Everything is up and down, like a triumphant FUCK YOU to Gravity. Tall metal, steel atoms, neatly arranged, projectiles into air, winged electrons scurrying thermodynamically, the magic of magnetism. Royally inconsequential, when you really think about it.
Even our green allies, blades slicing into the battle for airspace, like they have a seat at the table. Nosing their way into the gaseous vacuum of Atmosphere, justifiably making fools of themselves. Tragic, yet ritually religious.
A meticulous stacking of brick edifice. Concealing more than constructing. Deception, actually. Systemically distorting understanding, construing perspective. It’s tacit, complicit, domineering. I want to run away.
There has to be discomfort in the positionality of things. How can everything want to be the same position. Strive to be in the same position. Only “work” when in the same position. Have Value when in the same position. This is not construed by rods and cones. Conical conniption. Why does this make me feel nauseous.
A pump pump pump of bike pedals, blood, pipettes, urine and feces. My eyes close up shop when the Sun slips, opening, opining a short time later: Gravity is still alive Gravity is still alive Gravity is still alive Gravity is st-
About the Creator
MINDSOCKET
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the bird
You have not left the cage of my mind. A bluebird figurine come alive now restless, perhaps a bundle of canary yellow plumage (bright bold as a sunflower), boney wings and feather displays. Circling airborne, round and round, a fury of color, weightlessly ferociously pacing. Constrained yet soaring: the space given. I am amazed at how you soar in a space so small. Soar soar soar! Incessant shifting perspective, your movement, my eyes struggle to keep pace - hear sight taste smell touch cage freedom cage freedom cage - and I wonder if there is any difference at all: (is being caged unknowing of freedom’s burden?) Sometimes, briefly, the cage in my mind is cloaked in an all-too-thin yellowing veil of distracted thought, the shadow of wings and the ferocious trail of fascia muscle air bone blood emerge through shadow from below. Air occupied by swarming, twisting, tumultuous essence. Air within and without. Here and there, air air air. Tornadoes of just-been, not-leaving, and trapping (you’re ceaselessly banging/brandishing/bullying the metal entrapments against my inner cranium, how it rings!) -- dogged dogged trappings. This cage in my mind.
By MINDSOCKET4 years ago in Poets
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