Consciousness Stream (April 2021)

In the heavy-laden grog-vapours of a brain mangled by humid afternoons and the haze of covid-brain- i ask - remembering? Is remembering the direction my poetry is in?. I ask - I ask - I ask - Whyandwhen did the poetry stop? Was all the cycling-brain-gurgling-endlessly-distracting-psychic-filth-mongering of social media addiction The cause? I get tired and heart-broken to consider my own palid attempts at worldings, All I seem to be able to manage is journaling I used to crunch and sculpt, to hack and arrange, the lexicon so artfully with the imprint signature of my consciousness What is that - now? I ask - I ask - I ask - What is that - now? The mysterious texture of poetry, all my thought-fumbles tumbling out in a ballet of prosody An experimental known-body of invisible skeletons guiding the imagery When and for what was I emptied of this instinct, this impulse, this integer, this intense intent so intense this intense intent so intense I slide the tip of my nose in an exact semi circle, drawing geometric gestures up towards the sky In reflection I am not the retaliation How have the languagings inside of me changed? I commit, I concur, I clamber over clits of contours of collapsing royalties into the loud rattling teeths of tiger-lions, remember what we can conjure when we remix cut up tell the judgement mind to shutthefuckup and canter canter canter in the wyrd worlds a compression of fragments evokes a selection of scattered notes from the dictionary of all mind and all feeling - what is my voice now? What is its flavouring? Is it sour-slap-in-the-face-with-a-gut-punch-of-saccharine? Do I jam the very vocabularies together in violent erotics? Have you ever noticed? The way your turning of phrasing is like down a mountainous cliff tumbling, with some lover after you shouting, its all bliss it only is only is this As your bones break against the land and the rock, they tell you its a kind of kiss That matches the harshness of a world in its honed sharpness I am aghast unguarded to be regarded with such a fated attitude Alack ! i have no time for such gloating gun-blasting nostalgia-bashing melancholia Tell me something new.