Attentiveness gives you that which only you can give: to be known to yourself like a reflection in the wind, a tune whistled in dust, a heavy hug in the ear. It is always waiting for you to give yourself a chance to greet yourself.
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A blood-warmed mimesis, a pulsating affinity, atemporal dancers, you as they, they as you, a sharing of memories awakes flesh, a collective image moves, an uncanniness kisses, some unnamed absolute breathes, a familiar beast with many souls roams close.
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Shadows brew in our inner vision, reducing all things to truths. A trickle of words and images, the fragile, puppeteered mind insists on bringing order to its noise. Dispossess things and ourselves to control them and ourselves.
Blindseer, what shadows led you here? Unravel, unknot, and sit. Silent is the dark landscape devoid of truths.
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I live with an assumed knowledge of self that like Hamlet keeps me in a catatonic state gilded by fear. Too true to ignore, such contemplation may turn the anxiety of living into art and make a sullen madness beautiful if sustained in the static magic of the written word and not within my flesh. These lines of thought born from a cry in an atemporal, distant realm seep into my flesh to find meaning, and so, it moved through me onto these pages: an imagined apotheosis howls to echo out of time once again.
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Air sets fire to lungs, a burning blazes bodies alive. Snapping, flickering, an unnamed anxious intent slowly, slowly ashes flesh,
yet we’re soothed by tamed air.
A voice, cradled breath, sings of more than life. While days flake off, songs etch into dead earth the story of impermanent things—Gilded lives form symbols meant eternal. Language, a storied serpent never-ending, drags along idol corpses resurrected by tangled, fated eyes: a quiet kiss.
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Things only seem like they are meant to be because at times one is not able to look past the logic that constructs the inevitability of things.
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Words mean to give life to chaos: to string along dark, haunted impressions, a misted gibberish lifted from the outside that lives inside us all.
A fleshy beast, red and raw, black and blue, chews and spits up a mastication of nonsense made pretty by fear’s serene gift of seeing future constellations in the present day.
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Hold a metaphor, like a carrot, in front of life’s unknowns to falsely tame that which cannot be tamed, a poetry imposed on to this mortal horror. Allusions to life scraped together with dirty fingernails, lipped in spittled breath, passed down from dying hands to dying hands, from dying mouth to dying mouth. Let it decay and become a known stillness, more dead than dead in mourning.
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The Assumist 