tell me something my mind knows not
moral endpoints; kegelian spasmodic fantansies; the overwrought guilt of an ill-sustained victimhood; the primary body of flesh that at once served as a pivot to a transaction and a phase, and also the gnawing carcass that feeds into my slightly pertinent embarrassment; i run random phrases through my mind, parsing inaccurate perception of my self, gloating on luxurious claims of one's very level-headedness or anchorage in adulthood inconsistent with my arithmetic truth or whatever saccharine permutations i might be fed with, sometimes like a piglet over-nourished for a feast of the appetite of the others, and occasionally, like a fraud who knows the right buttons for a sophisticated buzz to be set loose, to steal a glance or a caress or sphincteric submission, to allow an exudative pride of self-assurance and a leakage of pent-up sin, sin accumulated by recurrent mingling of unfulfilled seminal connectivity, sin delineated by a lifetime's worth of pletysmographic crimes, so unacquittable, yet unrequittable; yet, could it not resist crying out the injustice of incompetent imaginations which refuse to stop deciphering the shadows of fabrics and the pixellation, insecure in its digital mosaic and stuttered motions, to realise, minute after minute, moon after moon, one arrives prematurely at the final stages of ephemera, fizzling out with a sigh, constantly devoid of textures of hydrocarbons;