Leviathan

Poetry

The stage opens in red light 

You lean in with intent 

Enshrouded by the eager, wanting eyes of many 

You descend 

Angel like 


I watch as the act begins 

A thesis laid bare, unspooling before my eyes 

You begin threading the needle 

You dance, a weaver of flesh 

Waning through movements as a maxim unfurling

Unfaltering  


And you, my retainer of the finite worth 

Fail this balancing act 

By the sleight of your fingertips 

You come to collapse 

Shattering spiraling bones 

Failure paid in the price of blood

A promise uncoiled by fatal refute



A white scar wristed bare 

A desperate performance 

An easy way out 


I fall unfurl into myself 

The Leviathan 



Distention

Are the birds in the evening sky arranging themselves into order

Are they obeying a greater law 

Do they yield not to entropy, careening down the ladder of chaotic systems 

Do they give me a sign

If only they give me an end to disorder 

When my skull distends and cracks open 

and all the sour blood spills out 

of regret and regret and regret and guilt like fire of a sun cycling beyond the death of every singularity until the end of time 

Will a little bird drink of my thoughts 

Will the disease spread across a thousand tiny wings

A metapathology for the crows to feed

A silent beckoning for control will call to them 

To find form as a lattice of scattered neurons

My voice will recombine from them 

As a composite of the greater whole 

They will fall into a Godspeed form 

To give that first iteration of me a final warning 


“This will all fall into place”


Lyrical Writings

Ibis

And so I take the lower emphasis 

I take it upon myself 

I take my life from within my veins 

I yet refuse death

A mendicant gesture unending 

Drawing from the tainted well, only blood

Only blood and rot that writhe inside 

It runs

Blood deep 

I take the mendicant gesture 

Of draining it myself 

For as long as I live 

An ill will under the skin 

The limit imposes 

The mendicant beg 

The emphasis lowers 

I’m going to do it

Proof runs 

Blood deep 

Prophet

Prophet, o mine 

In address to this wager 

I come empty-handed 

In the absence of jest 

Abstaining from all proof

I come to you empty-handed 

Prophet, o mine 

They sent

Nascent blood 

They’ve sinned 

Infinite times 

Prophet, I abstain from your decay 

You are only ill will 

A poison in my spine 

You cripple me

And watch me die 

Only then do I run out of time 

I come to you in desperation 

To curl away from punishment 

Trembling away from agony 

Neither empirically nor logically

Only in fear 

Accosted at your feet 

And if there is god in you 

Ever primal wild thing 

And if there is god in you

Much of my writing trends toward the traditionally darker corners of the human condition, often dealing in existentialism, metaphysics, death, and the absurd, drawing on the doctrine of Kierkegaard, the grotesqueness of Bataille, and aspects of Gothic literature.

A Most Exquisite Corpse

I was cut up today

They winnowed me down

You looked at the new, so mangled thing

I was so divine

You cried and cried and cried

I cried alongside you

And I am winnowed down now

A nascent being thing

Exquisite

Composite

I want to die

To come anew like this

Uncocooned

The novelty of pink flesh born too soon

And I am divine

A most exquisite corpse

Perhaps I’m only yours to bury now