Wednesday poem (from my notebook no edits)


I am full
of shame. All my work
is a forgery.

I don’t think
I’ve said
one important thing
in my entire life

I’m back in a body
within the prism
of white supremacy.

Purity is for dummies.

Ladies and gentlemen, better wake up and hijak these images. Don’t wake up too old for experience. You’re beginning to believe in the past detached from the body. I have found ergo I am dead. It is miraculous here Bush with a tail that sweeps the globe. Dollar based Euro based hallucination. Our damned birth is a form of continual shock. You’re not told what you can’t know and mental exercises are an exaggeration of suble truths. Here beneath the house of language a bat beats its wings in the shadows and a living drone investigates. It’s a gray day you can’t refuse: gifts of gods themselves in exodus. What’s left is a continual deforestation. Written though. A skeleton soaking in lambswool. Under the pretense of shattering snores every window is opened.
Social manipulation is not forced on the people. Drilled-in, and shaken. Are you listening? Indefinite and insincere your days are numbered. Late-mate drilled and nailed to the wall. Can you hear the operations? Sensory input is laughed off the tongue. Skip the opera these lines pull blood to the retina. A wrong sense of play and you are banished to the boonies. We are a metaphor within a marvelous body. You are the world’s most bitter conflicts.

This is a benign herd of words that supports a backward relief system. A delicious meal on the shells of the dead. Daylight reveals more of the shrine. Climb into me: don’t recall and don’t imagine. This reality: only cold mud can cure the leech-suck. As we go down we go up.
For hours fat men unfold from their seats and pin the map. This is a musical theatre and it is not a question of established traditions. Get aroused by the gaps in your ego. Gestures of broken heads = you must be thinking. Hell is visible in the scene speak. Drunk on evasion the fish are swimming in the bucket. Be weary of elegance.
All these years wasted in shame. Drunk more than a cupful and still drinking. How much you got? Sleeping on a fence of spikes and then up to my knees in shit. Proud of no-nation. They are all little shits. Human-time is disappearing from the universe. One light at a time. Can’t shake it out via Kultura. Sand wipes us out and silence sticks to the Pines.

Published by Marcus Slease

Born in Portadown, Northern Ireland, Marcus Slease has made his home in such places as Turkey, Poland, Italy, South Korea, the United States, Spain, and the United Kingdom – experiences that inform his nomadic surrealist writing. His latest book is Never Mind the Beasts (Dostoyevsky Wannabe 2020).

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