The Engager

Posted by on August 10, 2012 
Filed under Poetry

Driven to obstruction in forceless motion, the selector—a blank mass only comforting when

confounded through thoughts like emotional secretions—with membranes of truth sliding in its

dystrophic rhythms,

To find stems in, endingS  

right in turmoil to yank like downdraft sighs     to sink in accelerated postures as the sun lifts

liquid and learns

we all dream some day.

The tear-moist cloud fills sense and fingers it for a concussive realist, burning focused tangents

into gel-like emotional apathy—allowing hierarchal honor authority to rise into our rights and

reduce two-dotted dimensions to oculized finality—reducing famous fingers to brittle bars,

searching rumored mortar joints for holds on the hard limpid love.

Cuffed resonance waits in gambling deductions,

wrought out of weighted reaction,

skilled with charismatic dissonance, turned inward—mirrored forward—falling toward

a blasting grimace of leafy smiles in stems gaping, grieving, growing,

fonder of static images now that sense is neutered.

 

The quickness one likens sequence to supposition The quickness one likens sequence to                                                                                           supposition The quickness one likens sequence to supposition The quickness one likens sequence                                                                                          to supposition The quickness one likens sequence to supposition The quickness one likens                                                                                           sequence to supposition The quickness one likens sequins to supposition drives horrible one                                                                                         likeness wonder in expressions half worth their redemptive                                                                                                                                                gallop, you strange burden of mind-thoughted fruit, harvested in dens of graceful promise                                                                                             likening like radiant glints of vertical cheer in the contrast of midnight, in proud afterglow

 

A chord of brass—rusted, woven, seized in design.

A tombstone to modern filament’s ease of youth burning bright in scorching stars.

A rapt waste of seized metal—bound tight and torn and tumbling in stasis.

The echoing pleasure of moss creeping through cogs, weaving in binding focus…just tearing                                                                                             itself apart—years of knowing warmth are dust when the mechanics of industry are applied to                                                                                           form, culture—warmth—touch—heaven—really?      Realize thin echoes glaring in golden reeds                                                                                         like goddamn tarnished tinsel on the ornamental morning sunrise of wisdom against obscurity.                                                                                             Really listen to the rust, the desert of touch found in soft metallic bits—burned like breath—hot                                                                                             as the rest

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