sado (my own private)

 

prophecy aligned

an exile of my design

retired hurt, alive


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me/me

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i am a vector of awkward

a butter fingered samurai

a saturnine oaf

i kicked grace in the face

once, by mistake

i was aiming for hope

i carry with me dis-ease

contaminating conversation

since nineteen eighty three

custerd (iii)

how chromatic of me

to be jaundiced and jaded

all at once

placing finger after finger

scaling jesus’ and jacob’s

crackers if you think about it

when all my life i’ve been

in an abysmal fissure

trapped between not being

brave enough to engage with my life

and not being brave enough

to pull the trigger

anxiety (population: 1)

fire up the tom tom

we’re going on tour

to social anxiety

although meeting one tom

sounds bad enough

i’ll guess we’ll have to wait and see

there’s a certain topography

to the antisocial condition

an endless undulation

of potential encounters

barren swathes of awkward

conversation and giant

forests of fallen redwood

each one a chance for emancipation

fathomless black lakes

of crude advances and

hot white hourglass sand

the roads are capillaries

trailing to smut

but a path to acceptance

survives

of you-as-you

and me-as-me