Plebian Ferns

I hear a symphony of white noise,
As the clouds scar the sky.
Blades of grass cut me, arrogant blood-letters.
Nuisances plague me with pinpricks,
Shallow burdens on which to complain.

Castrate the cult,
Beef up on melancholy.
Girls and boys with spears stab the queers.
There’s chaos under every rock,
Behind every star.

I won’t stand long,
I’m too worn out to think.
And I’m on my side,
Restless with irascibility,
Copulating with my enemies.

Bound to the corners of the earth,
I reign wrath with belligerent birth.
Thrown out into an open wilderness,
Pining away by the hour.
There is no such thing as a dead flower.

Spring rain on a window sill,
White lilies in a red soil.
The deaf ramble,
The dead shamble.
I am grown out of a clay pot,
Out of the very tendrils of foundation.
Sprouting like an eloquent weed,
Spreading like wildfire.
I can only cover so much ground,
I can only reach so high,
Before the sun fucks me down unapologetically.
I am truly alone with my heredity.
There is a cool breeze from autumn,
A penetrating bleakness from winter,
And every lost memory I’ve had disintegrated in the spring.
Summer is merely a name that I could occupy myself with,
And my best friend.
Then there’s my ego…interminable and irrational.
The pits of Hell claw their way up my back and slide fangs in,
As I squirm.
Penance is a stealthy wish, a silent assassin.
It’ll hunt me for the rest of my life,
To an edge without shadows.

And Hallelujah, there is finally a word from my God,
And praise be to this God, for I am finally flawed.
I am kept under a watchful eye, tied to a leash.
I am Hyacinth, departed and proud.

And outside, there is a hanged man which I study,
A seed of an opus bred pure.
It seems to be a main driving force,
A ritualistic symbol for my comedy to unfold upon.
“Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints,”
He tells me, tongue out, eyes glazed.
There is an artificial pretension in those eyes,
A chocked intensity resting upon my very own.
Urgency ascending, serenity relaxing,
I am not to move with this lost soul locking me tight.
We will converse, amber down his tree,
Dead sweat baking over his chin.
And I gazed, for long enough, into these cold irises,
To catch a faded glimpse of his own reality.
There is an inferno in those eyes, a fraction of indetermination,
A fragment of internal salience.
Empathy churns up my neck,
Basking into omniscience.
I break free, a moral understanding captured.

The noosed man no longer speaks to me, as I sit today.
Patience and rapture are two things I am humble for.
Optimism is my undertow, I am born a pedantic,
Strengthening into something more than a romantic.
Details over love, power over greed,
Apathy over hope, contemplation over impulse,
Abandonment over loyalty.

I miss being miserable.