i am the venus and i’m all dried up
no shriveled husk, just turned to dust
and settled in your hearts. some took
me for magic and some took me for
poison but none saw the orange tint
that let it slip: i am not meant for
love; i am love.
how rotten are our tongues
as they cascade down city streets slick with venom and bile
laying waste to the efforts of yesterday.
you grasp your dirty hammer and you swing it wide and loose
oh. you’ve taken your own eye
sad little man, did you think you’d be spared from the heat? you, who sparked the first flame? burn, putrid rat.
the rays of the sun
like streams of water poking through their plastic confines.
and i wonder if their will includes sentience.
if the moment they break through
And shine on,
they aren’t an extension of the sun’s force anymore—
they are the singular beam that braved to push.
is that what we wish to be? what we ache so deeply
To our marrow
but we are not a force of nature. we are the creation of them.
to abandon the gift of the group! we have deluded ourselves
into the ability to have individual power, so horrifically so that
we venture into forces alone,
we seek solitude and find only loneliness,
we drive ourselves mad with just a short bit of silence.
and when we lose realities, we don’t just lose what’s false.
we lose the possible and we lose the beautiful
and we lose with sick sappy smiles on our pathetic wormy faces.
i used to think it was juvenile to dream.
but dreams belong to jupiter.
to hell with your order! let’s scrap it all.
genius doesn’t have to be extracted into the rings.
why not remain the perpetual child?
when is brilliance ever so concentrated again?
for ill of night
as the moon beams strong
tenacious thru the dawn
she, still, while you fling to earth
she, tall, while you wilt from energy
she, forever, who remains to her own
sorrow. to my chagrin.