comfort from the same by anatole anatole anatole

Words are never where I want them to be, inside
Tucked away to hide inside; elide pretenses of
Enunciation: pronunciation jilted, on stilts the
Tower of Babel collapses, divine intervention
Never replies.

Five-on-five a masterpiece of our sacred disguise,
Disgust at the terminal feeling, a pest of locusts at
Airports’ liminal stealing faces that will never
Recognize me, arms that will always reach out to
Touch me.

Singularities collapse every day, a supernova collides
With priest-and-pray; a parallax determinant, celibate
Fulminate, fulgurations of lacerations, preconditions diving
Stacks of intimate misery, little by little the days come by
And flies around like sticks on a scythe.

A dead wasp stinging itself like a quasi-masochist, deep
Oblivion of clay-in-fist, support the blood driving through
Veins, ballasts firing out synecdoches icing around with all
The wrong keys, disharmony dystopic – no topic, no oil, no
Reasons to believe.

The soldiers inside march the long march through mountains
And trees, to believe the birds and the bees, to simulate reality,
To bring about a chaotic monstrosity, to fill up time and filigrees,
I will walk the tightrope down to hell and yell around in fire but
I won’t beg for anything higher.

• Experimental
• amateur
• drones from hole
• drones from piano
• lo-fi
• Nashville