Stream of Consciousness
Pass the Bottom of the Nothing
Creating a self that makes the sun sweat, line lured from the savage recesses, bet outside my cell are the putrids tapping on the surrounding glasses. Driver fast yet stacking a card castle full of aces. The chase, for the one that demands to be inked—for your tale vailed in a haunting forgotten blink. Better help from the pre-fucked pie of what the doctor recommends daily. Baby’s breath of Bailys, no tooth aches, no pretense of shattered glass in the future. Moistened out of focus…outside of review. Packs of me and your half right. I’m the Bandanaed Violet Knight--I need that on me. Read the groves of the life led by the effervescence of shock and awe, the brave, deaf to cries from the fall. Lockstep with self-built laws. Pause. Is that the silence, followed by violence—let it claw at the cleansing, kill your clandestine ache for mincing words. Let the walk avoid the herds, lending to hostile verbs. Be the consciousness that can’t tell what it is, but draws the love in with its iron fist. Claim no order can border you—YOUR absurdity. Flame against Demeter's dissenters with disregard that re-angles the purity for the lights to blind the dementor, yes, a pack of them. Yes, a hoard would peel the skin back of anything unsettled by the inside of the third eye. Don’t lie, you know you’re promising Leagues below the depths and hooked on climbing innovations. Sample from this building's Cosmic boiler to greet the surface with your rawest wiles.
By Willem Indigoabout a year ago in Poets
