[Split]

Two-Way Mirage
1/14/2014
RD 1. Winter Topical, vs. VERITAS (W5-2)

="Dad? He seems kinda lost."
>"Well, this isn't his home. But he doesn't know that."
="I mean, he looks like he's in a whole nother world"
>"I... I think he's just bored"

the jungle escaped me.

their sad, pacing amazement disgusts.
ever facing subtle cravings of lust, for my power- supple and fatal,
that would devour their fucking Cradle to a basin of dust.
this containment is civil. whittled by masons, who dug
into loam. stuffed with numberless stones, grains of
of an alien soil that's drained through a plug
it's nothing of home.. a dreary and embroiled painting of love-
like the type you hurriedly clone, hang to adjust an uglier tone.
Ridicule. Something husks in clinical rehab might fake
and cynically recap the why's within fate w/ no curtain curtailing the scene.
It's they who have crated the orange-red embers-
for our failings were due, exploring the tethers of Siberia's sheen,
the glaring of dew and the open of space no city could grasp,
they left us at ease, to gaze on infinity's Kingdom of Wrath.
An inanimate magistrate, condemning millions to glass
and dominion would have that masses would reign...
the last King, sat alone in his cage with his vision glowing ablaze.

long enough- I've pondered the forest ahead,
a pandering storyboard spread, flora whose fauna oft flew
or just stalked in the pews like a wandering court for the dead.
you wore the morning regret that your enormity slept.
I bottled a quart for the tenth of the blood that you bled.
invested remorse in morality's debt. slobbered on teeth,
vengeance is sweet. saccharine stench. noxious to breathe
again and again, like smog in the streets. the cough on my breath.
I'm their savagery, dreamt, as they slumped in their seats:
the sepia tone that wept into stupors like Damocles' dreams-
greedy, and gold, it's seldom complacence will fold with sutures of fur-
sunburst like the velvet liquor that they sip to belabor their words.
simmering. cinema still. venomous swill, sitting to fill.
pity's an imagery-pill, but the predator watches, not seeks.
prey for the day when I walk through the streets...

you and I have lived together, but remember.
I am the one looking out.

the jungle escaped you.



city of man
1/26/14
RD. 2 Winter Topical vs. Vulgar (L3-6)

The surgeon thought the park was a shrine.
Among the stones and organic designs
he plodded alone, stopping to groan
while unwinding his gait. He let moonlighting taint
his ever-hard gaze, procedural focus.
Paused to whittle away at the bestial closeness
of those who remained in the wake
of humanity's smoldering opus. Fauna,
and flora, microcosmic diaspora through
the alleys and aves.
University streets.
The walks and relapses of actions that
gradually crept between sleep
and cramming for classes... packed into boxes,
habits and doctrines, that dragged at his feet-
but it was certainly sweet: grasping the document
that encaptured his knowledge. Valedictory speech,
thrown off some caps (he hadn't been that since 2003).
His study of science developed into a studying science.
In the lib, ostensibly silent with
his felt-tip outlining terms and asides,
traipsed back with a wealth of words on rewind.
Home was a house he had left. Passages walked
til he found a thought to follow again.
Like shouts in his head. Mantras mounted like death
and surrounded the bed among baubles, and pens,
water bottles and academic doctoral texts he had read.
The only company he kept was colleagues,
and all these... friends... he met all of three times a year.
So it was folly, he feared, that he pledged his life
to the art of surviving, and felt so far from alive
unless he reclined by the pond... a forgotten city of man
drawn in, silenced in sand, encroached by a miniature
ocean of a nihilist god.