nature of necrophilia

more meaning now than ever in confusion and noise

this sorry state of surreal

patheticism, a state of pitifulality

next to sacredity

low down pettiness

next to cleanliness in its purity of foolishness

something that would seem sublime if connoted

from a system of hypnogogic recall

this sorry state

i'll call my nature

nature means so much now

as a way of distinguishing from artificial

an operational dichotomy, this exhausting jangle of artificial shards

is my nature, there you go, a metric conversion, a sum

let there be more sweat-slathered daysleep

let, nevermind the blood, i won't go there again

just haze it out in delirium shy of disturbance

opaguerated opinions

what the fuck? why won't the page lounge?

i won't put this or that in context, don't feel like playing the blame game

it's okay, i don't expect anyone to throw rocks from their glass trailers

this is such a base haze, but it's got curly-cues that intellectuals

would call pseudo-clever, but they're good enough for me, they're my

style, when i can savor the filth and decay, the kinetic energy of

degeneration, the expansion of diffusion, that's my economy

i need escape, it'll have to be poetry, everything will have to be

this well of bloodless sweaty skin-flakes

narcotized on nothing with no narcotics

not numb to the nothing

i could see a trip in this

could vaguely imagine one

trying to hallucinate hallucinations

weak snap

this is the oldest the universe has ever been

this is the last day of the preceding portion of my life

this would seem more worthy of posting

if i was high, or even low shortly after being high

it would seem to be the fitting denouement following the crescendo

of a well-crafted music video

still, words can be company

even when they’re dead

my sub-hallucinogenic imagination

can sort of animate them

i'm breaking free of context

can't stress enough how confining that's been

goddamn motherfucking crushing context

could barely breathe

how about the donut tree instead?

or instead of instead, in its stead

the donut tree? houses

one of the later blackouts of my botched

return to nelson... my thoughts are necrophilic

even my precious subconscious is living off toxic substrate

the only salvation is in words, sans context, that's all, just gotta write

for no reason, no crowd pleasing

i might kick the rotten wood off a fence post

as per my nature, really, it's in the taxonomy, within the fine print

rarely-expressed rage, the basis of which is... i wouldn't presume to say

when i shut my eyes, and writhe a bit the thoughts will turn to jelly

the neurotransmitters will run out of them, leaving weak soup

the frustrated emotion will remain

leading to another spike of rage, then a long slow descent

to slothful malcontent, then a quarter sleep, then as much as a half-sleep

maybe the hint of unnoticed hypnogogia, void-willing, oh i believe in the void

yes i do, i pray to the void, i think it can help me if anything can