The ornery children of earth come with unrequited visions
of epiphanies that show them why this juxtaposition
of mind beside ethereal reality
is a normal place to us, while our litigious
litigate enough to decline us sight
and define our minds.

Tenacious is the stubborn nature of a force
bearing the audacity to feed ludicrous content
into our overextended unconscious capacity to
accept nourishment from the most titillating mental garbage imaginable.
Our optical options become opaque,
and time ceases to appear translucent, as it really is.

If death’s condescending nature is indeed its nature,
then hope is impervious to it through the eyes of all the pensive
(but often petulant) people lying shadow less in their deathbeds,
burrowing back to their most primal emotions,
where love most likely prevails and spandex is just another word
for expand, not from a size six to sixteen, but from life to life.

But what if life and death are just an illustration
within the illustrious canvas of stars and things
seemingly unimaginable, things that have been demolished
to smithereens, reduced to carnage through a hole in the sky,
and spit back out to the ubiquitous once again.
Mugs are filled with its hot matter, and we drink it.

To see that illustration in our children’s book would
fulminate us as if someone had fornicated right in front
of our toddlers, as if they had fucked in disgust,
creating sons of bitches through their sinful public copulation of the mind.
To see that image in our children’s book would be
phenomenal, like the syrup on my pancakes after a good fornicating.

Placenta, yes, it’s just like a fetus cork, keeping the
growth intact as the descendents of quarks take form and become
seemingly indelible, alive, toxic, and prepared to be big inside the
infinitesimal, taught to be equipped with redemption of sin,
as hallowed rumors and stories take the stage, and broken hearts
intoxicate themselves with lie serum and bleed heavier from their lacerations.

Let’s drink, let’s party, see you a glass of anesthesia later,
let us masticate awareness and focus solely on ambiguous things
that mean nothing to anybody, and whose words are serrated
like a saw with the ability to cut into us with orgasms of sublime,
tantalizing entertainment that we find insatiable, so much that we find
peculiar ways to shimmy our world into something buoyant,

something that sounds like onomatopoeia.

Yes, children of everything, we shall take mutilation to our funny elbows as pride,
attach our pallets to the artificial sweetener of quagmires of intellectual
asphyxiation, and forget to remember the painting we are in, the one
that is visible but not highlighted with linseed oil by the ones who
have the money and desire for more, the ones who paint a picture inside of our
picture that mimics and distracts us from the phantasmagorical universe that is art, and art

inside of itself.

02/12/2007

Posted on 02/12/2007
Copyright © 2024 Meagan Green