Us, For What The Word Is Worth

So this is what I have to show
for everything that
once-upon-a-time was
us:

an as-yet-unmade promise;
an impracticable effort of will;
eleven months to think and ponder
over two or three's worth
of ill-made decisions;
and scarcely enough trust
to keep us through a
single night.

What's the point of having
friends you can't trust?

What's an admission worth,
anyways, when you don't
even know it's been made?
Two can tell: you are
not a fan of giving,
just getting.
You can say it, but do
you know what is being said?

There's just too much irony
laced up in your
faux-furious shouts:
you swear that this time,
this is the last time
you'll swear this is the last time,
but we both know that the other knows
that we will both keep
coming back for more.

(copyright a(scetic)verse, September 28, 2009)

Composed at Bayshore Coffee Company

We scions, we kings of our gardens of earthly delights, we ARE-
but we know not what
and so we spend our pupal
vegetative time at the bottoms
of bottles, in the stems
of pipes, actuating ourselves by
losing ourselves, no real way
to find ourselves.
But perhaps in every poison is an ounce of potion, a spare hidden drop of panacea to clarify and to calcify the fleeting phantom images of the next page past this vagrant verse, in which we mannequins of sense and skin masquerade as men.
So scream- scream to shatter
the silence which stifles introspection;
intone not God's thousand names
but your own: all hundred thousand
thousands of them, let your names whet
whet your appetite for yourselves, lick
their taste from your parched
lips; sate your self for once,
not those stillborn passions with
which we tease and seduce reality
to bend itself to our whimsy.

Take me home, oh feet; instruct me, oh mind, in the science of sleep; forget me not, oh deathly one; for you are feet and mind and vein and virus: intervene, oh angels, save me from myself and from him, whatever the difference may be.

"WHAT IS TO BE DONE,
WITH THIS FRAGILE, TRANSPARENT
SOUL,
THAT BREATHES
INSANITY
INSIDE ME?"
-Darla

Whatever your art is, you must infuse it with some insanity; but that mold of manic passion is the raw marble block we exert from within ourselves; once we exhale the insanity from the bottom of our soul we must temper it with the order of discipline, the knowledge of form, which informs the shape of art as bellows and hammer inform the shape of molten steel
Thought then word,
Spirit then form.
Coalesce, oh inner air of passion,
Oh transient muse, make
of my body and my blood
whatsoever form you hold
latent within yourself by the
grace of whichever beyond from
which you emanate;

And let yourself emanate
from each and every beyond;
spare me not the full magnitude
of my own nascent vision.

(copyright a(scetic)verse, September 25, 2009, except noted attribution to Darla)

(The silent science of reconciliation)

The silent science of reconciliation
reverberates through my skull empty as
it may be though you are
in my lap in my palm wrapped around my finger
(like a wedding band and
so i ask who or what traps who or what
manipulates who or what binds who or what
am i are you?) but let's move on let's
get to bed let's fight let's fuck it's
what we do let's never resolve fix the car
walk the dog wash the dog wash the
car fix the dog never talk only
speak never listen only hear scream shout
silence scream shout stop slap shove bruise batter
leaving left lone lost lust lest love(lorn)

(copyright a(scetic)verse, September 04, 2009)