let me tell you of the raven's sins.

Reading: Dylan Thomas Selected Poems (illegal stolen copy sue me).
Listening to: Night's quietude.
Mood: fallible.
2014 September 18, 9:40 PM.

Sunday, February 17, 2013

Much to Hate

Mask ambition as obsession
and never tell them why.

Here I nest: sunless, acidic, suffocating
on what to or what I want to.
People lie more than they breathe —
as if I could not tell! I sniff decadence
like a bloodhound lingering for bones.
But Fury disowned me long ago —
to where I do not know. The chill on my skin,
like a most comforting needle injecting
euphoric narcotics. Static orgasm.
I need no drugs to feel abused. Oh Hate,
you emulate the faintest diversion
sheltering me — away from their Hell.
The danger of falling into a thing of no use.
Are we not to caffeinate each other's wakefulness?
I have no soul but grubs and words
and money that feeds me with grime.
I am lucky to be found, that your disappearance
sucks me into a state of surviving dearth.
You are almost as sweet as Death, not as promising,
not enough faults. You subtract anger, turning it white,
bright as amnesia. No opposition, but simple vanilla,
like an estuary dividing me into fresh water and the sea.
I must not extract you from reality to make you mine
— not even when you reconcile my matter
    as if you were the one.

Saturday, February 2, 2013, 11:37 PM –
Sunday, February 17, 2013, 9:27 PM

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