Sordid Collections

July 1, 2011

Uncompromised disproval. Eloquent departure from the usual recipes for broken stations. Here is the apex of the quarter-life. Ten million strong but none worthy. Corrugated dreamscapes, like children at the zoo. We watch from underneath and yet it’s shadow does not touch us. Non-corporeal. Separatist.

Ghostly, electronic voices echoing forever through hidden chambers at my epicenter. Delicate, though hearty. Iconic. Disembodied and prolific, like memories of dreams you never had. Panic shakes like carbonated ice. Collapse seems necessary for recovery. Fresh starts. New old.

Instinct, drawn through openings left deep in damaged flesh. Like corrosive children, bandaged and still screaming as the fire steals their limbs. I can touch the fervor. Hospital continent. Emergency world, in a sudden state of understanding, seconds before entropy breaks forth and cuts our ropes. Everything soft halts.

Hard wire, in braids around our arms and legs, dams our circulation. Loss of feeling like loss of illusions upon waking. Terrifying and pitiable. Empty Christmas. Godless churches burning, heavenward.


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