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let me give up

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there are many hells
many hymns
of survival
many rhythms tribe
as hyenas we stalked asphalt
walls shift , grifter gifts
graffiti rifts, rafter whispers
lift me up lord, let me give up
lost , rain drenched
hunched , wretching in the fjord
wretched whore of horror
poisoned folk lore
i want no more , just open up that door
so tired of pacing, spiral-mad, upon this
hard time killin floor
There are many battles.
masochistically i see what sings to me
its song of survival
night night night
black trees , toxic levees,
madronas like auburn bursts , scraped knees
I know this place, its lovely dope-sick cloud face
I know how
to stand, to watch, to speak, to signal, to bless, to blend
to send, to curse, to put to sleep
But i dont know how to escape
Hit after hit, the fight broke up, the signal recieved, the flags sacrificed, the offerings made , the big dogs satisfied, the daughter held, the drugs consumed. i know, i know, these bruises are from my own fist
but they flew like arrows from a fortress of hurt
my body is gone but my heart is still there
standing by the mud flats, drinking the cascadian rain
feeling the inlets wailing pain
my body somatically feels the tragedy
fish death swan death clam death crane death otter death whale death, emeth to meth like the harvesters breath, like the hearth of hops ripped from my family crest. leaving us nothing . just stories.
There are many wars, many, but not what you would imagine, beloved. Clustered in flustering compartments of nihil, cradled in comfort as poisonous as flayed skin , A heroin choking us and keeping us shut in…this is a war, like a fractal crystal cluster of soul traps , a maddening aftermath. war, yes, thieved of its meaning, a saga of bla bla smothered in beaurocratic silence.
how. how to live. how to exist? forget being human, can we even be mammals? can we even be insects? can we even exist? The abyss is a gift as swift as a blade, You think you know, you think you wont fade, but your dream has been infiltrated, by the lysol stink of his invisible hate. the Babbler . The Babbler. The Babbler.
a dream theived of the hades warmth that would keep it from frostbite, delight replaced with comfort as hollow as a microwaved meal. All pigments sucked of light till all remaining is beige, grey, bone white. He is here, the babbler. The Babbler. Dissipation, dissolution, entropy. Words break, fumble, stumble, collapse. no one understands how to maintain this tower, they fumble over each others intentions, love, life, cannot flower, where is the horse, the rider, the power? stolen long ago for the golden gods of emptiness, the cowards
at the end of all things , know this soldier of Scarlet never needed much. just a few knick knacks, kickabout things no one sees as much more than dreams:
Meaning, dreaming, loving, singing, fighting, fucking, breathing. A pipe and some smoke, a hole in the wall, a blade, a faded photograph of a lover by an oak. A bit of quiet, a polaroid of a riot, A home, a peace In Her Love even if my demons deny it.
Why. why is it so hard. to live?


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"It won't be the witches that are burning this time."
--Blackbird Raum

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