"I've got this killer up inside of me... I can't talk to my mother, (friends, women, coworkers, associates, affiliates, city council, the internets, the homeless or even your mother) so I talk to my diary."

-that Scarface song from Office Space

Ostinato City, pt. II

~Commission of Craft~

In infancy
Bestial obesity.

Reticently suicidal,
Rent, thus still quite revealing
Propensity
Sparking poetic device
Towards any available
Source of life, bridled
Against a wave of malady
In contrasting decency.

Spate from the horizon the,
Expatriate materializing
Dog-paddling from naturalizing.

Ernest Hemingway with disdain,
Cyrano De Bergerac plus crack
Boisberthelot’s political fear,
Despite his debonair command
This revolution is at it’s bloodiest year.
High on the admission of shit
Nearly an addict I,
Commission this ship
For a good-riddance to all of it
Insist on surfing waves of pain
Routing alliteration,
Myself in tact.

Welles is not
“Welles” anymore
Youth has been squandered
Towards a feculent
Decaying gore
Escape is needed
Before the flatulence
Of this boring brigade
Befalls this, suffocating
Messianic assonance.

In swimming
Breath holding,
I could never scream
Perhaps wince and moan
Consign my pleasure
With courage to that and
Own only a dream,
A will to be fully known
Beyond the city walls’
Sadistic arrogance.

Though drowning as waters
Lash my bow askew…
It’s no different than I’ve always
Heard from you
A concourse connoting
Enveloping waters anyway,
That asphyxiating blue
To row endlessly against me…
always.

And I know that if
I, by anything less
Than philosophical consequence
Were to die
Only the ideal would care for me,
To cry,
For and over my chartered body
Raped in line departing Hades…

Nine matches three hundred and eighty.

-Sunday, January 18, 2009

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