Category: post-ironic performative poetry

titillating

I observe myself silently changing
because I hate you so much. I
find myself having all the different
values than those frantic ones I have
created in turbulence because I despise
the idea that you always seem to have
what you want. You always manage to
get what you want. You don’t at all
deserve what you have because
you don’t question the vapid sphere
beyond your four walls. You choose
not to understand the world beyond
the space in which you confined yourself
because doing so would be too hard.

I don’t like people who refuse to go
outside. I don’t like people who walk
to the edge of the cliff and decide
not to look down. The world is placed
at the edge of a cliff, and instead of
reaching for it, you choose to kick it
down because having a new idea would
be too hard. It would perish in the wind,
but that wouldn’t matter because it
would save you from confronting the
world that is so unknown to you. You think
you are different from the rest of the world.

I don’t like people who think they were
born with some sort of divine purpose to
create art. I hate your smile. You look like a
demented jack-o-lantern. There is nothing
true or genuine or captivating about your
existence. You think you have been created
to observe the world, to observe its truth,
whatever that means. You think the world
around you is just a painting to be described,
that human experience is just a book to be
analyzed. I tell you a secret about human
experience. It will be so artistic that your
mind will be blown away. It is a statement so
profound that the veil of self-deception will be
shattered and left with naught. I tell you now:
u wot m8 ill hook u rit in da gabbr. Innit.

pink toes

Bury the heart
in the damp dirt
where the ants can crawl around the hill,
letting their fangs settle in,
swarming,
festering in the pavement.
There lays a man whose life was dedicated for one purpose:
to live for others,
to shelter in place, imagining
how the tides could change,
how the moon could rise for the west —
its pale face strutting in the wind, facing the sun’s rays.
I often wonder where that moon went, if that moon ever
existed. I thought I imagined the moon, but maybe I
did not. I thought I saw the moon when I was five,
when the I still looked up at the moon, when
my eyes still glanced upwards when I was bored.
I no longer look at the sky, wondering if the lunar kiss
would come back to grace my childhood face.
What they don’t tell you about aging, is that you lose
your plasticity. Your face becomes wrinkled, and when
you touch it, you can feel that it is different.
You are different.
You are old.
Isn’t that different?
Ruined inside; it is an easy fight from here. The
heart dipped in chocolate can drizzle its blood
on a paper napkin. What shape is the heart?
Is it the same shape a heart was when
you were five? Is it still a heart, or it
more than a heart now — the same way a child
becomes more than a child when they become
an adult?

ring a ding ding

Rippling rifts summoned twice on Tuesday’s evening tone
I heard a story once asking where I went stillborn
Phantasmic fingers that graze my every collarbone
Grasping leaves in my hands just to have them torn

My limbs flail around with no sense of control
My heart beats fast knowing that it cannot fail
The hiss of water as I drip it into the embers of coal
Wondering what if I dip my hand in, I inhale

I tend to think I live my life around a pit of fire
Silver, white maggot laying beside me in bed
I never thought my life would end up in a state so dire
Simple black edges tracing the edge of lead

Restitution is thankless prostitution during supper
Rituals moved on from absent expressive cries
Bodiless hands move forth unto fervent horror
Tippy, toppy, floppy ploop — and he dies

moop poop

Longing is a lot like reaching out into the ocean
Hoping that the current will take you somewhere
You are exposed to the infinite of possibility beyond
But you step back onshore after reaching so far beyond
You are only left with whatever seawater grips your skin

But after you find yourself carried by the ocean
The same shores beneath your feet seem beneath you
How could you stay contented and grounded on sand
When there is a world where you could be weightless?

As the waves crash back on your feet, it still calls
As I move back into my suburban home, I often forget
There is still the ocean at the end of the road past the intersection
Where I hope to lay down at my final rest, sinking into the depths

I often forget there are sharks lurking the depths
For the most part, they mind their own business
As you dive deep down, they cannot be bothered
But how can we swim among these sharks
Without the desire to grab onto their sandy skin?

Before long the sharks stir, they take a bite out of you
You are left wondering if it was worth it at all
Was it worth a touch of roughness, if it meant reaching for the beyond?
Was it worth fight for, a life that is more than floating around?

I am often left confronted with this question, wondering if I want a floating life?
It is so easy to live a floating life
It is so easy not to reach for the sharks, trying to tame it, understand it
It is so easy to live a life far from everything else

I could return to the open ocean, in one of those territories free from sharks
There would be no chance of contact, no chance of biting
Yet the allure of the sharks still remains
What about the skin of sand is so enticing to feel
The rough edges that bleed the finger, what about it feels so right?

I return to my life absent of others
Wondering when the day comes when the open oceans return
Will I venture off into the distant, like I didn’t in the past?

binder clips for lunch

It is the 21st of September, and I think back to the life that I lived and
the life that I lost.

It seems so long ago, when the wind wisped past my hair
dragging it to the Earth, where it was swallowed by the dirt.

I only remember that night for its ugly concrete, where
my face hit the pavement so hard, blood trickled from my eyes.

It took me a while to see again, and remember — this is the world
in which I belong.

It seems when I lost consciousness, I thought I died,
but I returned, brighter than ever before, like a star does
before it dies.

I saw the spaces between space and wondered
where I fit in.

Did I fit in the crack of glass?

Did I fall into the crackling of fire?

Or was it the crack of a whip,
as if I was only there to cause pain unto others.

kierkedingus is my kinkus

Early in the morning, when the beans fall onto the ground, the monsters come out to play
I ask myself, to what end, is the salty taste in the mouth the result of exposure to the outside
I reflect back to pivotal times in my life — the times I didn’t realize was pivotal — and cry
There is only one moment that matters, which is now, but that is so hard for me to accept

I give reality to life in the past and life in the future, the moments that should not still exist
It is in the nature of things along with the growth of man: the tendency for me to create
Simple sorrows yield not to an uncaring reality; complex sorrows fall into bottomless pits
Benchmarked against my life is a hook that keeps me chasing, when stoppage equals pain

The choice to rest never came to easily; I could sit down on my feet and never get back up
It is an appropriate moment to stop: when the world moves around me, some areas do not
My feet drag onto the concrete floor, and the ripping scrapes of my nails never felt so right
Sometimes, some skin would drape onto the floor, but why would I need skin on my driveway

ding dong the witch is dead

I understand now, why clouds don’t move when they are told
The wind never rests, life goes on, and I cannot keep a cloud to hold

When rom-coms move onto their next scene, I wake up in a blur
The stories that quickly pass are the ones in a frantic blend
But somewhere in the fold, I opened a book to its last chapter
I thought it was the beginning, but the beginning started at the end

I hate dropping books on the ground, yet some deserve a pummeling
I pick up the book again, only to drop it harder and send it tumbling

I hate finding books already broken because I cannot break them in
There are two stories in this book, one where I already know the ending
I chose to read the story without an ending with a glass of tonic and gin
Only to regret my choice, knowing the road less traveled is missing

Two plus one never ended with three, one had to stray away
The equilibrium must remain, no sentiments left to convey

fine ants

The anger that comes at night — I tenderly ask
myself where does it come from? Where does my anger
originate and incubate into the festering liquids drizzling
down my throat? The daunting winds lashes thick scars
against still rocks. The world is where I come from
never felt so dauntless, where pleasure unto others
requires pleasure written in sonder. The life of others
confused me at a young age. Taking life from others
felt so listless. When the words creep down my mouth,
when the need to touch becomes so bare, I cannot
help but to wretch, to bring my hands against my face,
hoping that the world might return to darkness, when
crows scream loudly at the sun, when words spoken
feel right. I look at the sky with eyes of anger, of anger
I cannot understand. It is an anger derived from
passion, where puppets were thrown into a fire.
I was the puppet with limbs so bare, so wooden
the trees would call me one of their own. So alive
I wouldn’t know where the tiptoes crashed in horror.
Forever forgotten with the hapless need to create
stories written to be told in haste. I hear those stories
written to be heard by someone, someone who has
empathy. That is not me. That is not the person I was
born to be. Empathetic souls were born in June, and
I was born in July. I missed the month by a couple days
past, and I left that possibility in the past. It is not a
life for me. It is not a life that I wanted. June was furious
when Jupiter sought to leave, yet July does not have
this history. July is the month I lived. June is the month
I died. To listen to the anger of the sun is not what
I was born to do. To hear the stories that were told
by the sun is not the story I agree. The shallow cloud
held so deep that one day the sun would be its savoir.
I look at the cloud and blow my wind, knowing that
clouds only move when they are told to do so. But
when a cloud does not move when they are moved,
the thought of it does not please me. I seek to move
the cloud as it was intended. I hear the stories that
it will change. The cloud moves with its simple nature,
and I move on with my life as I do. I miss that cloud that
day, but not because the cloud had something for me.
I miss the cloud because I like blowing the cloud, watching
it rip apart in the wind. I was born in July. I missed the cloud
by a few short seconds, yet chase the cloud I still do. It
is not because I want to catch the cloud, as opposed to
rip it all apart again.

lo-fi hip hop yeets

Incredulous whips crackling in the fire
Rinse and writher my crumbling bones
Thrilled eyes of novelous wonderment
Intense uncertainty at larcenous lies
Rippled emotions reminded presently
Fastidious horrors tipped soft palates
Fascinating specimen I found on the ground
Another living song to replicate in time
Souls stolen from another sad country
Flesh woven into another sad puppet
Skinned sheep’s face hanging on the wall
Words spoken softly are those taking the fall

Parallel stories leads only to regretful lingers
Hateful spree between two alleged friends
One set the house in a frivolous expansive fire
To escape a burning house is fraught with woes
Ridiculous quotations resemble pretentious pricks
Sentences spoken as truth where lies take hold
Unknowing ignorance create unfound emotions
Manipulative words find celibate deficiencies
I take what is mind and leave with what is not
I relinquish prarie farms with their burning muck
Strangers carry wary from hellish gasoline caverns
Strike a match and drop it into Satan’s moral hazard

Dampened lips lead to dry bloody clothes
Terrorized moment questioning if it happen at all
Lizard skin draped over globular toxic organs
The warm inner organs never tasted so crusty
The venomous past resurfaces to present interest
Curious feral creatures picking at deaf ears
Hydrochloric acid dripped onto confused fingers
Irritated rash that can only be burned off with fear
Taking in the last breathes of somber air
Holding in disgusting human inquisition
I found the source of negativity in the tepid air
Where the sum of wonderment is final despair