Searching on behalf of thou parasitic.

I get sick. I get real sick.
Tryin’ to breathe out all my substances and the polluted people get sicker and sicker, and the jealous people get more and more jaded, And they find their ugliness is easy to maintain.
I get sick— In small safeguarded places.

Can’t even boomerang or bounce back or dispose.

I want to have a funny feeling about life.

I want to liquefy in ample proportions.

I want to heave out in a grand ‘oomph’

and I want to be haunted.

I swear, I’ll sober up when the love runs out and let them rob me of nourishment- let them carry me off like a sack of loot. On the edge of fasted and pure, I’ll let them desecrate the sanctuary of me. I know it’s no proper thing but the rush will be lukewarm like a jar of tupelo honey sitting on the sill; sun spoilt, promising its sweetness and offering no fill.
I cannot say through my throat, the apologies which have no path to my tongue.

Instead I open my hands, like doves in gesture that perhaps I may be forgiven.
I rest against the cold glass that separates us and I fold my wings in tender press against the slick unyielding surface.

And I don’t know what will happen.
There has been so much change.
I have survived the destruction of our un-making.
Yet there is a new sort of urgency burning beneath. Blind to futures. Psychologically zealous. Philosophically righteous.
I am young.
I am the good ol’ anti-nothing. I am loneliness in crowds, leather jackets and button ups, folly leaning forward, the radical, the myth, and the cage. I am an eager sapling, green and strange. I’m paper kindling, dry, and ready for the bonfire. I’m echoes and tracings of bruises. I’m ice fall in winter. I’m summer vaguely remembered. I’m progress in chains and success in virtue. Top shelf and luxury, mistakes and abundance, a tongue with no consequence, crying on cue. And I am not a man, only phantoms in an empty chair.

Yeah,
I’d hate to pity myself.

I’d hate to say things like
poor me…
poor, poor me…

But I aint got no stimulus,
Ain’t got no intimate. Sing real high but I aint no castrato. Feel fine but I ain’t got no heart. Aint look good on no particular screen. Aint need no antibiotic for this ill. Ain’t got no erection. Ain’t no gigolo. Ain’t got no oscillation, no uniform, no parts, no tools. But I got my tongue. I got my tentacle, my proboscis. I got my poetry. I got my cunnilingus. I got my talons. My ball and socket joints. My forelegs. My exoskeleton. My carapace. I got my miscreant. I got my monster. Got my Mephistopheles. Got my crest. Got my crown. Got my throne.

But I aint got no stimulus,
I ain’t got no intimate.

I got sad ache.
I got sad sad ache.

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