alligator food
much too real, that
when finally i can walk again among of my kind without the gut-wrench of their unresolution,
left to cower in corners with a convincing self-dialog for sociopathy,
-but knowing still such judgements stand,
that i cannot help them,
should i be tossed along the undercurrents of decline...
you are hinted at,
(inevitable, that)
subtle reminders, and i must know of your travels
finally(?) i can sense (your/a) freedom (was it mine?)
past so long when i knew there was nothing i could say
a bloodlines fate amidst mortal gestures.
thats too real for TV
& i had to be sure,
so what if i made you an icon for tribal purity?
and of mortal chance, well... we all roll dice, respectivly
condolances to those who can't take the prescribed dosage?
revel in what wraps one who could in protection?
that voo-doo dark of pre-meditation...
among the mass' you might be one of few i couldn't read,
and it proves to me some indeed are human, and not just plackards for an agent's whim.
and i do so tire of the game...
who dares to presuppose,
to take all of me (*rat pack '50's svelt pose, ensues*)
condense it down...
to get my number,
i can feel it, them, trying to get a handle, the pidgeonhole to place me in.
a fond derision,
but i know the darwin-laws of butterflies
and lifes unrequited apathy.
an such invitations for tete-a-tete, when the outcome is only as obvious as ones taunting allows.
well could you blame me for my youthful arrogance?
know then, it should by all accounts have been beaten from me
i chose to keep it, like a scar on my skull to prove i cannot be killed so easily.
i am thankful for existance, still
a humble benefactor who wants but to exit on better terms.
to build, again
from scratch, again
and convince myself to be worth the effort.
an (inenviable) cycle of suffering
(aint there a religion based on such...)
and not for want of company, these throngs beat upon my door...
to take from me what they themselves won't recognise as nourishing their cooincidence.
but those who yearn for me want but the flesh or the mysteries of a complex mind
and a soul remains unriquited, unperused,
should it even matter, that i am not given the choice of simple mammal-enamourment?
to opt for prudishnish, to deny the taste of it, or consignment as a social vamp, perchance a hat-trick? ancient taoist translations, energyflows, etc? hmmm, not the expected, and THATS the point of it.
exept by you, from you, what is this, why does just your memory crawl inside the parts i don't want open
it makes me feel pathetic.
can you believe that?
maybe its even true,
and maybe a byproduct of gestures that you impart to all
and i am a relegant (no, that one ain't in the dictionary)
an example of one who can't let go,
(is that the definition of fixation, or nymphomania?)
[ARE WE STILL ALIVE?]
but what is it now, 10 years?
shouldn't the 7 year itch apply?
to know such pangs, or even its hint, (w/c/sh)ould break me.
a smell that was/is home, engrained in limbic memories
a long slow ache, life embodied as yearning
a specific frequency of heat
past the bonds of ocytocin,
pheremone whispered remanants of solace
so much i have to compose myself (no, really, part of me does)
and smile at you, convey my sense of confortability, lifes humble graces, yadda ya
allow myself the pleasure of bumbling around, to forget my station and just live.
in truth it is ok
human issues are fun and innocent
and their ease a gift of cognisense (sp, {on purrpose}).
the newness of the indecision, at least, has been absolved.
the maintaince of tribal confort,
while another part,
-the part that gives me validity
decrypts the transmition,
http://www.mum.edu/m_effect/
the maharishi effect...
-the math of beauty
and all the tribal drama
-the ikk that this flesh is heir to
is periphreal
there is ( i find [the {make-believe}] dream of) a place that is truly silent
-except for the intent of a few who (truly) deserve it.
an homage to an ideal
the fact is i remember childhood in your company.
not the instance, but the sense, the easy attentive whisps of interaction i tend to mimic when things are going right.,
to make believe i'm human, even to believe...
could i descolate that visage?
(honestly?... easily, i'm a slut, and i'd leave thee sullied...)
sorry to put you on a pedistal, is that selfish, or are you confortable there?
and no, this is not a grand design to get in your pj's
know me then, as truthful (or relativly so), just a boy with a plan
as for the past, our interaction was my ties to honesty, rehab therapy, even, and what i used as a subtle undercurrent (one of many, just so you know i ain't fixated with altars to you stashed in the cubby hole of my attic where i crawl up and sing to myself) to teach myself the human gesture.
but the possiblility of your full attention, umm sorry, but don't think i can hack it, secretly i want to, but...
i've tried before and flipped (straight the fuck) out, too much for a mortal lad (i guess),
so what if i have made you an icon of something pure?
its unobtrusive, save supptle hints,
that are but given as assurance you are loved and will be while i have the faculty.
but the mission is a viscoius viscous taskmasking baitch
stilletos grind in ribs if unattended,
a fickle and wanton flow, unrelenting
it must be known, absolved, given form,
and all else is secondary
so forgive me if i might socio-program the situation a bit
just enough to remove the want.
as mortal bonds collapse on whim
and my scars have not been so quick to heal
you seemed encumbered at times by past perception
what could i say to such but that i have known my permutions
used that,litmus style, as a base from which to judge this flow,
this linearly constrained recursive innuendo,
*insert nickel-word reality-defining thingee here*
, for asthetics. and serindipitous aspects thereof.
and (at long last {drumroll please}),i deem this incarnation as free from blatant architype (blatant euphamism),
the epic sceeneries, done and chronicled
the boundaries have been accounted for.
this is a place-filler world i guess
a random st(r)ain, could be best spent tending bar...
and yet, to place oneself amist the flow
a rampant fickle, untented thing
twitterpating through intent,
reminiscent of smoke-whisps in a still room, still it flutters...
it seems my empathy was bruised beyond my tollerance, (...again [geesh])
by others who only really loved my ideaology.
what am i to do with this?
that i could, by association, taint a still fragile form.
brief instances,
a perfect trap?
one who knows me
as sociopath?
...that'll keep ya in check.
but thats not me, at least i don't think so
never-the-less
i remain contented to know you exist
and are (somewhere) happy
my first and only non-commital act of love
save the requisites of lineage.
as most monkees look for mirrors, and if one is forced to play that game,
i'll admit to an advanced tactic core,
the canine-lick recognition of a dominance ploy
but the parleyance of the game
is still a mimick of true tact and grace
and smacks of surruptition, an unspoken want.
and such could be the best
if one wished to have a lot cast with the rest of such suit,
and absolve a tender subject as an option.
did i really disscount myself like this
or does it excuse a judgement of unfittedness
an easy hack, supposedly, and seemed natural at the time.
i guess the questioning should be reveled in, as it implies my youth.
but, on my word, t'was the only act of dishonesty
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0fu) wrote,
