Out of the Fog of Our Waking

                    i. Let

Fast-acting fetish, trashy as the blasphemy • of tearing up a phonebook, calling • on avowed heretic fanatics to fill • me in on my antics after • the fact since I know that • their worship documented better than my • will did when my intention slipped • its disk and scripted a spineless • volume of back-tracking magic for which • I still turn tricks, every incident • a glimpse of the tragic, back-masked • speech speaking witness, occulting already inarticulate • •

                    ii. Me

evidence against this passing phantasm of • a gimmick secret method, some awakened • sicko pervert poet selling memories to • cash-in on coin-operated oracles, my heart • gels with no one else’s but • your body’s eviscerated visceral mess, cinematic • digression mentioning only extras in its • credits, filmed until unreal, heedless and • hard enough it gets off on • withholding from the turned-on world a • self-igniting altar for those few lustlorn • fools forward enough to push open • •

                    iii. Make

its temple doors, dividing wide the • two sides of its double-panelled portal • curtains to settle the score, miraculous • no more going forth calling you • out on being so false this • froth of our loss follows itself • with furious claws, forgets to observe • universal law and swallows whole the • tax its excess was to fall • hard on, if not for, paying • no mind costs us all, you • know, allows only the lonely a • •

                    iv. You

pause, a silent life of time • called heroic or eremitical, moreso emetic • and casual, causing solitude to blind • its cruel proponents, uncool hermits prone • to propping up hypothetical gods whose • hollow idols have false parts to • play the art of proof that • their hypotheses are truth, every middle • finger a punchline sculpted from a • joke the single tell themselves when • love dwells within too long to • come out ever again, this well • •

                    v. All

of mine dries tears, which is • why you buy what I ink, • since like paper what thoughts I • think worthy of being shared sooner • or later disappear, torn or burned • after the ache of misinterpretation heals, • a suicide recital to evade being • mistaken for being apolitical, a statement • making powerful men uncomfortable, taking on • trouble getting confrontational at the conference • table, offering poetry to encode my • desire for you in language, melody • •

                    vi. More

and violence, vibing your gyrations from • inside, the fire of my words • colours flesh more tolerable and less • hostile than the war of reason • on realizing the impossible, for being • practical scars with its volatile harshness • those the world refers to as • artists, we who prefer to manifest • what others perfect whenever they reject • our concept of freedom, this is • what I attempt to express every • time I get lyrical, interested more • •

                    vii. Powerful

in pouring forth what others label • gross, grandiose, baroque, convoluted, self-obsessed, and • controversial than achieving something safely satisfactory, • sanitary, technical, likeable, or even relatable, • the whole point is to make • people uncomfortable so that they are • forced to learn to deal with • what my work makes them feel, • this is the æsthetics of the • real, around which the scenes of • my mirror cycle, what you see • is what you refuse to reveal.