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Evolving
yes, i'll hold your hair back,
you sweet thing, you cute little whimsy,
so you can throw up your nerve,
with the price of your stomach wide open
to tax and stress and bleach stained heartstrings.
ok fine, ...you'll be? i'll make it all right.
i'll glow with English pastoral settings,
and burn underneath with this country's secrets;
dark, raw odds and ends, that make up the whole.
and carrions i shoot with seeds from my pupils.
and dogs i track home on your mom's carpet.
i can hold the stench tangled up in your wild hair,
as long as it lasts, if you don't become a spider all at once;
if you let me die only with that slow poison within us.
i find a opossum in the mailbox of all your exloves,
and extinct hunters in their family man attire,
all dirt and no play, with the straight faced wives
you'd never be.
you had never been so bored? -
what is this love for you,
and why?
what is it,
some form that has taken shape.
a caterpillar becomes a butterfly:
and a butterfly it is.
there are plenty of reasons,
none are good enough.
God, self, love; all things that took form.
all of them justified by the most unjustifiable thing in the world,
the individual need.
i can't keep a scene going,
through my eyes,
no, no, you need love for that;
balance, that's all it is.
-it might be cool for you,
but it's not good for you;
and you're a sucker for the good,
no matter how you blow your smoke.
an outdated ideal Romantic, you.
you got love like chancre sores,
if only it exhaled habitual smoke.
the only beauty i find in the male body
is the feminine;
so i strike as your antagonist,
ugly, hard, textured, fearless:
fear is for survival.
i want none of it.
love is death,
if done right.
you, Einstein's ideal-smooth universe personified;
the only dancing stars yet, are what
you see before your eyes when you're dizzy.
-the chaos lies below, but in the mind.
all in your head.
-you never earned your grace;
the choreographed carvings from madness...
you are a mad herd, a delicate cluster.
nothing took God from you.
no one brought it either.
But I can touch a man's body far better
Than I can an industry;
And machines sicken me as much as designs.
What I don't want is a culture: -
And a mangy little love that chases after all,
With need of responsive affection from all,
Like a cat in need to run, dog-like and foolish,
After every car, not barring a crush, and a death,
And a trail of blood and guts, slid, slipshod and wishy-
Washy, across the open road.
No, don't need it. I want all or nothing,
But I won't settle for nothing.
You understand?
I'm not God, I forgive nor wrath around a planet
Made of imaginary boundaries:
It's too much to waste on faithless diplomacies.
You get it and you don't go anywhere;
Or you don't, and it's just another
Fine line drawn in the sand.
But I use sand to dream, and so should
You. You don't have dreams any more?
You should.
I have them in abundance.
From the looks of them,
I think I'm having yours too.
I see love reinvented,
Nothing classic or religious about it;
Unless a bit Romantic,
When the time comes to grab your arm
And pull you into the future,
Where I've made things, and waited,
More human than human;
Set against a backdrop, all earth and stars and reason.
There has to be a reason.
A purpose.
More than any one man can say,
Unless his lifetime is made important:
By a love, a death, an invention
All his own, and yours…
For it was you that started it,
That inserted the poison,
That needed the new way to communicate.
It takes a long time to live;
You have to pull a rabbit out of a hat,
And put on fucking magic tricks,
If you can't teach her the trigonometry of your faithfulness
The first go round.
But that's love, she says.
You don't know yet, but that's what it means.
It doesn't mean anything.
-and you won't learn anything if you don't stop trying
So hard to be one with the nothingness you love
More than any man since…
Everything is a pious little lie, for a Christ
That has no cross to bear.
If every Buddha was a Mozart,
We'd have no reason, no reason at all, to go on.
Just sit in the pleasant little cabinet of your discontent;
Without a garden, or a cow, or even a horse,
But little like a voice, a scattered ego laying on the spotless
Bed of love lost, too long ago,
To even give a good shit.
Whether you're sick or not…
Come, and give a little more.
Now before it gets too dry to grow
Anymore teardropp glistening moods
And prism opening vistas to stars unheard
In the spheric sounds of dimensions felt
In human bodies under tension
Of a falling star exploding in the vat.
