salomon -- Day [entries|friends|calendar]
ivan

[ userinfo | insanejournal userinfo ]
[ calendar | insanejournal calendar ]

two longer poems april-september 2020 [17 Sep 2020|10:19am]
untitled

i loathe these bisexuals, little attention whores that need be put down. my friends have a gay time, i say something controversial, take it back, their giggles run amok. but i never joke, not ever have i told a joke. the autism was a causality of never landing a joke, not vice versa. when i realised what was going on it was way overdue. i mostly work, i admit, i pass because of my skin and bone composition, bone complexion, which is what people are faced with and mostly allow to pass. there aren’t two voices at war in my head, five six seven at most, intervals and spurs. this is where we’re at. this night, being crushed under a weight of noir, a glimmering freeze creeping up over the jetty. i am happy, ecstatic with my position. who’s already died at my hand and who’s about to, is already in the process of blurring, compromising. there’s not much else but sugar in me. it needs release, a large body trapped in a tiny mind.

the autism was a causality of never landing a joke, not vice versa. when i realised what was going on it was way overdue. people who accuse conspiratorics of grasping for straws, of invalidating their own cause by paranoically seeing stalking in every thing, do not know what feeling is. the lack of empathy with the sense of permeating discomfort, the kind that is often attributed by normies to the moment one is being observed, of which the focal point erratically wanders in fear of getting caught in the web. when nature and technology is scientifically one so that hiding spots are an historical idea, claustrophobia transcends the body and perfumes the air instead, shifting with the heat of the sun and the chill of clouds. massive, bloated information swelling like rice in the tummy, fogging the connective receptors between body and brain. obviously you’ll wanna melt for a while, opaque the eyes, you want to be taken seriously when having a laugh, but as you zoom out, or touch down again, the bold iron rods shielding, but not fully shielding, become impressionable again. you can be a frog. you can be a dude. it won’t matter when you cannot exit.

a step with jazz, a step with blues, one step two,



ammo boy (working title)

at the event horizon, reeling my masculinity in. from hidden away in the void of information, where pussies daren’t search. yet, they suspected correctly, that this is the point from which you start perceiving happening, event. horizon. kids catch my drift. adults, you wonder if they ever were anything else, if pubescence is a transmuting out of this world. the husks of adulthood, sown in the barren. failed escapees turned automaton to perpetuate their own viral pathologising of maze-like symbolic controversies. walking the earth. the z word. i am standing at the lightening horizon. like any pilot, about to maneuver an overpowered weapon into the immortal architecture of

a hallway becoming what you make of it. the further you’ve been probed into, the greater potential. the people of my class walk down this road a hundred times every week, mapping out what is to become their bursting trauma onto these fleshy walls. uneven and dull like a sore rectum, a tired throat. the pedagogues, coded–in the mainframe of the architecture–to teach us how you bend down over a person, how the curve aiming from neck to pelvis will weigh you down on the pillow after bedtime, have many a time tasked us with caressing these walls of a wound, scraping tack, decorating. the pedagogues are people-furniture. enemiels, animas. furniture rots. we pass through this orifice like a second home, an air tight chute, impregnating with the stench of our ceaseless state of seminality. before, when dropped off and approaching the opening from afar, i couldn’t help looking back imagining the gigantic weapon that had created it. that is a record wound, i thought, never healing, always frothing at the edges with cells in decline. can you unlearn cavity. me, it’s burned under my eyes. three fingers angled and armed, i aim at

the people of my class, designated to black hole 1, has had to elaborate games of connecting curves and gestures resembling the movements of the pedagogues hostile encounters. our method is crucial, as failing to chart what we’ve understood as a specific pattern of collective thinking is a promise of our relinquishment. there can not be rescue pods for the groups unable to determine that pattern before it determines them. game of nature, nature of game.

crossing from out to inside, i know this will be my final time in the wound. as the mission checks out i will emission through the exit doors in a fertile culmination, carrying a seed of knowledge from the world that connects with our through the pink passage. the tissue will be torn once and for all, exposing the flesh to the exterior that will so certainly be it’s rot. and as i plumb deeper into the orifice by myself, the more apparent made is the weakness of the nostalgic tremor. my presence is mostly clutching at the nearness of the end of these days, of being a cell in a stream of blood. and in this an acceptance nears, of the unpromised emancipatory function of this return action. like when a summer break comes to close and your wrists start to itch longingly for the firm grip of the in-field bully procedures, the pointlessness of living untouched surfaces expectedly. at the verge of emancipation you face that you are preventing outliving yourself. i did not indulge anyone with my scheme. down the hallway, the murmur piling at the walls, the games are running according to the regular psychosexual schedule, the classes choreographing against the pedagogues, until the second where time splits at my hands. the halves mirror

our games, officially translated through the mission as orgies, launched both as calculated penetrations of the pedagogues own psychological methods, and the instinctive response anyone would have triggered facing such a coercive structure of sexual impulses. one of the first times i was sent in field we were supposed to counter an authoritative current that had been charging for days and was just about to set off. as a few higher-ups had been fraternising with a pedagogue proxy that had just arrived, as she was stacking innuendae and bouncing her body across the room, the channel accidentally changed, for brief seconds implying a new reward system under implementation. the act had to be swift and even most of us newcomers became involved in the synopsis of a mission that begun on the next week-day, right after the weekend. the indoctrinating of affirmation had to be splintered on such short notice, not to risk more (than the already handful) of our own fallen. there were going to be no more sent but in a full year. assigned to imprint the pedagogue seat with our mirrored replica of the curve they were imposing on us, me and a fellow female non-commissioned, under the watch of an elder boy, succeeded to catch a window in the schedule on tuesday. we hastened up, approaching the seat, both newbies walking quickly and stalely, nervous to mess up the positions. she took up small talk as we approached and began mounting the seat, asked about my parent’s background and such. to which i gave her some detail, atop the seat now. no indication of unsafety from the elder boy yet, we began choreographing, patterning our limbs and pelvises to our best. the complexity to instinct is what makes it difficult to decipher. a drop of sweat spilled from her belly down over mine, her calves tensing as she focused her weight onto the fabric of the seat, making sure we would leave having made a good enough imprint. in nearing the conclusive pose i realised i should have inquired of her family too, but as we were completing our work my finger was to seal the deal by stroking back to front the entire zone through her underwear. as soon as contact was established gravity seemed to overturn 90 degrees and i heard her word pulsating through my finger to materialise in the back of my ears. i could catch her eye, despite the impossible angle, like only our heads remained of our bodies. she spoke only about one word, but conveyed her entire loss of family, staring right at me. a sudden envy spurred my abrupt breaking of eye contact. the moment, which really lasted for no more than two seconds, had run it’s hour course, as she

navigation
[ viewing | September 17th, 2020 ]
[ go | previous day|next day ]