Everything is whirling around me.

Stinging splashes of monsooned life.

The overwhelming number 

of possibilities never yet lived, 

but should’ve been…

How do I decide it, choose it, be it–

untethered by neurosis, 

relinquished from fear, 

pardoned in social maladroit?

Shall I abandon this land? 

This way of life? 

These weak carbon bonds 

that can never cohere 

into lifeforms I need 

to live?

The outrage and enrage 

of my sickened heart 

pumping blood into tears & frowns 

of disgust & desire…

Yearning for vibrant love like mating butterflies, 

brilliant renewal like sunrise, 

fully grounded purpose like gravestones, 

the furthering of higher development

like third trimester DNA…

Stepping away from ideal & visionary,

I see the nestled weeds of a dying world 

climb trellises of sentient decay 

into humanity’s concrete civilization

 running amuck amidst 

the collapse of a species–

wasted in possessions & affairs

of avarice, addiction, indifference,

motive, & insanity.

Writers, do not write in confidence 

nor arrogance, 

but the essence of what is, 

where ever it is, when ever it is. 

Some possess the eeriest energy

that just consumes

 –with chills, 

succumbed pause, 

and revulsion of the truth & horror 

of what this life really is.

None of us are immune 

to the splicing and splitting

of foundational worldview 

& core identity– into  o b l i v i o n…

like an aborted baby that survived.

The weirdest freaks of nature don’t look like freaks at all…

It’s not about skin-deep shallow fleshhood

when it’s really about what’s inside–

Wild language, injured genius,

 intricate stains upon the white satin of autonomy.

Isolated lonesomeness rests upon the hillside…

screaming from and into 

the depths of the end of time–

Like a dangerous, unpredictable cemetery

scattered with creeking trees

and cryptic antiquity 

potentiating HARP-like storms 

into the base of your spine.

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Whirling