askew

It’s something that falls between the boundless blue and the insistent sun, the atmosphere laden with heat and restlessness, a wound between worlds forever bleeding out. Neither hunger or appetite but the tint and timbre of every sense felt as the heart keeps circling its favorite aches, the body in painful decline, a knot before every breath. The knowing gnawing away at the aspects and the affect, sick and weary and assured only of poor returns, the husk all ash and embers beneath the vagaries of the wind. Breathe in, breathe out. The wounds will only accumulate. The heart can only break. 

So it is smoke and wind and the sun’s long so long. So it is crows to the roost and the earth rubbed atmosphere. The wasted day another one for the collection, yesterday and yesterday and yesterday, the same sound and insignificance. We are only what we can witness, the taste and the teeth and the funeral wreath. We are only the uncovered tracks, the beaten path, the reach of want and wander. Navigating the landscape by map and Bible, passing through the names and the architecture, these bespoke ruins of our latest conceits. Never yet another flavor of forever.

It is written, but I won’t read it. It is said, but so are a lot of things. These days flow like locusts, they glide like monarchs dappling the sky, they freeze like mantises waiting to strike. Your meanings are meaningless in the world I inhabit, your meanings are trifles in the words I infect. Bodies bearing ghosts and trivia, dragged from scene to scene, hyping recycled myths for tulpa and constructs. Beings bearing only their impulses and appetites stalking through these abstractions, shades slipping in and out of skins to add to any available confusion. Games wished into existence by sports and slicks and irredeemable cheats sounding out above the din of the real that parcel out our time and resources despite the obvious grift. First the forms, then the engines, then the irreducible blue of a truth forever bruised.