human plight is a step into the cosmos. the blue lord laughs while throwing asteroids from hand to hand, picking the earth off of his hand as the fleck of nothingness it is. an azure dot, the hominids that reign it, a daydream that conquering his creation will give us satisfaction(we have lived!)–we are selfish creatures. ones that live off of the flesh of others, ones that depend on something clear and definite and finite and strange, ones that believe that they can defeat the sky and escape into the heavens. the lord looks down on us, picking out the pure souls like blackberries he is about to eat(he crushes the pulp against the roof of his mouth before he chews(the juice reminds him not to rip apart the universe, and the sighs afterward make him remember to value the untainted eyes and lips and hands in his gullet), he sews the earth closed and uses it as a pin cushion(for much more important projects(but it falls apart too often, and he reckons it will turn into a cataclysm before it's done). i've done many things for you, lord. all i want in return is to dangle in front of your mouth and realize that everything i have bled for has paid off.
YOU ARE READING
paraphernalia
Poetrypretentious poetry. FOREWARNING: this was written over three years. my style changes dramatically, as does everything else. quality of pieces varies.
