i try to be "common"; instead, i am "-khamen"--i guess it's...
some form of disconnect which comes of despondency yet it's...
more than a policy like swords in theophany hands...
copying Man's akin to skin on a copier scanned...
i think i'm skin mag', and possibly crammed with artifacts and facts arty King Arthur faxed.
hard to scratch, this itch--forgive, pardon that...
my target's zapped on a zigzag, my zargon's whacky...
i started rapping at sixteen, it's part of that...
to mark a map incidentally, but carve a path.
my heart is black but the bubbles on all forms don't...
include need to compute hue of heart; it won't...
mean as much as my melanin to these Tartars, jack.
(stars collapse in my mind's-eye--i write them to right this,
crying as light dies--the dice dive.
dark is master.)
i mark disaster in victories History celebrates--
i elevate what is downtrodden on Hel's estate--
a welterweight, a Water Sign, i welter weighty:
it may be heavier than assumed.
toward clowns, gauntlet: to vet vaunted Concept, launching--mummers, mimes, corners per stretch haunted.
i fetch Nonsense to wet bonnets and heads 'pon which (the said) on sit.
i marshal courage, but this marshalcy's a dead office.
from the onset, i'm set off-ish.
my head's lost in a sweat shop, knitting Know.
quitting's so...pre-Depression, so the skinny's sewn--HERE'S the bloody skinny though:
we are all but shitty boats floating in a fog, unsure of shore, shoring leaks, storing leeks and onions to peel--we WANT to weep but will do it BEYOND the reach of Disapproval...
-what sort of ship wants to be breached?
the answer's in its innards--weaker with each week, 'hands eye an isle miles off while they wish to hit a reef.
because they also want to be beached.
so what's "common"?
but a word?
for secret problems?
and what's lobbing a letter that sticks and turns Scarlet?
like little scars? -our vittles barge in on us, seeking acquittal in bellies yellowed.
we bellow for camouflage, hoping to settle in quiet--riot inside while we hide on the hide holding...
flowing vessels on muscle, hitting nerves with our novocaines.
i've waited on novas.
most of them never came.
the space was colder than souls ever claimed it.
stardust, my smolders left; crept away, or were swept.
those, or kept at bay; that, or trafficked with adepts. or with decks of fates.
-and saw Death, who speculates along this goldmine in a reckless vein, efforts painstaking.
but i, an embedded agent, seek the others i expect are laying somewhere in the wretched cave...and their blessed clave...and the messes made as they redden clay,
all gods with no seventh day--thus, a restless usness.
-thomas the younger; december 8th, 2009.