survival instinct

survival instinct

Painting by Egon Schiele.

 

I am brain-blockaded animal, hand-trap springtime from unkempt body,/ unkempt circuitry ticking ticking ticking inside the flower walls, the murder-garden inside me is just the history, unstopped watches and sundials & we made those too, another trap for ourselves & my history tortures me in linear, the slow tick of the root-cage bars under the trees, I am there in the dark hovels, there in small corners and the gathered realms of my childhood bedroom-woods, the trees blossoming from floorboard and forestry touching ceiling like jumanji, the world cornered me in & curled me into arms, and it is silent

and it tortures me, I alight with innerness and flaming unsafe sanctum-head, boiling inside rivers like the frothing mouth-blood, snapping myself into blankets I, the rigid curl upon bed-grasses have no light in canopies, the corners are haunted and reaching for me, I
cannot stand the structure without the open but the vastness precludes me from walking into it, myself I
will lose it, myself I will conjure it, myself is vapor and these are winds and cages and neither can I
fit, myself is choking into the back of Mormon temples, unfit for world but fit for robes and I
could have chose their ring of invisibility, all wraiths of adulthood disappearing from sight there it was choose the right or nothing, god closing in and providing steps for suffering & I
walked out, donut-instinct in hand, I led into temptation by father and cookies into screaming over thumb-pain on church entrance floor to a confirmation, at which I
smelled the root-bars and ran again, smelled the clean air and new god & wandered back into similar-aged towers of worship & worn out stairways like tread-down paths in imagination-wilds, tread-down clock hands in cloud-time, tread-down animals in human form, beaten into boxes by fear of wilderness inside & out & I
stammered
is there/ room for a wraith in this mind-nook / is it a room-room and will I come to fear it too / is / is it a canyon and will I hide in it until suddenly wide is narrow and bottom closes in and / I cannot / breathe anymore here / I / I / came up for air / middle of a life-ocean / amphibian-pain still phantom & haunting / how the earth is just like oxygen-cage/ maybe / I could remain if instinct allows
Advertisements

11/30 [perfectionist-ism]

& eating the quiet,

I roll in splinters, kitchen desk scrapes on

my sister’s fingers like something brought home,

knuckles

dirt-filled and cavernous rapping  out Nirvana on

suburban tables, spoons of spilled milk dancing

on television–that movie Fantasia & songs’ hypnotic

writhing through hung & broken silence from bubbling

air conditioner ventilator,

swooning in the depths, & it is the first time he

shows us weak, shows us

imperfect & bedridden by a bee-sting-allergy

this is

metaphor of mistaken weakness sprouting through

perfection-ground crack

that has defined my childhood,

shown the covers & how

perfect smothers

perfect teaches and guides but forgets

to hold,

congratulate & clutch & fail

over

examples like plane and robot-arm pilots of brains

sinking in sky, sinking with clear air

pushing off through bike-race finish lines, sobbing from

pushing in

private school hallways & soccer grass

breathless & streaming through the hills,

stampeding spikes in churning cold mud & heels,

fake injuries & evading failure at

all costs,

shoving all in sugar-hungry mouths like old-fashioned sundae

rotting in heaves,

silent in classrooms

hollowed out &

still

afraid of mistakes

[10/30] lisboa

there are legs growing from the ceiling staples

walking in heaves from boards and painted dry
there is threat in red mouth, wandering the brooks of cobble and gasping forward, lurching of teeth
soft-rolling of dentyne serpent, pair of rivers as pride, matted hair statue colonist painted himself gold
stood in the middle of the market, supple coins in tourist pockets, and holes
of jogging pant plaster writhing up walls
gaps in the spine and breast of
spray-designed dancer, machinist and losing
air from the gouges in the lung-pipe metal,
opening into streets, into two rivers, into blood floating out into the avenues of europe
on the bodies, on the chattel, on the human faces I sit nightly, on the writhing masses of history, on the hands that broke with sweat and blister, gathering in the night, dead and silent in the holds, swarming flies and clutches, man looking like me
packed this in, pushed back borders, burned
and looted continent, drags in wall, drags in city of blood and statue grows from pavement,
statue in own image, statue like
eyes,
statues like green gifts from other predatory nations, floating off the shore, drifting into the deep into the mouths of ruined ships filled
with corpses
that we forgot to make monuments for

[9/30] end (iii)

iii.

words like entrail nebulae–buying

time and waking in the sky–sputtering out the thoughts

and grips on the plane seat handle, bump-death & all

gyroscopic drops from earth-ceiling, upside below &

scared of eye, scared of mirror, scared to blink between

heart beat on tuesday, fear of machines, fear of gym workout too long

& heart rate & fear from passing out on a track

legs still sprawling, spinning forward & clogging

lanes with air in the hand-runner that picked you up

you could finally imagine it fully, a

trinket-fragile,

impermanent thing.

[end (ii)] 8/30

ii.

cavernous bones & chair-beat

tapping of feet against harsh-wood & harsh-words spitting

from the mouths & there is existence in elevator

ride next to wood grain, self-awareness lurking beneath a tongue

focus guarding from harm, focus on the strong and

the good syllables, singular-drip in singular, wire

in spine-fingers of wraiths

stone tables, thread, & spoken for

7/30 [end]

i.

bite the cheeksides into rot &

turn hands as they go limp, legs festering in

pillows and damp jeans & sweat driven from the brain-work raining

from hair-forest,

weak & molting on ground; creaking of knee in dusk

walking to feel like alone, like imagine what it was

to breathe in another body

understand thoughts of hives buzzing around me,

tensions in the air space waiting above my head,

caterpillar like the handles of gates in ice-winter

chrysalis of skin and blood,

growing around bone

holding me close