CONFESSION SERAPH
Lay in habbard the green-star-encrusted sequences of living code—again, a living code. Not the armament of Saturday’s fair hound. Not the least of sequences the lost diner going numb over catch-all AWOL respondents. Not the airless tee-off in a vacuum well below par until it finally stops somewhere, lands. There’s the scent of an armamental bustle going on in the leaf-variety haste arrangement. While on fluid verse I describe you to yourself and watch in dire tide, the anxiety leave the eyes. Coin-up tune tamborines in palls way divination prepared to bring up on a pair of Converse All-Stars. (While the opposite action was me in my Nike Airs falling on my ass jumping over the sidewalk’s bulwark of grimy snow onto the concrete’s icy sheet; the left glute still hurts a bit.) ¶ And to leave it be in prehistory is what the Meldus said, going on afact. Having three pairs of wings and sextillion eyes. Peering through the doorways of the various indrinate souls down here below getting turned inside-out along the 4D ribbon waxers. Showing the nacreous swirls in mint blake and refining Moses salt in lakes of blue fire somewhere someplace out beyond. Never a spanner the life can see. Pink hedrical spats a cheerleader lifted up doing a flip ascendant midair untouched wears which shine as ankle touches overhead point of light upside-down. Nevermind the argument, nevermind the fine-print definition, there are how-songs in the Meldus Mind I don’t want to hear anymore but which play inside my own head anyway. And per tab an igneous aura that gets passed on by the ones in the black layered fab-wear staking out God’s daughter Agent Entrance as she leaves the hotel for a silver-bullet biker entourage which whisps her away into the night. And appall the oxygenated environs of blue-wafer grandcurrent folbien. Excar luu. Excar endtrion luu mer.
Asking all the figures in the bleached-white headspace fresk what they think of you. Depending on their answers, sinking cluelessly unaboved un- with love. A whole terabyte-sigmund feeling drenched coming all-to-hand the toothpick thinness of a warped film over hodged proforma nexadril openers.
Do you quench diamond fees? Do you quest to the edge and damp-mind sift careless over craft-quinode? Does Meldus know our angel’s over being a messenger does not want to understand? The words he gives through sheets of blue fire to the ex-Ozmioid plasticine melting dranks whose sentences are eternal for some unnamed crime are gobbledygook anyway, so hey, now.
Hey, now. Hey, now. The sports illustration of oligarch prone dog looking for its ball driven under the chair by its moist nose is inculcated with detailed rivets of flower species heretofore undiscovered and awaiting name. Pretoria drainus vexed marra ho. Give the business to rave-grating polyp-disbursed enders of dream. Again, now, Leave it be in prehistory. Don’t let the sad mind go all over the road aswerving this way, no: take the wheel and redirect or whatever. Punch my lights out. I am getting high on pain. I am enjoying the numbness that briefly precedes the ache to which all the soreness is prone. I had said something personal about having been sober for far too long but deleted it is the thing, and what you are reading here now is the thing I wrote to replace it with, and you are reading it—still—is the thing. Is the thing. ¶ Before our rapt love we worshipped things. Our eyes popped forward a bit as we watched the over-saturated colors become the synesthetic chest-burrs which caught and ripped into the flesh isle taut main giving joy or something. I was able to write it down with my eyes closed so I could rest my neck and did not bother to italicize the overly-fourth-wall-breaking part this is as I’d done before. But what do you know, I can come to be prepared by a wind that slums the bark off the treeline and here in silvered little subglades between thickets off blue-diamond courses we would plan to eat sandwiches and smoke cigarettes between ski sessions in this upcoming day. The meditation before belit entropy was not all-the-way. ¶ Would you have me rekindle the fray on the cometous andromathy? Describe the gray in the zon-toned plick-plick-plicking of the frozen-eyed Meldus’s fifth-dimensional strange? I am, uh… I am…
… standing before you emotionally naked ripping off my ego layer by layer asking for a water because I’m tripping balls and this is several months ago at a coffee shop and you are a barista.
… coming up the long-ride a whale’s length of diamond-studded rose pearls embering over the liquid harp fireplace. Color of the flames—you guessed it—blue. But I am tilting I am yes we are I am tilting my neck up seeing the white flower dysregulate isomorphic undulations on the ceiling and I am hallucinating shadows speaking over the sound of mull-sector O-drone machines in the ceiling projecting down. On sleep-deprivation having flashbacks. Becoming crazed convinced I am under the influence of a maze. There are other things, too. I do not worship them all. Right now, I am…
… tilting my neck up as though an invisible rope were causing my body to hang. I just want to get high; I have been sober nearly six months. This meditation bleeds into strange. The blurriness blurs further as of the line between fictional poetry and fact, but only because everything is already poetry anyway. The cereal box’s health specs; the stone you kicked over in the cold plunge; the name of the face you can’t remember either of; the ass of a woman you want to fuck; the clipping drain; the partial near-octropic ending of an agnail fractalizing off into dust cells; the wonderous age; the variable curve of off-truth into technology; the nothing tonight ends on for forever not going anywhere no meaning prevailed no thing—no thing. ¶ And do we wonder, all too much the central disfigurement of the cleft chins of the angels a signal sign. A marker for the war of beauty going on all the time in the human mind relative functions ablaze with symbolism. Cruel detractors pretending they are the ones for whom my life’s designed, who don’t exist except in my mind.
Crosses lined on the road.
My soul a captive of its own signature, going “Sing this.”
The ventricular swindle on a round of fights with gargoyles holding space for me.
The end of the sentence, again—another one the point of which is questionable.