Poetica Spontenaium 10.14.03
Count
Down
To this.
Crossing grids, lights and lepers
Hookers, dealers and wanna-be players
To that sign that says
I’ve crossed over
and with a breath
caught with desperation from my chest
I
pass
over.
And like a child on a bus
Waiting to get just beyond the last gate
Of a cemetary lest a demon steal my life
I stop for a second
And can only hear my pulse pounding
In my ears, bang bang.
Like a gun left in the nightstand
Like a prayer on a dead man’s lips
Like a confession before morning breaks
Like an egg against the wall of hate
Or was that really a home.
Maybe it was yours.
I choose to forget.
To you I beg for dispensation
For a criminal emotion that
Without expresion
or intention of malice
Comes out like obsidian and ash upon your face
To cut and make filthy, that which was once lovely and kind.
And burn with absolute zero the lack of freedom, philosophy,
and filial generosity that once poured
from your lips into mine
You. And where were you.
When the shit came down.
In honor there is everything
A blessing to every wound
Each scar a convocation of this silent sacrament.
For whom?
Your prayers start out
“God, I’m fucked up, but you love me still.”
And the truth shames me because I recognize
a mirrored mantra that I am incapable of reflecting upon
Without recognition of the starvation
of my own eyes
without a cup
To pour apologetic meditaitons into.
Consider this.
I
am
fucked
up.
Will you love me still?
When I claw at the inside of my arms
When I put myself in bodily harm
When I set off all your alarms
For a fight or flight
visceral reaction
To an admission of weakness
with an odd, wounded animal charm?
Does it apeal to you to play Christ
Salvation ?
For my chemical vice
Take it easy you say,
You should think twice.
So you say you’re still here.
Why are you afraid to stand so near
To this heart you hear across the room
Pounding, bang bang.
Count.
Down
To
This.
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