deepundergroundpoetry.com
Meeky 2
Imbued with an intoxicating sensation of invincibility,
Deluded by a diluted elixir,
Elevated by pure, omnipotent white,
I tread on.
First things first.
That glitzy dress is hurting my senses.
Let me get rid of it, it does your skin no justice.
Cotton is too crude. It will scrape that delicate skin of yours.
Choose wisely, choose silk.
Pro realism is crippling and lacking in intensity.
Truth is bitter, if not tasteless. It lacks lustre.
Let ambiguity trigger your imagination.
Let this imperious emperor decide of your fate.
Let this vehement urgency be the perfect bait.
Feast along.
This is regal culinary,
Concocted by dogma-tics, and
Served with beguiling servitude,
By sycophants of opaque masks,
Carrying poison within the curves of perfectly symmetrical jars and flasks.
Maxims and myths,
They can but shackle limbs and thoughts.
They shatter to smithereens my pro-rata victory.
What is victory if it's pro-rata?
Why does anything have to be in proportion?
Why does everything have to be scaled up or down?
Within an abbey of auto-proclaimed Messiahs,
Up an alley flanked by withered flowers and rotten corpses
Much to my inconvenience, much to yours neither.
Why?
Why can't you be your own race? Why can't you be your own victory?
Can't you be your own race? Can't you be your own victory?
Yes, you neither.
I find bliss in cathexis? Do you? Can you?
I have conquered apex and lofts.
Though substantiated by medals and crowns and thrones,
It amounted to an essential nothingness, an inner-drama.
So fuck it, fuck you.
Baby, I got tired of your etymological euphemism.
Why lie with those lips of august red?
Why do you pursue what has conquered and ruined others?
Why glorify that loathe-some gynarchy?
I choose to let go of what already had, of me.
You had me dreaming.
You had me extending my arms,
Reaching out for that celestial wonder that is you.
Begging for that baronial inspiration.
Erotic rhetoric, meeting an early death.
Honey, sexy, this is my esoteric bubble.
Others can but muddle along.
This is where I belong. This is where you belong.
If there is so much to smile about, why can't I?
It there’s a tree of life, why can’t I rest in its shade?
Why do I find inadequacy in this plethora?
Why do I encounter fallacy in this adage?
Why do I find solitude in company?
Frustration in capacity?
Chaos in peace?
Flaws in perfection?
Your endless void has muffled my voice,
Debased it to an echo.
Find me at the bottom of the pit,
mourning the death of something unintended.
Recalling crepuscular indulgences facilitating satori.
So fuck it, fuck you.
Deluded by a diluted elixir,
Elevated by pure, omnipotent white,
I tread on.
First things first.
That glitzy dress is hurting my senses.
Let me get rid of it, it does your skin no justice.
Cotton is too crude. It will scrape that delicate skin of yours.
Choose wisely, choose silk.
Pro realism is crippling and lacking in intensity.
Truth is bitter, if not tasteless. It lacks lustre.
Let ambiguity trigger your imagination.
Let this imperious emperor decide of your fate.
Let this vehement urgency be the perfect bait.
Feast along.
This is regal culinary,
Concocted by dogma-tics, and
Served with beguiling servitude,
By sycophants of opaque masks,
Carrying poison within the curves of perfectly symmetrical jars and flasks.
Maxims and myths,
They can but shackle limbs and thoughts.
They shatter to smithereens my pro-rata victory.
What is victory if it's pro-rata?
Why does anything have to be in proportion?
Why does everything have to be scaled up or down?
Within an abbey of auto-proclaimed Messiahs,
Up an alley flanked by withered flowers and rotten corpses
Much to my inconvenience, much to yours neither.
Why?
Why can't you be your own race? Why can't you be your own victory?
Can't you be your own race? Can't you be your own victory?
Yes, you neither.
I find bliss in cathexis? Do you? Can you?
I have conquered apex and lofts.
Though substantiated by medals and crowns and thrones,
It amounted to an essential nothingness, an inner-drama.
So fuck it, fuck you.
Baby, I got tired of your etymological euphemism.
Why lie with those lips of august red?
Why do you pursue what has conquered and ruined others?
Why glorify that loathe-some gynarchy?
I choose to let go of what already had, of me.
You had me dreaming.
You had me extending my arms,
Reaching out for that celestial wonder that is you.
Begging for that baronial inspiration.
Erotic rhetoric, meeting an early death.
Honey, sexy, this is my esoteric bubble.
Others can but muddle along.
This is where I belong. This is where you belong.
If there is so much to smile about, why can't I?
It there’s a tree of life, why can’t I rest in its shade?
Why do I find inadequacy in this plethora?
Why do I encounter fallacy in this adage?
Why do I find solitude in company?
Frustration in capacity?
Chaos in peace?
Flaws in perfection?
Your endless void has muffled my voice,
Debased it to an echo.
Find me at the bottom of the pit,
mourning the death of something unintended.
Recalling crepuscular indulgences facilitating satori.
So fuck it, fuck you.
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