Fissures divide the blushed cheeks of pavement,
Spotted inconsistencies individualizing
Each individual--
Untouched,
But still sharing similar circumstance
And certain fates.
Compassion is not received
But always welcome to such hearts,
Thumping to stale-monotonous deaths.
Weathering wears down their faces,
Unseen day-to-day,
But vividly apparent
In the long run they become!

---

Rimbaud sat beauty on his knees,
But these souls have no limps to grasp;
Trapped in space,
Only to be walked over for being embedded
With the ground as one.

Characterize plights into fathomless expedients,
Make them uninterpretable to other minds;
Ritualize flight into meager daily life--
The tasks--
Meaningless fodder for all!
Seethe the stress in the most inefficient ways,
As to boil over and explode--
No!,
combustion resorts to a lack of consumption--
Certain death.

And i still remain unconvinced as far as atrophy is concerned. This stubborn heart refuses, in absolute, to bend to the will of individuals of the social norm; there will be no folding, it is far to soon for martyrdom! Take your ignorant pride and bring it down to the currants--and behold! you are not yet free of misdeeds, but mayhaps you can see what rests before the path set; there will be no graceful rest, none at all!, but for once there will be an option to move on.

Love transformed to bitter contempt in the matter of days. it has now taken thirteen months to only display contempt with the best of intentions. Very little has felt real to me since then. No. Things have just been stale, trapped in stagnant repugnance.

***

A cool fall breeze, as cool and as brisk as a young lover's kiss--And this sun as warm as the flesh. How desire now brims over these edges, leaving me to swell and to bask in sensuous despair. Lingering still in memory, the patterns of familiar flesh attract like unspeakable dreams. Paper and ink through pen will never be enough to console this wretched heart. Passive whim stems from shy and deep roots, but the breeze continues to tease my limbs through never-ending pride.

Shapes and figures here in academia distort to construct contour lines i crave--Nourishment is what this body needs! Bashful is a failing delirium being overcome now with a consensual-assertive will of unseen prowess form this body. With that, determination blinds when compassion is forgotten, but as forgetful as i can be at times, i still see all laid before this path; it is just rotten and more often than not, difficult to react. And it helps not at all with these peripherals constantly fogged!

I cast a shadow, hardly visible in this time, seeking recognition i hardly deserve. I utter words unworthy of hearing, and i resemble concepts of only blasphemy. The original sin is transformed to resemble my passionate defeat!

Siren, wail your call by stretching your lungs to the brink! Wring your voice to call me over to stranger places, from here with such urgent songs of praise. You are incapable of failure, for wherever you reign, i will hear with ears and taste those ragged perfumes. I must know where you reside!

Your residence, dear siren, is one which holds relevance to masters--The wishful all knowing and all seeing of this world. They perch themselves high above the turmoil of gracious experience. But this is not the place for me, the destitute stale of heaven--True knowledge is not in God, but in the experience of sin as euphoric understanding. I would rather rot one-thousand times in any hell before this path crossed any sort of pearl gates.

Any sense of falling from grace is irrelevant--I would much prefer to knock is reaching hand astray then to meet this fucked God halfway. I will never meet any body, spiritual or not, anywhere near their stale absolution. I will create where masters destroy. I will reside in their shadows and slay their numbing death--And if i am to die, i will wail with such laughter! I will repent only by spitting into a puppet's face, and if the puppeteer unveils, i will crush any sense of satisfaction left with my iron will.

Dualities desecrate our lives. The cards dealt out will be plundered and lost for eternity here, and only creation may stay. The voyants of our time will not be masters, and at the most guides; certainly martyrs and hope-bringers, but never masters! Masters may never fall into their dualities, but they are always ruthless to distribute. Distribution.

Reincarnation is this duality. It is heaven or hell. It is wholly spineless, and forevermore merely pacification. Feed the minds of children, and you have their adolescence. Force adolescents to behave accordingly, and then have the grown-up drones--Fodder for society, and entirely useless for any real progress.

And how does this endearment really work? Eradicate domination and it will not take long to see for one's self. Experience is inevitable if taught to feel it. Everything becomes more clear than what we breathe.

***

Translusive Absolution!
Repulsive display,
Uncanny to the untrained eye,
Even delightfully deceptive to a folly mind.

It reeks of disorder,
Lavender scented absolute-disillusioned;
Reissued vague rememberences,
An assassin of time-
But never passion.

Illusive images so very vivid,
To the source of senses-
It bellows of reprive!
This cautious eye.

***

And now about vices; oh how they accelerate experience in such simple ways--How they enhance the bliss in sin through a boost in whim. it is a trance of sorts that some claim a trap.

Youth is escaping me, age creeping upon my body as a skilled hunter--Timeless and ageless orion marauds my skin of youthful zeal. My pores leek of strain and reek of decay.

And i am only reaching the twentieth year of life.

My joints ache and my skull throbs of tiresome distress. Rest is what i seek, but have reached to no avail. It seems just out of reach at each cornerstone; at this point, i survey my surroundings for a time of peace. The ambiance of silence never lasts for long, and slips past unnoticed.

And beauty speaks before me, seated upon a ledge just out of view. I am unable to properly survey these circumstances. Where are the lines, and are they even worth crossing? I could not just throw away such a reward as yourself, friend. Not for anything.

I seethe with loneliness--And my lovers? Sick to death of fucking nothingness; the very little i have the will to provide. Caught in the net of oblivion, there is nowhere to go but on to everything--The nothingness yet prevails!

Wringing sweet drips of euphoric understanding--How i wish i could secrete such bliss with this heavenly skin! Instead, i bask in sin, looked down upon by my peers in fear. Of what? Rejection? upheaval? Reactionary theorems? Do not glare with such stupefying grins! I can take so little no longer.

A chunk, a sum as a piece of flesh--This is all i am; a lump of memorizing memory and lush experience. This is fine by the likes of me, as a core of desolation; destitute soul by choice alone, but experience only accentuates these finer points in life.

I quite literally have no desire to be with another person as of now. The only sensations driving me revolve around lust. I am bearing an undesirable weight, and how it maddens me! in ways untold. I fear a repeat of past lover's endeavors, and i must admit i will not be ready until my life begins to rapidly cool like this premature autumn. I maintain a certain agony here, in this season, that remains unforeseen; and i lack the experience and knowledge to put it to rest.

The staleness of existance is quite disturbing now, like this paradox called my life--It is blatantly wrecking me. Life will move on and forth as an infinite river, but that makes no difference for the sake of stability and comfort.

I can absorb and digest all that comes my way, but such stale agony never seems to pass. This cruel grasp only tightens.