[Eŋg]

write sober, edit drunk;
yet why even distinguish between the two states of mind
when they combine?
purported sobriety is merely intoxication
with the oscillating false paradigm of reality
thus if three addicts see
each other simultaneously in the eye is it pineal?
it's real if you know yourself;
such is the law of solipsism
but knowing what it isn't
is not mutually exclusive to knowing what is, true.
i've got issues you can't picture, trust.
find scar tissue that i wish to cut.
in the windiest gust my sword-arm stiffens up
and i can't piss enough.
i'm lit. i'm love. i'm it, i'm drugs;
salvador's matador pushing the crimson lips apart
for art imitates life limitates heart in the indifferent
quasar of your strained insistent existence.
talk. i'll fain to listen.
feign fibbing angel inveigle whispers
but mere mellifluous honeyed words
coaxing your coquettish tongue
to twist 'til it's lost its flavour spun
around your cerebrum
waiting for occam's razor to undo the occult favour.
but you give yourself. you do.
every spent soul imbued
with self-loathing,
sense soaked in dew
from the previous evening's aqueous breathing.
i’m actually leaving: in your hands, take my whole life,
blow thrice for luck and throw dice
– i’m fucked... but i’m alright.
just tryna find a raison d’etre,
or reason to better… myself or simply reason! unfetter
the chains of thought and ease all the pressure
obsessed with constancy in transient, seasonal weather.
the air’s winter, my hair’s thinner,
stare mirrors out as crisp breath blasts
obscure intent glass.
yet i’ve a cold dram of oban
– word to an old man’s brandy
rubbing gums on another son
he wouldn’t love but his old hands did marry.
writing’s cathartic as cliche as night is to darkness.
my life’s in a harness: wife’s trying to harvest
a slice of what’s most ripe in my garden
but ardently i can’t let crackling carnal
energy discharge anywhere else when my eyes start to target
thus the primacy of lust must exhibit sovereignty
over my armoury’s lot - would i rather be unarmed?
probably not. honestly? i’m not honest. i’m not.
refuse to acknowledge a sneeze if my sinuses popped.
deceive myself with half-truths that i’ve tied into knots
weaving a cryptic triptych till the tripartite decides the time is to rot.
the only chime of the clock to adhere to
is your own defining tick-tock, here… right in this spot, yea
- and i’m bundling all mine into five-minute slots.
but i ain’t tryna sign right on the dot
with the same pen that wrote these letters.
i am the ebb and the flow together,
the cleft and the whole letting the world know
that you are a part of all that you have met,
all that you are yet to see.
just let it breathe.