Drowning in immoral ichor
Simian intuition
Today I am the faceless trope
Of another man, and I have no name.
I move like the other man.
I talk like him too.
But I am not this other man,
Nor am I his friend.
I am disgustingly vivid and infinitesimally avaricious.
My dreams wake the deep, and with it
A most obsessive hunger.
It is my backbone, my inordinate
Encounter with consciousness abandoned.
It is my volition, my riled performer of the heavens.
It conducts within me incessantly:
A playwright of the great beyond,
Excising all my intricacies
With insensate, surgical composure.
No, it says.
You are not the appetiser of celestial fancy.
You are what was spurned from its womb.
What you are, irrepressibly,
Is cosmically vigilant.
You subdue intoxicants.
You darken the stars.
Death to you is currency,
Yet you’ve long since let it rust.
I silence it, and continue to inquire about my husk.
Do I still have love in me yet?
Do I eclipse our penitent vignette?
How do I bury it, my burden to you?
If I take it to the sky it shall eat me;
Colliding me with the great expanse
Of mile long manuscripts housing
Nothing but man’s latent inertia.
If I take it to the ocean it shall disease me;
Surmounting my convictions with
Barotrauma and the bruising of lungs.
Mazed is my old eidetic epitome,
And I have no more courage
To thin beast from bone.