Poem: End of Destination

This was first written in my Senior year during my Classical literature class.  I'd be paying enough attention to my teacher but at the same time I'd feel so urgent about something--who knows what sort of something, I don't--and I always feel better when I externalize my unknowable emotions into words/poems.  So it's a bit odd, even for me.  :)  A couple years later now I've reworked it and edited it down to something a little better.  Thoughts?

End of Destination

I defy poetry as words. 

I’ve traded up for

faltering phrases to snag

your inner landscape and make it stick to mine. 

My own interests require me

to tell you that this

is a wild fire in the curls of brainy-matter

stuffed in cornered crevices, pulsing

out in thoughtful moments

the compressed

under-sternum-panic Beat. 

I bid the beat. 

It isn’t fair, it isn’t fair, it never gets old how

it just isn’t fair the lies

are neither here nor there, the fresh the old the

sensatory drowning pull

Down—

pressure flying behind it all it pushes me forward,

give me no-nothing

I wish begging wasn’t so undignified what use is pride—

all pride is keeping world from moving on too quick and leaving me behind

I ask that you acknowledge

I’m deceiving you/me

we-heap

It takes more than unknowable statements

(I say whimsical profundity) to fill a bucket

with a hole in the bottom.

Frequently washes the sailor his cloth,

the sailor his cloth, the sailor his

hands. 

I’ve only got one. 

Only got one in my

lead covered net I

only spasm for lung-air blood-breath to shake my head

You might as well keep

pulling on that string, something

larger

will come out of the hole and you don’t want to miss it. 

Regret to inform loss-duck.  Lurch-luck. 

I falling height.  Drinking

time is only blinding, compacting in a

garbage compactor, extractor compactor half

adrift half

sane half

afraid half

here half

ear brink edge, level six on the kitchen aid—

mechanical scream whirring cream to whipped cream creaming sugar and butter before

adding flour. 

Have I lost you/me yet? 

Have I lost the peculiar

doubling

of ideas-impossibilities both true both

here-gone

would you mind if we had a moment of silence

Did you mind?

Suction from the back of the eyeball gives no brain fluid

I hope you know it only shows how much you pissed your life away

your potentialities

by sitting like a lump on your one tone ass with your one tone voice—

kill-shot kick to the head. 

I’m in the throes of foes, handed over to

those immortality sickened and I

am catching it left handed sort of way. 

Hate me, I’m learning

to hate me,

learning from everyone else who withers with their mouths

false-trues that once upheld

souls from mangling. 

But the worn out gears of machined gunned clock

tower factories we-heap. 

Oh we-heap.

This is good and bad, you understand.  At least pretend—

I’m pretending too

since I don’t really have a mind to think with, you understand,

at least pretend you

understand I need a crack-less cavern

solitudinous bubble shaped

for convenience of no entrances. 

And they say keep it open to the sun to the moon to the stars to me to them to wind to dirt

to world

to flagrant invasion insipid morrocans, or do

I mean those things in your hands filled with sand a stone shaking

in a five-year-old’s hands at a teacher’s discretion. 

We-heap,

oh, we-heap.

I’ve tried to word over world

In search of a little vindication

Taking part in twisting your arm—

Metaphorically speaking vindictive

But only by reason of loss

Perceived, received, deceived

In a way that crippled my

Sensibilities of the younger me

Who was told that being odd

Was a sort of death and

Didn’t I want to be immortal?

Pardon me if I am bitter

It’s only the words I learned to chew

But never swallow.  Never eat

Heave all unnecessary baggage water-ward

I promise sir, you won’t need this,

It’s only one light lie I need-believe—

Well I believe you told it to a child

And tried to teach a price

That makes you feel all safe inside

All comfy-headed cushion-souled

Now that magic sold itself to pay the bills

That weren’t existent yesterday,

The day before that saw perpetuation of a lie

I tried hard not to hear.