Perceptive Bliss

Perceptive Bliss

I. Great transitional star-lit
balconies, from which we
sat in subdued bewilderment
spitting at obscene hours of the night.

We Said:

“This entire existence is
addicted to its’ own
scent and stench.”

Yet we lived on as suppliers
to their erroneous needs.

II. In the wake of this
fire, we silently observe
the smoldering ash,
extinguished with words
unspoken, quenched by
startled inaction.


III. At the ripe age of twenty years,
I feel I am halfway thru
this funneled vision of the self.
My existence certainly isn’t
permanent, my work far from some
grand cure for the masses.
My life, a daily reoccurring
enigma, with soaked pieces
that no longer fit together.
A wandering, syncopated line,
in love with the (as yet) unfulfilled
promises of heaven,
while trying to relinquish
this spiteful vision of the self,
that I (myself) despise.

IV. May-be this vehement insecurity
is a mask for jealousy and contempt.
Right now however, I would give
my fucking tongue to shut these
voices down.


V. I apologize for each
breath that I’ve squandered,
I apologize for cursing
the unseen order,
I apologize for disbelief
in the self,
I apologize for blind
belief in the self,
I apologize for dwelling in the realm
between broken lines & closure,
I apologize for my expectations & yours,
I apologize for not existing,
I will not however,
pardon my existence.