Whereforto Ye Wanderers

Whereforto Ye Wanderers.

Tuesday, February 2, 2010

typical lonely poem.

I still got blood on my hands and honestly don't know why.
(this is just an image) of a thing about to unfold
as a palm
as an insurrection
fire spreading like veins and the lines on which you chose to decipher however which way.
an image
of a thing which has happened
and for some goddamn human or inhuman reason
needs deciphering.

allow me old chum
to explain what i mean;
we hold onto the image
as such.

my roommate for instance
is in the next room
writhing with a girl
she is moaning
as a pregnant wolf
howling at whatever god one can assemble of the moon.

allow me my friend to explain:
this has been happening a lot lately.
i feel something marked about it
yet am not jeolous.
it is an archaic event
with an archaic follow-up;
those that have
those that have not
have not
and are presumed to desire having.
so on
and so forth
as it goes.

but then the philosophical asshole
in all of us asks;
what does this mean?
-to have or have not...
is flesh attainment
is it as the story goes
something to be desired?
is it thing unto itself,
a completion akin to the snake eating its tail.
brutal honest wholistic poetry.
what the fuck does my non-jeolous longing//wishful thinking entail?
is it not just as much a thing to be covered
writhed with,
made moan and you by it made moan
in an archaic nightscape.

But i want it
I do desire
it do desire
it. is this just the story of an abscence,
no, t'ain't. there is something
and nothing either way.
maybe the glass just half is
in an empty world.
vessels forged by nervous bloody hands
for communication of all sorts
and who the fuck is to say
which form is higher
if high-ness is even something
to be attained.

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