fisher king's wasteland

[or, "possibly one of the reasons why you're my ex"] i love watching you fall though you bare your clenched teeth and breathe seething disbelief at my mirth as if i've just given birth to the ugliest baby, that can't possibly be yours your scowl as you crawl back up makes me howl inside knowing that you're not giving up only because there's no getting off this ride and you're still not having any fun in spite of yourself but don't listen to me just like the time when you were mad at me for when you hid the cookies on the highest shelf because you began some new diet that i warned you myself was a mistake just another misdirection by some guru that you saw on the television transmitting an all-knowing, omnipotent, telling-you vision that happiness and self-satisfaction can only be achieved through martyrdom then, you tuned me out because the man in the studio convinced you that i know nothing worth saving as i preach consumption

i select my filter, snap and send but it's not enough to transmit the sharp dry cold air stinging my nostrils as i inhale warm hands hidden in warm gloves in warm pockets while the chilly breeze bites my cheeks nor is it enough to share the trail of pedestrians that i've passed each gift-wrapped smile or nod a simple pleasure as we hug ourselves and face this weather together i can capture the far-away fairy-tale tower beneath a tuft of cloud visible between the quiet street buildings, sparkling in the morning sun so sweetly that i position myself in the shade to get the shot although there's a sunny spot right beside me later i'll use filters and effects to share the feeling i get when i look into my net to see what i've caught but it's not what i want because what's missing is me and what's left is a lack of a sense of my experience

3... 2... 1... throw! clap! each month i come in purifying myself in pleasurable sin hoping that after the last time my womb will still bleed words that rhyme because my silence would tell you that something bigger's brewing that i'm hewing and i'm sewing and i'm suing my muses for damages and pride for taking me for a ride, no, a glide then a slide, slipping in and out as we spun around on a roundabout the score cards waving up and down to make the riders smile or frown it was against my will, you see though i never said "no", just a soft "maybe" as i heard the staged rage leave the page and felt the smug words, some quite sage seep across the crowded floor now here i am, i'm back for more

words make reality never has this simple statement meant so much to me as when i walk out inspired by some poetry and realize that all i have worried about for months are words all i have worked towards words all i have talked about words unpretentious, unimaginative, first words my future a split infinity of highlights and downward spirals each silver-tained shard reflecting a fantasy and i can only choose if i use the right words how absurd, that i've been caught up in this war that i've been brought up to see as sheer folly like most wars but here i am forced to hold a gun up to my own tongue and "speak! don't be nervous, that'll only make this worse be clear and precise and concise would be nice" with my ear that sears the edges of each sound ground out by the machine that will spit out a "pass" or a "fail" "free parking" or "go to jail" and so i pull the trigger but there's no &quo

my socks all went in two by two, hurrah, hurrah my socks all went in two by two, hurrah, hurrah my socks all went in two by two, and that's precisely how i knew the machine had eaten one, it'll never be seen again