The filament is right here; light-years protest the seed.
Incandescent spirit is fire, fire is synecdoche.
I’m blinking with ideas perpetually;
perspectives gleaned from the perplexing beams I cast.
There’s ecstasy through the looking glass,
exiting sands pass inexorably through porous hands.
Pouring, as some sort of author plans
though it’s dawning this might all be the force of chance.
Man, it looks unnatural: the tie, the suit and subway line commutes
provide the gel cap for the bureaucratic capsule – you swallow it,
I might if I had that orifice, or some kind of tooth to bite the con
but I’m busy kindling love for torches: lighting books of right-on
with my sidearm. Recognize it’s bright if the sense isn’t numb
or stoke your fires by the warmth of the Empyrean.
It’s all aetherial -- ad infinitum,
except we’re too worried about bills sinking the funds
and the cost electricity runs to ever have that symphony done.
That’s ok, not bothered with it - I’m constantly lit; literally, Sun.
A half-cocked old concept waiting to flash flint from a gun.
The heat of three AM whiskey liquors that dig in your lungs
to sit on your breath, but I’m best when thinking upon
notions of feeling, theory, meaning - opinion.
It lights me up, being dim’s insistently dumb.
Filament wires tie us, then in sequence we’re spun,
chain-linking hands to fence in seeming oblivion.
Seven point four billion
currently conducting currency, no current weaves between us.
Mind’s bent towards Time spent despite charge being intravenous.
La petite mort relates to more than just that which leaves your penis.
Still, I can’t say much – dispossessed of the most loyal intent:
sparking up cigarettes to discuss the post-coital tristresse.
One flick of ash, cinders crash into moist soil. It’s dense.
I’d collapse the light into Earth in hopes it’d reflect, just
to know it, I guess. I confess to be a blunder.
Necessity’s mother elucidates the path – abrupt in ending.
The light at the end of your tunnel’s not intention, but invention.
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