the thinking

i am thinking

at the very least
i am reading

i am the thinking
and the reading

i am the writing
i am the words
i am the symbols
lunging across synapses

i am the synapses
i am the phenomenon
so poorly limited
and encouraged toward esteem.

aborted larva quivers under a creaking fan

atrophy is busy work

so i say

to myself

sick and cringing

as my shoulders shiver

but i left the fan on

because i’d rather focus

on feeling cold

than feeling nauseous

i’m upright and wide awake

maybe if i

relinquish these dreams

i can sleep

but these dreams they are strong

there is no point

to blaming anyone

(not that there’s anyone

to blame) but i

just have to wait this

fucking nausea out

no clue when or how

it will end

but shivering and vomiting

has to stop at some point

or does it not

maybe if i

relinquish these dreams

i can sleep

but these dreams they are strong

like fibrous tendrils of my being

resisting the withering cackles of time

defiant in the face of despair

refusing to jettison their essence

in spite of the bitter vicissitudes of fate.

although

at this rate

eventually an emesis

will cross the line

and just shatter them for me.

it’s all good

like i said

atrophy is busy work.

relinquished

he asked me what it would take
to relinquish the rod
and step off the throne

that was when i jammed the rod
up the fucker's rectum
and twisted hard

then he spun around squealing
this nausea-inducing squeal
that was until i exerted

one last surge of energy
and swung the rod
right into this throat

yeah you better believe
that fucker never asked me
a goddamn thing again

my throne aww yeee

angry armored dna

a good friend told me

we were born lonely

and raised from necessity.

readily admitting that i

possess neither the lexical grace

nor the sheer wisdom

requisite to even conceive

of a phrase so eerily elegant,

(capacities which my fearsome

muse has thusly demonstrated),

i wish merely to write

a little letter about loneliness.

born lonely

raised from necessity

well that’s what she said anyway

but

it got her so sad

all that “inexorable” talk

as we're spinning the wheel

in our slobbering shit cycle

zooming out

to see

a squalid swarm of virus

one big factory

pumping out endless tides of dna

zooming in

to see

a widdlebitty cell

one tiny factory

pumping out endless tides of dna

zooming up

to see

the endless tides spraying

from the males jerking off

(hopefully to a pair of big-ass titties

i mean let’s be honest here

who isn’t a fan

i mean i’m half-chub just

visualizing half the plastic cannons

in my spankbank sheet)

oh ya ya here we go yup

pump pump pump surge the tides of judgment

these pounding waves of angry armored dna

so angry so angry

from the left they rabble

so foul

so crude

for what earthly purpose does he need to discuss

said quoteunquote spankbank tsk tsk

and from the right they rabble

oh goddamnit

he’s gone off again

first it was something about his friend

and that thing she said and then

something about dna or waves of semen

and now he’s meta-reflecting

on his own damn words

why can’t i just sit down and

read something comfortably

by this sackbreath

alas with delight

i shall inform everyone

that i – sackbreath –

will proudly talk about jerking it

to a big beautiful pair of tits

all i goddamn want

although

i admit

that would be rather beside the current point

although

i admit

i like the scenic route

so nevermind

aw yee come here

we’re having this talk now

it ought to be had sometime

and we’re on the scenic route anyway

nono okay

i’ll try to be fair (although it’s not a strong suit)

let’s tackle this taboo of titties

in this titillating trivial tantrum

(as always, delightfully and

consistently inapropos)

let us look

each other in the face

can you tell me that

you really find

the concept of surgically-enhanced

ideal-made-real

perfectly ultimate titties

somewhat unpleasant or distasteful?

the answer is largely moot

because the (big beautiful) concept in question

is infinitely more appealing to anyone

than the previously-mentioned

disgruntling image of men world-wide

cradling their unshaven scrotes and

grunting and snorting and sweating

their fistfuls of dna

into towels and sinks (and preferably) esophagi (what what)

and pooling up inside belly buttons

and dripping out of moist

[you should stop now.]

right-o chief

customer knows best and

since we seem to have

such a hilariously bizarre telekinesis

going on tonight maybe i’ll get

RELIEVINGLY (smug smile

amprisandyvagina deep breath)

back to my fearsome muse

and the iron brilliance

on her bitter breath

yes, my good friend

we’re both lonely and necessary

raised just because and why not

just

two steps further

two shoves forward on

the efflorescing nubs of a branch

on our (big beautiful) family tree

so my soul sister

my fiery muse

my darling weaver of words

yes you’ve webbed yourself within

that ubiquitous mire

that omnipresent armor

just as fatigued as

the rest of us

and sweet slam queen

i will inexorably be your passerby

whilst never passing judgment

toward your crown

i will drift

in that pesky ubiquitous mire with you

(just know that)

god if only all words could be sung

from the top of some church bell tower

except fuck churches

so some other secular building with bells in it

and oh we would sing

we would singinging

and look

it’s nighttime now

but i think enough time has passed

we have explored every crusty creative neuron

and shat it all out of our heads

yes yes
now we have time to be silent

to reflect

and please my succulent muse

do not think for a second

that i would conceive of a reality in which

i were more wise than you

i claim to know merely that i can know nothing

(to know meaning to attain an approximation of universal truth)

but see

it’s all necessary

all of this bullshit

inevitable

and most importantly irrelevant.

we’ll pass by

and drink our respective coffees

and yeah probably pump out some

lonely kids and live out some

mistake-riddled lives

never reaching perfection

but we will clasp our wind bitten palms

as we continue to erodebreakdowndecay

until the croak that last croak

that last chance for the ostensible soul

to sneak his way out

a remorseless irruption

as the flabby meats

banish the ostensible soul

that last sneezehugkisspissjizzshit

oh how we would savor it

but you’ll be dead

we’ll all be fucking dead

and we won’t

have to worry about it anymore

(joyoyoyoy)

so

bask with me

in the world

in ourselves

in our brevity

in that sweet peaceful nothingness

that soothing trumpet

blustering over the hills

into milky pink sunset

for the sake of its sound

a melody rising above entropy

forever blowing and rising

constantly trying to escape

the ostensible fact

that it’s always about to vanish.

in my darkest hour

my emotional response

is henceforth going to be

a consideration most heavy

in my decision-making process

its influence will stagger Reason’s

titans of bedrock and champions of stone

i feel the surge come from beneath me

nature’s balancing act against this

problematically heavy anachronism

just a child

with a handful of neutron star

impossible gravity ripping

this rather mundane clump of atoms

(the neutron star)

through this other atomic bazaar

(the child’s hand)

super dense matter

shredding skin and sinew

and fascia from the child

his hand is long gone now

plummeting through the earth

sundering obliterating

probably sodomizing

the shit out of our warm core’s rectum.

and hopefully

you find someone with which

to share that disgruntling imagery

and hopefully

you die content

unless you’re an asswipe

in which case

go chew rocks.

mister mole

i can play all.

i am the music.
the music is me.
i can create the music.

everything is the music i create
          and
everything i create is the music.

i can hear it playing through my mind
          every
                  instrument
          every
                  sound
          every
                  note
          in perfect pitch

playing together
     to make one

         to make one music.

i call it the testicles

stimulate your ears
to quoteunquote hear
the drowning din of

mutilated militias
whose marching is
markedly monotonous

obsessed with the
excessive and elaborate
protocol of courting

those in fear
of the hairy knuckles
of the clutches

of death
shouting redundancies
for their own sakes

(the selves AND the redundancies
i know i know that IS a lot of sakes
but we'll manage)

shielded from shame
stepping softly sneaking
swiftly down

the snaking slipshod
stair of science
(watch the parades)

these men furiously
blindly leading the charge
down alliteration's alleyways

into the hearts and minds
of those whose egos
go to die again

possessing
what is traditionally called
the quoteunquote willingness

some call it the mettle
i call it the testicles
and there's some mountain

and there's egoless corpses
with giant fucking testicles
pacing around the icy summit

efflorescing sense
seeking for seeking's sake
pursuing that which it is

not rational to believe exists
just placing another toothpick
at the foot of this

          excruciatingly
      jerry-rigged
ladder  of   toothpicks
  shamelessly aimed at
    poking the bear

he must be poked
but careful careful
it's bursting at the seams

that which we'll call supreme
the truth's king
singinginginging

and if you feel
the sound in your mouth
keep chewing.