Atrophied In Transfusion (prose) -- Tazz's Poetry Realm Forum

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Date Posted: 18:40:18 04/17/01 Tue
Author: Joel
Subject: Atrophied In Transfusion (prose)

The perturbe'd mind is a torrent of static push.
abhor'd reflection, repudiated recovery, and disdained
atmosphere. hell is sometimes concieved (by Dante) as
concentric circles, wandering and bleeding, nose down
in the pungent air, and physically coerced by the
demon of the spine. you can almost smell it when you
walk from the kitchen to your room, back to the
kitchen, to the family room. Sit down on the many
chairs, sigh and fall to your side. Though in reality,
you lay there, idle, but you can almost feel the demon of
spine, fire, blood grinding your head into the pillow.
you shut your eyes so tight and close your fists, the
scream that comes, boils in your hated blood that has
disseminated to your eyes. but no, hush, the scream,
the tears, are... unmeritted. you struggle, you put
everything you've got into opening your eyes again,
you see the coffee table across from you through a
hazy red. distorted, details denounced. But isn't that
how 3D glasses work, that's how they'ved worked for
us. And every wrap, break, tear, foible, fault is
seen, born of that very animus unbridled, seen and
felt and it screams, but you dont. you open your mouth
to a heavy, human, comforting breathing meter. In,
out, something foreign, your tongue is coated in that
very boiling blood, "leave it there" it drops in your
jaw. you close your mouth, the demon stitches it there
spelling a crude "keep it closed, be alive, be a
person, stay the course" but again, we open, and the words,
they come as follows "Oh Jesus Christ that retired the abhor'd
world on the dramatic cross, why can not I accept this
vicarious BLOOD! atrophied in transfusion to but I and
dear anna, LEAVE ME BE!" and the spear, the stigma
comes hard. and we die recumbent breathing, thinking,
working, slaving, circumventing the same spot of
hallow amalgamation. inches, HATED inches, from the
pungent source, still reeking inside. But brilliant,
we are, brilliant like the very sun that is THE
concentric center, we ARE brilliant. No longer, no
longer, because the brain has died this night.
brilliant, but completely unmeritted. let them all be
brilliant. like the hallow seraph that died that
forgotten day on sunfire lake, the circled sky was
PIERCED with the released light from the gentle
seraph's death. the sky PIERCED with light, very like
the spiteful spear that was driven into the christ
side. The pallor upon thy countenance will be ambulent
with it's 'kerchief without thee, methinks. this
night's revels is the august calm, dont worry, my
dear, your detestable maw will rest, because they are
not brilliant, you are. I am. Bereft brilliance. it's
a lonely, cold, scary, and pathetic place. The people
that walk this steamy ground are fat, sleek-headed,
pertaining to the pathetic world. But to the
brilliant, it's hot and caustic. but, worry not, you
will not be overlooked, save for this paroxysm, you
will be made fat and sleek headed, like I, the once
brilliant, Joel, author of this paroxysm. take this
clean slate from me, jesus, still i cannot accept this
vicarious blood.

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