Hyper-ventilations in hyper-contextualized
Cyber spaces escaping non-realities built
Without abutments, abut around Romanesque
Forms, where esquires, at their own behest,
Did form wordless words, feasting on escargot
Behind a crystallized desk at a kind of exquisite bureau,
Shaking (it’s in a non-risqué sense),
When the righteously beautimous withdrew
From their vision, fearfully they
Pressed away at those transfigured
Buttons, as though hopeful it would do
Something, as they had, perhaps, always
Most often been.
Presuppositions of what could have been
Swapped to the supposedly supposed to be
Supposing our “purposefully denied” postulancies
Postulated that freakish endeavors no longer belonged to us,
However blame was repurposed to seem as though
Loss was not loss within the choices they made.
Wherein loss was determinative in the posthumously volitive,
We’d stopped posing as though we were above all of it,
When the gravity of it all suddenly hit us, a bit too hard.
Ballistic reactions, maybe, left icy nymphs, overdosed, wishing
Calligraphic creations had, maybe, not come into being,
Viably villainous with vile reviling little smiles, suffused by
Fewer futile futuristic undulating joys, they, just in awe at sorcerous
Usuries, shook when hopeful prognosticates from the usually
Shimmered and ominous grims so weirdly took form, assuredly
Shattering furtiveness the instance lucky menacing usurpers
Garroted and acutely chopped their flitting trying fantasies,
Grisly, leaving them in a state of not knowing.
Plebs would continuously keep dropping
Love bombs, drawn with fiber optic crayons
That would sound, smell, taste, look and feel
Different depending on
The person’s auric light,
Their kin, filled with more of the kind of fright
That is felt when everything that you thought
That was beautiful and good and real, just
“Do you know what it’s like?”, the storytellers question,
But their lovers, cold, still, and silent, elicit
Hollow responses, even after having been quaintly
Given a taste, knowing, on the superficial plane.
I watch her gladly staring
At the verdant colored night sky,
I say something, something I can’t remember,
In essence, it was supposedly along the lines
Of, “Do you know what it feels like?”
I entertained divergent possibilities
Was reached inside a chateau
Or maybe it had not been breached
As it seemed she couldn’t hear anything
As she had not given a reply.
It was then she turned to me
And asked, “Perchance you enjoyed
Our gregarious play with firecrackers?”
When neither of us had ever
Even purchased any.
At a loss for words
I held her close (breathing
In her favorite scent), since
I didn’t know how to tell her,
Every single time,
It had only happened
Within her gangrene memories.
Strangers, faceless, sport attractive expressions.
“They don’t really exist”, says the deer, quite stern.
“They exist. They’re constructs of the existential,
Solidified by linguistic executions or exchanges.”, the bison says.
“That’s deterministic. These things deter, from a moralistic
Standpoint. Have you seen it in reference to other times?”
“The scientific correlations of lesser Oedipus complexes,
From more emotionless lenses, with animalistic infanticides
To inbreeding or consanguineous marriages?”
“Naturally, including locations where these stigmata
Have no prevalence. If it’s a matter of time and location,
Does it really exist?”, the deer inquires.
“Fine. I guess you don’t really exist.”, the bison smiles.
“..No I.. I..
No, I suppose I don’t.”, the deer resigns.
Opposing the occident, cardinal directions without reproof,
Heuristically allow wills to break, bend, and collide.
Conundrums in hesitances; considerations to review
Neutered rules, conceptually placed, to protect.
Bipedal packs descend flat specs on comprehensive isogriv
Charts with disregard, despite astute attempts voiced;
Warnings glossed over, but some would entertain
Nuanced gains, for they’d claim, “what’s the harm.”
Fickle impulsivities dabble in a part of a focused improv
Trace, dispersing algae particles that, eventually, transformed into snakes.