…in/out of utero

In utero and flyingwendle-crazy-sky-alt-sickness-poem

around away from all

the sweat and heaving air

of all these people, this life.

Shambala comes to mind

as flying becomes rocketing

not through space

but elsewhere. If you know

me you know what I mean, if you

don’t know me then try and fathom

how far from the depths

I am, senseless, scentless, done.

 

An apprentice of not only those

sentient ones, but also of

those who dwell in the mud, mask

and heat that increases here

in the steam of the present

which is why he cannot leave me.

 

That tune from another

world: and I wait for a glimpse

of that beautiful girl, because this

apprentice believes she

may also be flying here

senseless with me.

 

I say senseless because

my eyes no longer seep soul

or love’s remains, emo and dark

but honest like a heart shaped box

on a table in a castle somewhere.

 

No, my eyes are bright, not as deep

as his, I would never compare, but too

deep for this shit, it would

seem. Alone, I am, too long

lonely, now, yes, but he screams

and shrieks and sings in my ears

and it’s wondrous, beautiful like her

appearing now, right now, this

very fucking second.

 

Eyes closed I search for her, whispering

along, lips still. She waits for me here too

I hope, ‘sit and drink’, only for  her smile’s

survival. Wishing she sees me, allows me to land again

out of utero, dimensions that she and I

both know, because there, with eyes

like ours, burrowing, we can make it

or at least attempt it as the beat

slows and the chug fades

and only sweetness is left, hers.

 

As eloquent and wild as she is

in my mind I call out to the

early rise, the grit in our joints

thickening each day, the poison

in our eyes. I call out to furrowed brows

and discontent, to those who place things beneath

themselves, when so far above

they roam it isn’t even true. To the numbers

and sheets drifting, to the pale faces, to

the laces and chains: the skin you shed when some

asshole told you it was time to

grow the fuck up.

 

‘Go away, her and I are good,’ and now

I’m done calling out, fuzz is all I need

to distract and rearrange all this shit

into something her and I can

call home. ‘Alone in my single bed…’

…that would be nice, that could be our

world, our elsewhere, in or out

of utero. ‘Nothing I could say

that I haven’t thought before…’

…that was true to me once

and will be again but

not yet.

 

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