _parapraxis Ultimately it’s not my fault I’m faulty, a product of my environment. In early years my role model exhibited hubris. Head of the family unit. Scan His movements; drinking through student potential, it’s not coincidental. I’m meant him. I mental. I’m mental & meant Him. Fencing the fences between His descendants - chipped with lead tendrils sketching this stencil. You've your brother, sister, mother…fucker, motherfuckers. Mother, father. Look farther: No embers remain. November I came… …was born, torn from womb during a monsoon of cries, blood & amniotic fluid with a face my mother couldn't have loved. Love! Loved. None. Lust. Some. Loved? Uhm… Love -- commonly no stranger concept; tug its strings when playing concerts but I can’t read music’s notations - that’s just a metaphor - (n)ever heard of being hurt by four letters or the venom whores secrete. It’s sweet. It’s nectarine. Have her neck wrestling with a throttled grip, have her bent, breathless while I deposit it. But I would not lay my hands on a woman (unless she asked me to) I WOULD NOT lay my hands on a woman; as something my view was captive to which demands an attitude that had to brew for that alcoholic bastard, too. Hate’s love, everted... I‘m not blind, I see I‘ve some. I see some of His attributes, & that’s the truth whenever. If ever. When I take off the mask & consider the mirror, this figure, disfigured, whispers with a bit tongue. I’m sure, I swore, my voice was louder. Prouder, Reverent. Resonant. Resident with power. Then I remember my name… my names. No ember, I came. Novembers remain. Ultimately it’s not my fault: I‘m faulty.