.
Chimeras and archetypes, iconic
interlopers, fantasies,
projections of our most ferociously
unspeakable desires
burning in inevitable fires of resistance
to them: there,
.
we think, for clarity. Some
loves we only know through
others’ hatred of them: opposites
define, it’s often said.
But oh, to find these things in
bed, as in a dream of them
.
or as an awkward actuality, a “real”
attempt to pummel
Word until it’s turned into
complaining Flesh, battered
and unbeautiful at best. Our
synapses seem fixed on
.
these depictions of
ambivalence, perhaps as some believe
because of a divine decree that
an imbalance be redressed –
that blessings cannot come
except through war which pits
.
each able virtue we have got against
the hot destruction
of our fiercest lusts and truest
terrors. If so, it all ends
badly – riddled with ineptitude
and error which do little
.
but provide a tangled super-imposition
of meticulously
outlined and ridiculously
meaningless extrusions,
streaming out like blind, benignly
amiable snakes into
.
a chaos which, when we imagine
we are able to regard it
from a distance far enough above
to get the larger view,
seems overall to be a pleasant symmetry,
a composition
wherein nothing is awry. To
which, my God, if such there be,
is this your answer to our Why?
Flatulently uninventive
and haphazard, bored: face it,
Lord. I mean, Oh fucking my.
.
Unless, my silly un-ingenious
and imperfect God, you’re us.
And we keep making all this frantic
fuss because we like it.
It’s like a punch. Some say it
isn’t punch until you spike it.
.
No comments:
Post a Comment