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Rowing (and an adjacent poem)

Heart palpitations of a rotting ribcage and sounds that crawl these walls

I sink into subliminals while a pinprick pain persists, hand in hand with vices

Which keep the sunlight from reaching my retina, bloodshot blurry spurts of

All The Same

Endless spirals of sleep so deep it domineers all yet when awake I’m always on my toes

Seems as though I’m never myself for long enough to explain, or to forget, or to amend

Realisations of peering through a microscope lens, mistaking it for a whole other universe

Where the stars don’t burn out and the void has an eventual end

Nothing matters anymore but the chase, the eventual mortality you found in finite sources

The antithesis to what your valiant efforts are attempting to avoid

Still, my midnight bus is due and has been for centuries

If you hand me two coins to alleviate these blurry spurts of All The Same,

Place them gently so my retinas can rest, I can dream in black again

And I’ll row myself there

Shucks! (Rowing pt2)

Inside, I am a husk. I am deep, hollow

Shucks! (my exterior)

Oh oh, I am neither who I was, or who I hoped to be

I am plainly me, skin. Skin knows pain all too well

It is made to receive it, feel it, process

As if I am an industrial apparatus, a corn mill

Skin asks for divine intervention – eradicate me, all

I do not wish to fly, to fall, I wish to be embraced by black

And forget the part I play, my duties to a dystopia

Of corn manufacturing. Shucks, I say!

I await, coin in hand, final transaction

Row me over this river, away, brief Death Angel

Must be under an hour now, and I sink

Though I wish to stay as I am, forever, until.

I am patience, it becomes me

Impatience, thereof you craved for so majorly!

I understand you now boy, and your east-west ways

Immediacy, is it?

I want it all and I want it now

You burned into me unsalvageable desire. My flesh is scorched, arteries and veins ravaged (they hang in the space between what was and could’ve been), presenting me with my own sin – I must look it in

He is passion, etched desire, Unacquainted with a sun or moon Familiar with the pale fire That is often gone too soon A day without my love in arms Is waiting for the sun’s expansion That’s taking pro

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