Straight back to the unbalanced apologia,
strange visions emanate from peculiarities.
Opposites attract and distrust opposition
that belong to shivers, radiant
perplexed and free.
Alternatives to liberty frought in dystopia
shook me all night long
shook me all night long,
in linen drenched in anxious free-form sweat
sweeter than the qoutations `round your neck
or the roughness of your vampire lips.
Shaken, not stirred, we watched the sky
turn from black to blues as spanish rhythms
shook the dew from mouths raging sin,
who sang fractured nursery-rhymes whose golden
tunes inhibited practical applications of libido.
A lone violin complains in the corner .
Bedridden and deceased,
born from original sin,
we thrust and thrust and go nowhere,
digging mass-polluted multiples of graves to burn
the fleas off our backs in imagined shame.
Which ecstasy to seek suffered I in wandering
in chaotic crawlspaces
as a mind numbed with drugs sensed strung-out
gutters counting cracks in pavements decadent,
as the sun rose nonchalantly flipping the bird.
We, the fucker-uppers born from repressed rage
gathering dust `neath eyelids gazing at truth
or imagined truths of strange undignified pointed
existence sharp as needles in our anaemic gums that found
divine beauty hidden in the folds of an untrained bicep.
To think that these whirlwind wonders of truth
lied not in the pursuit of truth as shown
but lied in lies larger than continents,
grander than galaxies,
nailed to the lips
To think grandiose schemes lay broken boundless
`neath our fractal nursery-rhymes, or in beauty
drugged and bound in the chest of Prometheus
chained to simple soulless skyscrapers gazing
at the concrete-moon in search of truth concrete.
To hear the cars hiss outside windows pounding nails
in hardwood floors where legs numbed by millennia
walk and wallow in pain drowned in drink
fuels the fires of blank blindfolded brilliant catharsis.
I belong to the blind-eyed I said he
and so said I.
drenched in blood,
we raised our glass
and sung his last
Enveloped in wombs of decadent jazz
as mud flung from skies turning blues
shone the sun through our eyes where we saw
that truth is naught now but deceit.
Rampaging we roared calm-fisted,
our voices fluttered by like flutter-byes,
to bury our hands in eternal deserts
of oil-tainted asphyxiating asphalt.
Shone we numb-naked
with our thumbs in their eyes,
all smiles and birthday-pasts-and-presents.
I saw the sun rise through a draining glass of wine,
and truth revealed itself to be a gelatinous blob.
We drained our dreary glass again,
all birthdays and smile-pasts-and-presents,
the jazzy sky glowed radioactive.
what is matter?
what is mind?
And we are nothing but leeches
pondering preposterous notions of
rainy-day freedom in selfserving
attempts at justice legionaire,
where might is all and all is might.
And we are nothing but silence
whispering violently violet ideas
in dead-pan slapstick comedies
where truth became satire
impossible to satirize.
And we are ghosts
burnt and buried
we drain our glass again.
Imagine if we walked out
never to look back.
Imagine if we turned away
never to return.
Imagine if we became truth
never to apologize.
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- Moiret Allegiere, 29.06.2020
Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/107571074X
Vol 1 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZTPDPR
Vol 2 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075714184
Vol 2 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZR25NL
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075717094
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075723078