piece #2

silence has made me so very nervous. fidgety. morose. and pensive. a brain-less child of mist and covets. of a dull, syllabic craving of the spectator i long for. what happens as a result of gentle severance, is a glee-less comeback. self-wrapping in explanations. in theories and hypotheses of the possibilities.

it is the problem that has no name. not from the trade-off of the second wave ovaries. a notch parallel of depression and mania. silent, gentle, hushed. a complaint to the self. a repentance to the soul. yourself, unarmed with love. shrouded in fear. and coated in pain. tear drops rolling down, past my nose. against my lips, around my cheeks and on my palm. thinking about yesterday, the day before. the memory of mirth -however temporary. however transient. i do not understand, why this particular pierces me so.

there is a beauty in sadness. observe, your philosophy. an esoteric teleology, maybe even an evolutionary adaptation to the compassion of the kindred? what causes the emotion of melancholy. sometimes personal. sometimes impersonal. personal, always however. your body curls into this emblem of dissolution, an inconsistency beyond rationalization. there is this pressure, this force pulling you inside out, upside down, restless, agitated, distracted. you cannot explain, however. what if there was a pill for erasure of the melancholy? an analgesic, a balm, a potion to vaporize an internal dissonance. parting ways, moving on. leaving trails and swirls of volatile memorabilia. an incontinence of the dream prospect of building a life, of building a branch of the durable. what leads you to dream of an unbecoming future, i do not know. i tell myself. i ask myself. in harmony with the priest who fueled my anger on a sunday night, fourteen years ago. hearing voices, sopranic. cachophonous, in unison and in thirds. in the castle whir of god worshippers, of peace maniacs. of the oppressed and self-deluded. on second bites, fifteen, fourteen count downs. till the very end, a splurge of pricks in glands and ducts of your hidden lachrymal. of your crazed, ovoid egotism and jarred sensibilities, make them crystalline and diaphanous. transparent in its entirety. why do you display such unreasonable cowardice at the prospect of the mismatch? feign, pretend in vain erudition, that you are a master of this ignoble compass -playing with the ballistics of sentimentality. ill-will is not my retort. possible dramatics, possible pondering and tentative muses. hoping and wondering, when does the self unfold, refold and release a pocket of piercing pain?

deserving reprisal, oxo, you are happy, and unhappy. in your crystal globe of the polymath, the polyglot, the self-material dome-seeker. i will re-visit the paralysis of my sentiment. i hope, moving aside. spraying love-potions on my sleep vehicle, dead poetry and art.