This body is under an attack of ghostly terror
Already unreliable for demands of attention
evolving, accelerating, of rapid illumination
my body is groundhog, drowning is scripted.
The flesh makes procreation matter to death
and while becoming conscious of freedom
my flesh's self starts to search farther beyond
never succeeding. 'Out there' spoons no exit.
What desire understands, means to vanish
itself with self, from the endless yarn of cycle
Now it only creeps alongside fleshling waddle.
Mind's footing so tenuous by All's distraction.
A tactical genius is required to reset the spirit
forces a plenty, which together might render
another plane of consciousness empowered
within self's metaphysics, neutralizing tension.
Present to the world, I feel the force of sense.
The logic of my flesh defines precise function
that is expressed with mechanical clockwork
along gradients of purpose, effectively acted.
That's not you, nor me, all withal forgetting,
leaving vast debris of hubris, our night-falling.
Next time will be worse for the quick fixes.
Possibilities remain, silent still to illumine...
Oh, but such fantasy with this body, mine.
Here I sit having the sense time runs thin
knowing its my flesh's subjective view
on a trip even less desirable for its hell.
COPYRIGHT © 82010 rjduberg
Already unreliable for demands of attention
evolving, accelerating, of rapid illumination
my body is groundhog, drowning is scripted.
The flesh makes procreation matter to death
and while becoming conscious of freedom
my flesh's self starts to search farther beyond
never succeeding. 'Out there' spoons no exit.
What desire understands, means to vanish
itself with self, from the endless yarn of cycle
Now it only creeps alongside fleshling waddle.
Mind's footing so tenuous by All's distraction.
A tactical genius is required to reset the spirit
forces a plenty, which together might render
another plane of consciousness empowered
within self's metaphysics, neutralizing tension.
Present to the world, I feel the force of sense.
The logic of my flesh defines precise function
that is expressed with mechanical clockwork
along gradients of purpose, effectively acted.
That's not you, nor me, all withal forgetting,
leaving vast debris of hubris, our night-falling.
Next time will be worse for the quick fixes.
Possibilities remain, silent still to illumine...
Oh, but such fantasy with this body, mine.
Here I sit having the sense time runs thin
knowing its my flesh's subjective view
on a trip even less desirable for its hell.
COPYRIGHT © 82010 rjduberg
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