There’s something cleansing about watching old papers burn, something similar to watching a big long delete bar progressing on the screen, things being overwritten with randomly generated strings. The process of scrunching up letters, and then seeing them turn to ash, the randomly generated strings of the earth. Like we will!
Beatrice, centred in heaven,
did not need to be desired
She watched the angel eyes
rotate in a thousand sockets
and waited for Dante
so they could go for a walk
The worst are full of it, and the
best are kinda preachy, you know?
The crack of bones upon repeat
creates emotional flashpoints
and the general conflagration
begins with a cringy subtweet.
Memories like Beatrician
moments in our childhood, are weak.
The endless image stream is strong
and overwhelms us daily such that
regret is forgotten and starts
to take out essential support
groups and systematically fails.
Walks of palmers, romers, pilgrims,
pass past us and help us forget
a grief well marketed, help us
see the path to the sea is free
and paths across land boundaries
are free. While youtube does its best
to suggest videos likely
to send me literally insane.
That said, if you find a poem
does not help you live, jettison
it as soon as you can, my friend
The problem is that things just aren’t
rational. Words become less real
the longer time drags on. The long
day and night cycle is looser
at every moment. Ignoring
the background static the trolls, death
the concept of evil and more,
Love came at me across the nine
heavens. A miracle, fashioned
just for me. A real perfection,
numbers, herald of the motion
of the heavenly spheres, said no
one, ever. The chaste vibrations
of the universe continue
to deny allegations of
insidious intent. Mostly
by refusing to comment more
even when pressed up against by
hordes of fallen angels. Never
mind – this sorrow produces verse,
laments, the pulp fiction of our
human poetic sphere. Pain just
whips across the page. Give me more!
It’s what sells, darling, it’s what sells!