kleaver

How can a naked man run past curfew the streets without living?

Tag: freedom

atlas weeping

Admit – is freedom supposed to be a chore? Suddenly i am able to understand the plight of atlas – i must answer for everything, have done everything, have been thrust into the world conscious and only too possessed of my own faculties. There are deaths continents away that i want to fold up under, tuck my feet up on a couch, miles above the floor when the blackness spills from distant sky into a discrete night in the bedroom. You, too, must pay for every second wasted as you grieved over the biological convergence that swaddled you into existence, and the bright outrage takes precious illogical seconds you cannot answer for. The world is beating on about you in within its silly incomprehensible law. No human scribe can read reason into the absurdity of our race, to which the angry, foolish, individual is the key – the man who distract himself with jobs, sex, and other people. This tribe has concocted its own reason – sketched crude parodies onto papyrus held beside the sun, turned and stared point-blank into the monstrous rim of eclipses, cried at seeing death, a more distant death like the starvees in Uganda that could not be more pure of bereavement – and yet they are. You are hugging everyone selfishly, egotistically to your chest, may believe that when one world ends all the others go marching on in the same invincible ignorance. But your life is not like the others – the phenomenal world is a dirty and threatening loan-shark, and to add humiliation to despair we cannot describe it in languages it has not already given us – rogues and thieves and highwaymen. Now you are kneeling upon a red carpet with a stake in your arms, and you remember that you have been nothing but an attempt by a species in the quest permanence and beyond that, a dark intelligible void. You place the stake onto the floor and slowly lower your heart into its sweet, weeping embrace.
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The function of explanation at y=laziness yields a negative value of x.

atlas obscura

the view of the aves spyglass
over a finger-width crust of geography
pockmarked paper pasty with the crescent tatum of terrain
ridged by a foghorn fire, hear cry the foothills
overt dust-raising in an empirical march
and the beat of an imperial warhorse charge
marching its own androgynous footsteps
this ravine of clouds churns, suffers, weeps
take me, mother! how lived i then?

i am mutinied
from a carpet that dredged me undersea
whose life am i?
who stole my utter lack, complete liberation
from contours of flight flurry desire and decision
why have i been bound?
for wager against a pocket of pennies in pride and puckered visage
rest well, mother!
I assure you, I am resistance.

but from cloud-gate spyglass
i see droplets of ocean and life and sweaty soot-faced antique men
and a torpedo of integers that chant and slither against
legions of dot digit decimals and spiral indian curvases
coil serpents up the leg porches of a massive shrug
given this ode – this mutilation
i see the sandpaper of the Neanderthal
and constellations that sparked white stripe across mother Africa
Pangea sunken under plague of a million Congo lives
and cities that grew overfond of salt-fondue
buried five down and eight across
in our soap and chocolate and confectionary box
wallow in leftover tears from yesterday’s prime-sirloin-buffalo

nay – the dead never stay dead long
my fear has flewn, i know not where
but hark the telltale in the air
i saw lives that shot on golden wroughtwork trajectories
across manmade mountain into monument
and lit the cupped round hymns of a thousand shivering gods
wrapped in blankets and drenched with crumbling godly cocoa
in the soggy rumple of their white night

lead on, white stripe!
I saw the construction of giant planes
the concealment and capture of libertine comrade
the mutilation of invisible soul and space then time
I smelt the final sludged bottleneck more than saw
the splintering lighting and crunch of a baobab tree
white stripe, set me free!

there is a better world above;
and better worlds yet
we do not throne a mound of tortoise – let us ascend
and there we can lie about the hum of our hearts
to neighbours who know the truth, and smile-
sip cocoa from the mouths and tongues and abdomen-temples
of the God stomach of the God Stomach-
we are epic proportion incarnate-

but white stripe! I yearn a foremost curfew best-
we will be drunk on the honey of our lives
from a natal syrup and unctuous view of a zero-multitude-
the dot complies and comes hurtling down with sudden effort
and petrified consent-
the stars burst in dishwater shampoo and the cosmic sneeze disperses-
we will see the lives of lives in the drizzle of organic gunpowder-
they are not their own,
and now i disclose – ‘our’ neither of being
to a vapour and Sputnik Sweetheart

causa sui

can i desire to be god
this i grant : yes
subscribed to the flesh-beat rhythm
of my default epoch
to and through me i am sovereign
create because i can (or am free)
close and make defunct because

anguish, in
recognition of empty skies or
being without fear of wind or vertigo
binds the chains of freedom
to my own libertine grey
and i can wait while
they fray against my time
for me to bring my nature war