Whereforto Ye Wanderers

Whereforto Ye Wanderers.



Saturday, October 30, 2010

winter
re invites me
to its polar opposition; the
mind tricked
state of non state of being is being
but i canot remember the feeling
oh
but it is
oh
here it is
oh..
never mind thee
because you never minded
to forget me nor did you mind
to be with or
to without the being of being around me
here i am
still but a shaking leaf off of the grandioso gathering of all living things
an upward heave-ho from the bottom of everything
the child, the offspring of spring though the rain choked me i made it out clean
the the dirt flaking off of bums' lips who sing sutras of rain clouds and police sirens,
a clench of fists in a fit of proximal projections, a lesson to the already taught, already learned, already back to the basic forms for the world turns and we move with it always forward, all too backwards
a sudden taste for something bitter, something hot, something i could get for free, if all else fails, atleast i can still breathe
the flitter of fingers around rosehips covering the ashy edges of god's breasts, the trickle of sweat at the hairline fracture of an orgasm, at the smallest twinge of nervousness, a thousand syringes injecting my marrow with dreams that will later become real memories
the almost-summation of all questions asked, but without any answers, the end never comes
the ultimate post-climax conundrum, lets just die here in pure bliss, or else just crossing the street while our hands dissipate into sidewalks and alleys that will hold the smell of the world we've made like a baby shitting sickled corn atop a herd of live rats
the squirmy search for warmth in a blanket of sticky beer and cigarette ashes, of warm whiskey wine and some droplets of acid
the unbuttoning of bodices not made for these bodies, the gravediggers disease, the pure sensation of burying something alive, or dead, of burying, of burrowing, of bearing the burden of the ceaseless night in mourning
an over-exaggerated smack of the tongue aginst a thin lining of glue that will hold this en route until the words are read aloud in front of the frail and humble men and all of the untamable shrews, the simplest example of something like love just for the helluvit, spitting out venom to the air hopeing it only lands back on ourselves, the bitter disposition of waiting for a response but knowing that any response is just consensual boredom, like sex, or like something less than that, just sitting and talking for the sake of having someone to talk to, but don't we still talk to ourselves?
the tired length of a poem that hadn't a point nor a blank nor a complexity that has not already made itself clear.. it is crude, and it is weary of the day already, just noon, it has already found an ending but for winter has just begun, i am haggard
and i am sorry
it is only the beginning
and in this state
of mind and men the beginning is just the end

3 comments:

play-doh said...

Did you write this, Sean?

starcakeastrology.blogspot.com said...

this is another awesome poem

Anonymous said...

not written by sean, though heavily influenced by him to say the least, i wonder who starcake is in real life? this is coop.