(no subject)

[danetyler]

to the trope
of so-called hope
presented at each dawn.

can be cut short,
shorn before

I’ve got an appointment to plot
to navigate myself
through the savage pilgrimage
of existence,

Disorder is an unholy temple
into which each night I enter,
cross the threshold only to be held
hostage in the opaque frame of the door,

I am a tongue in an orifice,

to taste the festering, abscessed
sores infecting memories.

of a festering sore
of a memory

its door an orifice
tonguing its own sore,

to a land far from the eye
of the paradigm,
the scrutiny that scrawls
its unwritten rules,
nonsensical

A fanatic,
clenched in the relentless fist
of paranoia,

at the thought of one more mundane dawn,
one more mundane sun

Here I say I have wandered many rooms,

Here I say I am lost in the halls of an orifice,

I have fallen from the painted nest the celestial zenith
of ceilings painted by paradoxical paradigms,

I fall from this painted nest.

peering
far removed from the eye of the paradigm,

with many names
and many rooms.

It is an unholy temple
into which each night I enter.

anchored to the acreage,

each night I journey,

opaque hovel

anchored to acreage the landfill
of remembering,
growing old with disgust,
it lies,
it lies,
the refuse of a discarded husk,
the sweet fruit

divided by the sin of Eve
easing

shattered into fragment
it lies,

of remembering the moment.

so long ago was ruined
only the opaque husk

I petrify like a rind
at the mere thought
of knowing
one more mundane sun.

I
anxious as a kite
tugging at its leash

prone to trope so-called hope of dawn.
dutiful, mundane all day,
an old head cabbage extracted

monotonous, mundane,

I play my crooked hand
at the business table

unfold from the flop

as per rule of paradigm

I am a panic stricken epitome of disorder.
It is a clenched fist in which I exist,
a sitting duck straddling that stark border

disorder. Anxiety
is clenched fist in which I exist,
where a symphony of discord strikes up in the pit of me.