i want it weirder, stranger, grander, faster, longer,
non-stop
no-sleep
wake up in a new time zone
surf through syllables disregarding
til you get offended
we are - at times - supposed to offend
i dont want to be a castrated jellyfish
at the mercy of the kindness of the happeners-by
i'm a "hey, i've got brass knuckles in my belly!" kind of jelly
and i want to attack
attack
attack
something before i die.
i want to dig deeper and see who dares to go down that far
i want to make it weird for all of us
get surly
forget my dayjob and use my own language
make my own dress code
show me something that makes me sick
slug me in the face
let's have a war, right here in the sand
duke it out until tomorrow
wake up to fresh new sun knowing that it always was
and always will be
you & me.
nbd.
i just cant sit still in the box they drew for me
thats the greatest crime
the biggest death
sprout some legs
shoot some vines
bust out of this 2-D business model of being tame
i want 4-D, 8- D, i wanna feel your fangs!
show me some dirt, already!
#realtalk
Boidae.
A flick of the tongue for a moment of taste - What is the sensation that it brings? A pulse of electricity, or muscles that contract|expand|contract, as the sentinel glides – silent, slick - between glistening, dew-dampened blades. Always will it end this way, in the same final clench - with or without the scream, snap or gasp of his prey.
Animation.
No sooner than a breath is drawn is it erased. Puppets wait in the pause between - the moment where it thrived amidst expanding ribs, and the emptiness where it will soon be. In an instant we are crucified upon this axis, without ever the want to be; how much longer must I wait, O Master, 'til you tilt another string?
Flint-struck.
Sable streams of smoke confirm- you are still smoldering. I scuff my feet and search for words, but the fire in your cheeks and voice incinerates me at the speed of kindling.
In the time it takes me to sketch a line of defense and draw a breath, your napalm inquisition fizzles out, neutered now into ambivalence - or apathy - between the smears of my erasure and the growing distance from the question mark.