The Earth is not a Cold Dead Planet

The Earth is not a cold dead planet,
though on days like this it may seem so.
Frothing high, solid small particles
become national record, but only
among the few of us here is disaster truly shown.

A mind encoded in a strange cyclical pattern
views aromas through lenses opaque and distorted.
Listing all options through an auditory impluse,
there tastebuds are driven on edge, and
the mind is incapable of discerning, performing.

The Earth is not a cold dead planet,
as my eyes may today strive to present,
for cold is an inadequate description.
Cold does not capture the details, yet
cold is all I can ever think of.

The last line is a lie, because I encounter death,
and death itself is cold...yet while juxtaposed
these are entirely separate. To feel death
is an impossibility, to sing or scribe or paint
the subject of death is a lie upon itself.

As death is not human, it defies our description.
Rather, this is what the critic says to me,
another commodity that there are thousands of.
What, I ask myself. The critic or my painting?
Well, this is an unsolvable truth, continue sculpting.

death is purely emotive substance
that is strewn about the human psyche.
There is no physical portrait of death, only
the tumors and tremors, migraines and miscarriages
that slowly point us to a gathering of dust.

Dust that encompasses us fully, a
a cosmic collection spanning head to toe,
seeping into our inner organs, crawling
into intestines, livers and gallbladders.
Dust is unbecoming, swept from dresser to death.

death becomes dust, yet dust leads to death,
and through this metamorphosis I,
I am shown the nature of death, and
this nature is something I can never see.
Only my own perspective can prepare me.

There will be dust on me at my death,
the final shedding of some asphyxiated stride,
or a slow release, bedridden and despaired.
But there was dust on me from birth,
and death is finally relieving that pressure.

The Earth is not a cold dead planet,
though on days like this it may seem so.
My own bubble of personal anxiety, of
worry and fear and overwhelming emotion
recedes into itself, swallowing me whole.

It is not a feeling I will ever hate, for
that period of empathy has long since gone,
and today is another empty shell which
I will hold to my ear and hear not
the ocean but the pulsing of my own blood.

The Earth is not a cold dead planet,
 as my eyes today may strive to present.
But the pills I take, the things I make
are vague, and that may be a sensible
deduction, but it is a hindrance to struggle.

As much as the peach and blue and ruby
colored tablets are inserted beneath my tongue,
riding a glacial freeze from Dixie cups into
nether regions that I only have the slightest idea
of...yet it does not worry me, altogether too much.

Too much of my time is left splayed out on stairs
where carnal pleasure meets with celibate emotion;
a quieting of both seems necessary, comes the
quote from social standards and practices.
My prognosis? Is it feels good, do it.

But I am not a doctor, I just play one
amidst my own psyche, the hypochondriac
diagnosing the patient. Students, what do we
learn from this? The answer not obvious,
yet in every last one of you it resides.

A question's a question that defies its own
answer, yet a significant meaning is held for
all these problems. Two and two added together
is fish, and too and to are just grammatically
incorrect. A strange cyclical pattern, my tiring reader?

Well for you, then I may suggest the sapphire
pills, they will bring you no longing, or sorrow
and they will fill your belly so that you
will lose weight until they've shrunk you
down to an infinite amount of nothing.

But how! nothing is quite something, in
your case quite true. This nothing from
something is exactly what you wish to
contract from this pill, this magical tablet;
a cold and dead planet, overrun and malnourished.

The Earth may be a cold dead planet,
for my eyes see the beauty inherent to
falling heavens I do not believe existed;
a strange alteration to normal, stately
business, upon this cold dead planet.

The Earth is a cold dead planet.
Its fruits are frozen, beaten and vanished.
The Earth to me is a cold dead planet.
The pills have revealed, abused and blemished
the fact that the Earth is me, a cold dead planet.

All of your Actions

I am alive with an air
That bureaucracy cannot instill
A tumbling yet precise emotion
Filed away by apparent human nature
That when examined bursts its stiches
An everchanging truth to absurd rationalization

There is an eagerness I consume
With movements that while seeming rapid
Flow with grace from an altered state
Of mind, of body; for that is what is:
A spatial occupation, by itself defined.

Or if lacking definition applies to me,
Then I accept it, for character flows as the seas.
Yet if someplace or one calls for stagnant nature
Vivacity, calm it may be, ascribes difference to each nurture.

To a pairing of three, or four or five or six
There exudes priceless mitigation of the rest.
For three through six, it is just as if they do not exist.

But for those riding on that plane of multitudes,
Solitude is no answer, the answer will find you!

Sift through the stockpiles, the homeless and battered!

Explore every cavern of disturbed social madness;
Delve through the patterns of sorrowful lenses!

A sweet sound release will accompany the thought
And the courage to stand for the masses
Is inherent now, in all of your actions.

New generations now call out old mantras
Theories now captured in video speech and camera.
To oppose inequality, oppression, extortion!
This is the call, to all a great slogan.

With precision impressive among such great numbers
Figureheads removed, the sources lay open
For the grace and the fury of eager anarchists
Combines with the quickness of every single action.
And from slums and from schools, awakened we stand.

Alive with an air never before imagined,
I see myself among the thousands and millions;
Cohesion in numbers, unity in every whole.
Fluctuating, yes, but finally there is realization
Of destiny manifested, only now pure and worldwide.
And here is established what always underlaid the few:

Alone is the thought; in number, revolution.

Deep stuff, mayne

Epileptic fractures of elongated lines
Project themselves as rupturing elements
Outside of the inner workings of my eardrums.
Just as seizures wrack my stretched out fingers
And the extraordinary touch of a beatles' vibration
sift through, it is sinking sand in my mortal hourglass.

A sense of senses unaware of another machine
Of another, Another falling, unyielding beast
Living, yet not breathing in the toxic, recycled air.
Between using a limited, plausibly infinite number of courses
To extract excavations of material, and then abusing it,
There is an upper layer, creating a vast poligamy of corporation.

Among the many, voices occasionally spit out touches
Of human emotion, couples with mechanical rations,
Explaining and comparing everything, everyone among their ranks.
And here is created a dismissive action, upon the attack
Recedes to conceal its identity, the scab left unbleeding
And above all the others lay the true bleeding betrayers.

A flashing creation of astronomical proportion
There is nothing to see, and my arms do not tingle
and I am alone among the millions.
Brightly lit, a facade hiding what holds realistic truth
A dark companion to a fictitious originator
Here, I gain my true knowledge.

And I realize some fact
May be recorded under false pretense
But above all else, there is residing
and creating a finally controlled system
I know who is here. And it is myself.
Alone is alone. Myself is the whole.

Welp.

Thanks Sam for reminding me to post.

To think that the thriving torrents thrown through
my mind meaninglessly mince (microscopically)
existentialist examples effacing elements
of obsolete, organic orifices, only ordering
abstract absurdities against an allowance
for flippantly fragrant fallacies.

Dipping, diving, destroying delicacies
so serene, should stoppage start, silently?

Weeping while walking; whistling while wondering

Gregariously griping, gorging gourmet grabs.

Nervous narcissistic narcoleptics never
reason, rather relate rhythmically
various vendettas (very virtuous villain
knowingly kniving kneads
into ironically inserted isosceles
quadrants). Query? Quixotic
behavior berates beneath brevity
harmless, hell, how holy heat
leaves leaving leaves, lesser like
you young yellow yawns.

People purposefully perpetrate purposeless
crimes, capital (cannot come crossed) commands.

Underlying underlings understand
xenophobes, Xanadu, xytomy,
juxtaposed jurisdictually, joining
zoned, zoning, zoned zebras.

Against blackened cries, deeply enveloped,
frothing gurgles, hellbent, I join
knowingly, learned, manifested nearly openly,
pores quivering rather strangely, though
universally very wary (xenomorphicly), you
zealot!