I write now, because I figure it is an appropriate time for writing
Because life has become circular again in appearance, and
My associations and close relations to those of the human species
Are of a vast spectrum ranging from loathing to curious, mostly
Annoyance. The presence of my desire to change, to separate
Is more present to me now more than it has ever been
Things I have and often appreciate I want gone, hair, eyes,
Online cultures and computer programs, anything that could
Potentially attach me more to myself or others, I want deleted.
I feel like the antique ideas of extraterrestrials are subconscious
Projections of the ideal, future, perhaps perfect Homo sapiens.
Detached from all animalistic drives, without hairs, nails, wrinkles.
They are angelic, without need for a planet, only occasionally
Dropping by to pick up a hitch hiker or two and poke around their
Abdomens. The emotional side of physical feeling, I am losing,
Slowly, but I notice that when I turn the shower knob to the extreme
Left, and let quickly dropping, frigid, nearly iced water frost my nude
Body, I do not shiver, I do not react. Realizing these new depressions
In physical sensation I have gone forth to re-establish a sexual
Relationship, and at night, I have once already, numbed my thigh
With two ice cubes, and henceforth punctured and dragged a
Small knife of glass across, in triangular strokes, I do not value it.
My bed and room and house and country are replacement wombs.
I want nature again, life, outside of such a fleshy, warm, cozy tomb.
My boyish fidelity was lost before I remember enjoying it, I recall
Playing doctor, with another boy, undressing each other under the
Sheets, like a tent. My mother walked in and surprised us, she sent him
Home. I call from a megaphone, center of the football field, towards the
Crowd, “What are we doing on this floating rock, on this floating rock
What are we doing?” Religion of the modern type has sapped man of
Power, when god is the glory, god is the reason, god is the machine,
Who am I? I am not he who will place the golden coin around God’s
Wrinkled neck. I am not he who will toil in bifocals over writing’s from
Wrinkled minds. I am not he who will lift up wrench, in bloodied, black
Wrinkled hands. I lust to be he who achieves greatness, invincibility,
And proclamation, saying mankind is the glory, the reason, the machine.
Coping with the history, the mere fact that one was born, is the most
Treacherous challenge. This entire process of laboring will never be any
More than an account of my brain cogs twirling, nevertheless, it helps.
Wonderful good waste of time I suppose, a twiddling of lobes, twitching.
I know that it is electricity, this process of inhuman delivery, is culprit
To that which I have lost, and what I have lost is all attachment to this
Reality. Sleeping is my favorite time of year; Sleepruary and Sleeptober.
Sleepcember, Sleeptember, and Sleepril. Yes, come night, come to
My head reliable unconsciousness, greatest muse and greatest elevator,
For I scare myself easily in these mirrors beside my pillow, with my face.
Eyes like crevasses, like the looming shadows of towers, pupils and trees
Gone. Mouth, the most haunting gash, as a tunnel, to my head, yet
To reach any reason you must prone across a maw of teeth, above
And penetrating your stomach beneath you. School tomorrow, I am seventeen.