kagablog

This is him… derelict and sour. Sorrow’s calls piling his ears stale, soul broken with money fever; winter chill cursing cheeks with a bitter vulturous pang.
A brisk shower at dawn waking city acquaintances to common churches of supplications bolsters a rage at waking for servitude. Fucking consensual servitude! … All awhile, his face dismantles salty pores with hideous concerns. The grave wonder of fatherhood he wears near the brow.

He prays an Ode to Recycled Breaths,

Dawning within the din of roars;
City bile churned in frozen bust of a cruel queen…

What of the city of the dying young; stooped
Towards ransacked glories terror-bred?

Would their nights conquer the un-knowables,
Cloaked in the mist of your charms paling with moon?

Did the fall encounter thine rise, whence you’d
Learn the dust’s kiss as brace of maturity’s travail?

When blue bright crept over the shield of dark,
The clamor of sweet colours peering innards…

The maimed soul soars still, above the war-zones…

Of minds untimely wake – when death’s trance folds for day…

Today, bent on marble outside a prison of his wits benumbed, a defect in days stands in the form of a friend. Startled, he yells a salute mirrored with a loudening fear for others.
I watch his enquiring gaze, his brace on my arm chapped with frozen dead wax-cells. We speak in murmurs for a while until a burst of guffaw tears the silent chatter into bolts of vile comments.
He was calmer then, an aura’s stain that remained. Perhaps a maternal alchemy by design, or sporadic vigils in phantom rooms that creased his soul to its present becoming. Both closer to birth then, I called him Bakunin, anarchic in thought and ever jostling wits with politicized ideas moistening my brain with doubts about machine-life. Frequent cries of other mongrels harass him as well.
He curses and spits the old of life thus perhaps those new in dying. Truth’s Raider pales in talk of aims festooned upon his shoulder, about sores crusted in lands who knew not his name – mother being there.
A bevy of debts he managed to fend off for a while fuels talk about a man’s willed procession towards the stake lust-erect.
He castrated the poet’s myth of grandeur quite early in their acquaintance, wisely for both. I speak – we speak. A pastoral depth to his utterances, only disabled by a Cassandra syndrome he knew too well. The walk is not appeased by those sirens either.

A stout pedestrial pestilence of street-feet at dawn’s might we wade; man-murk in a precarious rhythm. Bakunin knows all false dead-ends. Coaxing the morning towards a stillness – we fan noises that annoy us and waltz. He speaks – we speak. Crushing lungs with intermittent guffaws. Why us? We ask of each other. Are we facing suicide’s door?
We name time in methods defeated by banal validations for our hedonism. At a nation’s cider castration sessions lorded with accolades divine ordained… we laugh about black-outs and the poetics of perils cost-bound.
Unveiling multi-verses in dunes scrapped innards – I hold a breath at stars on his brow. He’s divine. Messianic sacrilege in intercourse with hell’s brides. He faces God in me – a machine puffs against its past, with all else raging cold beneath a winter’s blue. Towers condition air for plastic gardens as maids brace stairs, yet a soul-craft still awaits us whence we’d hugged finally for this day.
I see many a plea in him, yet should wait his courage’s patience. We exchange bows of offense unto my coin mangler towards whom I should steed.

He walks away somberly and I also broken in repeat death nick. He will ask for help though he says help is conditional.