Fifth Column to the Stars.

When everything is gone,
you’ll see.

They’ve only
come to conquer.

Your mind, three eyes:
every dissociated
peice of you
is on its knees

before them,
behind you, passive
observer:

that’s what they think
they,
you,
everything
needs.

Four-fingered hands out to fight
and preserve diversity

(this insanity,
it makes me want to raise
a digit of my own),

a quality
the truly alien soul
is to find intolerable
within its own ranks.

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Seed and Soil/Soul.

Some people
are simply stronger
in that respect,

skin calloused
to armor,

like the hard,
cold exoskeleton
of an insect.

I am not
such a person.

So far
from that star
that it’s barely a twinkle

in my sky
on a clear night,

and fuck you for that.

Joint Rite.

Bonfire rages.

Light dances with shadows,
revealed
as their coupling spills

across the leaves
of the trees
that surround us,

as the warmth
overwhelms,
yet in the wake:

no burns to treat,
stains to remove,

apologies to deliver
or sworn
affidavits to produce.

We all embrace this.
We all know the rules.
We all elect to play

a role
in this ritual.

All-Seeing I.

No, you cannot separate
the observer from the observed
and considering

the inevitability of contamination
betwixt the perceived polarities,

the seeming
necessity of residing at one
or the other end

(of what? This broad spectrum
at your disposal, laid out before you?
Are you so colorblind
that you see only
driving yourself to extremes

as the limit
of your kinetic capacities?)

and your inherent disability:
incapable,
as you are, of discerning
the scope
of the outbreak.

(I know it,
don’t for a moment
think I casually breeze
passed it. I feel

it. It must
be so fucking
frustrating,

but after all,
you can separate
yourself from the dyad
and observe
them both,

and that?
That’s something.)

Pushing Elastic to Enantiodromia.

You don’t need
to, may not want
to cease resistance,

but you will
(for now),

for deep down
you so want, need
this ache
for it. You know it.

“All this is fascinating.
Truly.

None of it means
I can’t control
it. That I’m not in charge

of it. Nor
that I’m unable
or at least unwilling
to take the pain
that resistance brings.

And there is no mention
of my promise
that, given

my survival
in some way,
shape
or form,

I would snap back
with equal power,

I would satiate
my hellfire

passion burning
for vengeance
if only pushed

far enough, if only
you brought me to it.”

To Jumpstart the Square Peg.

Enliven me. Inspiring.
Exude energy that stimulates
things I know I need
but which are buried so deep:

conjure them, watch
as once dark desires arise,
saying, doing evidently horrible
things I can barely discern.

Not my problem.
Not my circus or my monkeys.

I’ve got no faith
to promote here, right?
No methodology to offer,
nor a message to sell.

Some close
connections and broader concerns,
but on the whole
I’ve remained faithfully disconnected.

Check
up my sleeves,
witness
nothing up them:

see that I’m just

a lost, wandering soul
caught up
in this unfortunate circumstance,

this in-between,
in, but not of,
fish-out-of-water,

Another inconsequential,
inherently dysfunctional,
utterly useless square peg,

(that’s all)

in a world composed entirely
of round holes, that lame “stranger
in an even

stranger land”
bullshit.

Infuriating, Haunting Response.

Momentarily, hopelessly
scattered until the stimulus rears
its dreaded

head again, then collapses
into me, eliciting
another haunting response.

Watching blindly
as spilled milk
meets retro-entropy,

the reverse of weeping,
ocular rain drawing
from the puddle
of impact
through antigravity,

that small pool,

but a crying nipple,

my wide,
thirsty eyes,
passionately suckling.

Open up and see.

Let the spotlight narrow
to a laser beam. Target burned
by the radiation,

and you know the reason.
Attention gripped, no escaping.

Obsessive, fixating, compulsive concentration,
but no personal
acceptance despite awareness,

none of the behavior
typically corresponding
to such revelations.

You, you’re
so fucking frustrating.
How can you, how can I be

so fucking
infuriating?

Noose for Hope.

Candidates nominated
on the basis
of a popular
profile. Compartmentalized
selection, ultimately

broad. In each polarity,
attention narrowed
down to one.

Each competed
until the best

one (which is to say
the one with the most fans)
won. Most qualified in the eyes
of the truly powerful
among us (the majority fixed
on an insane singular):

any way you slice
it, that remains a fact
and it tortures

hope with empty promises of murder
burning, swirling in the luminous madness
dancing still, deep within dead eyes

as it decimates, eliminates
all I’ve come to call home. I must say,

the best
makes me absolutely nauseous.

My hope
for my species was hanging on a rope
not long ago…

Here I
continue to choke.

Please fail
to breathe hard, risk snapping
this thread

that I currently swing on.

Much rather die
so high
above ground.