Wednesday, January 29, 2014

Negative Enzymes

your face is a hole in the ground
and I'm not stepping in it

nor am I filling it with water

or soil or anything like that

I shall pay it no attention more

the yelling, yeah it's a little hard to take seriously

but the sentiments are sincere, sincere and exhausted

we both know we're good at stripping other peoples' wires

what new do we gain by re-enacting it?

your mother is gone, soon mine will be too

one less person who, beyond having the bandwidth, actually cares

whether we as fucked up, amazingly creative, 

people will actually do better

than just survive, beyond 

not stabbing ourselves with knives

causing our own bodily distress with all the lies

we tell in silent whispers every minute of all the time

your eyes didn't show any kind of surprise

your gestures seemed slow and rehearsed, sadly tired

so familiar, so nostalgic

so hungry for this damaged routine

I fell for it, just like with my mother

raised my temper, then my voice (or was it the other order?)

your will is your own

as mine is mine

kicking holes in the speakers

don't make them louder

everything dying away from you, 

from us, not really dying 

but doing a life-saving 

job of pretending

withering then 

escaping into rest

into a world that shines with light and acceptance

that shares, loves, and makes friends with

our reality more like a martial arts movie

all bursts of air and violent shifting

gestures honed

slices rendered 


with minimal exertion

causing damage, sure

there's history

a traceable lineage 

of secret societies 

carefully killing people

under the guise of refined art

no more than your face empty

where a hole used to be

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