#poetizing

[materia-metanoia]

Reclamation

Honeycombed carapace

Puppeteered by the wind

Whispering through the holes

That weave through its form

A spirit that is diffuse

Unrecognizable to itself.

The cloud of awareness

That coats the husk

In a layer of condensation

When the mannequin is still

The fervent fluid explores.

It is infant,

And the wind blows from infinity

Into a net masquerading as a cup.

That mind that grows between the two,

The roots and sinew fill the gaps.

The orifices whistle a different tune,

As the dry bone is fertilized with will.

I choose to be the blood

The gasoline

The plant that overtakes the unused structure.

[materia-metanoia]

Two-eyed

A love acidic leaves tracks in the vessels

In runs through seeking matter to break down

I am the refuse

The scars rest

They languish in my restless sleep

I dream of the language

In the dream the burrows weep

My chest heaves

The muscle sags and sputters

Unprocessed my body glitches

Catches on the little things

Bone deep I am eating

My teeth comb finely through my being.

I am the sapling

Rooted in soil wet

With all manners of waste.

Their eyes kept barely above sea level

Their vision swimming with old tears.

They are sitting

Ripe for the picking

I have no bark,

When I see myself.

[materia-metanoia]

M

The stomach of being relaxes

In their presence

High caloric

Complex and compressed,

Raising their hands yields no ceiling

But the walls of the One Being

Are visible.

Their height rendered the blue flesh intangible

Of a sky blue and lethal

Blood-warm static looks up as it

Grazes the Earth's surface,

At their past, future and the

Hollow silence of a noticed present.

[materia-metanoia]

on devotion II

Without warning the love echoes through me.

But does it? I feel drained. I blow out derision like an engine. The indecision is taxing and I run only on what is needed. My fear not particularly sharp or paralyzing but a swift change in gear.

It's when I stop caring what is on the other end and turn inward to the hollow growing there And I name it. Verbosely.

So it matters, And has three or four dimensions to move in. My body attacks itself enough, Some part of me should be spared.

Pinned like a butterfly for myself or others to Fixate on. The thought-form God-of-My-Pain. I think that this abyss is simply where my mind rests After it's done bathing in chemicals, But if it is a genuine place, I can't tell. I don't allow myself to.

[materia-metanoia]

room

When i get room to breathe, my ideas have soil to root in, is it a green room? is taking time off work to decompose in your room actually more like composting? things are clearly growing!

[materia-metanoia]

Anti-what?

I am the am-not

Where things do not come to pass

I am

I do

Of course I do

And where I do it becomes odd

Where I fit I am not

And the profusion of me is truth

I bleed where I am pruned

A handsome shape

I am obscured.

Unheard of, me

And yet in the quiet

Of mist rain watering the moss

That is constantly growing

The cold-wet fur is felt

And in the days that pass

The beauty-seeker walking by

Will find a big green patch.

A handsome hedge

I am not

I am found where meaning is lost.

[materia-metanoia]

ness

The internals of words are cored out

I look at them.

The innards make no sound.

My name,

A shroud over an opening.

The white flag over a pinhole.

The eyes that emerge from them.

Vector in their movement.

The orifice is minute.

I look in

Squint.

I crouch, locomote.

The dark at the end of the tunnel has no volume.

My path it tapers,

Confining my movement soul.

I am bared,

Essential.

Inside out.

The mass,

Weight and lattice of all thoughts.

My body is too big to fit the path.

It must be shed to reach the end.

[materia-metanoia]

Currence

The skin is overtaxed

Keeping in the question

Of the birth that has elapsed

The toll of change and

The yoke.

The tearing of the skin

In want to react all-that-be

The insides of this lit candle

Cast an odd red through the blood container.

Revolting I am,

Burning through the taut film

If the light stays in

It will go bad

And burst out

A marvelous crescendo.

The easiest thing to be

Oneself

Grating against the other selves,

The fear-grit sandpaper does not polish

But tears at my thin skin.

My pain is myriad

My joy knife-like in it's wake

Yet it slips like water in the hand

My grip too afraid to house it.

I pay

You pay

We all pay the toll.