In utero and flying
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.
