kagablog

The Rites.

The poet wakes to the bone-walled stare of reality…solid pain gnawing failures out of pores. Crimson pillow, seeming daubed in an amateur’s stroke…creased into a portrait.
He rambles out of sheets to relieve morning’s bladder and that’s when the monster stared back through the mirror. Disproportionate features bloated on his jaw line… ear at mercy of air. Left eye sealed with mucus blots, the sting of dry skin gashed with impunity. He wonders a while what happened? Where is the woman who housed his bruises?

He walks about in search…she’s nowhere to filter some confusion out his marrow, to disarm his-self. The inharmonious nature of his furies and thought-leaps keeping him in monologue.
He says: ‘The way of the procreators.’
Vessel of speech is frightened, recounting his selfish orientation – pussy plunder. Be this reactionary or existential, the malady exposed here incarcerated his sense of guilt…for whence the mind is gripped by such waves of an inimical darkness, no law can judge the misogynous monuments he will erect in his chest.
He asks: ‘Would this be…how mother exchanged my sister’s womanliness to me?
Was it set sole to provoke further alchemy?’
The bloated mirror-twin speaks in lisps unto the coward’s steady glimpse - beggar messiah with a seed forgotten in eyes of far-removed martyrs. Veins like tubes of steel, he was tested on raving boulevards wasted and equipped for any self-ingesting menial. He felt a ruin collapse in him and soon recoils to thoughts of her. Her contaminants. There was that identity of interest she exhumed. His expanse thirsted for a storm, ragged with dim tadpoles that would mock her cherished head.
Heavy drill of night was teasing this wretch…his palm seeping stains of her strength – her cups of denial. The stench of thought-ridden twin mirror beings – acidic, odors of gloom tugged in rancid waking after copulating with a beast. Razor root spreading wall-paper whores on his charmed skull, poetic slurs shoveled with sweet debris riding his spine.

After lapses of perceived time had bent his knees dry…tired and somber he walks home – graven images cut into aging cracks in his face. Above all, he asks how he’d let this humiliation take toll?
Could it be that the bile of misty tears and the sting had reviled nostalgia weaved with dazzling stars that creep up his window?
He was one who knew too much of the beyond – land of his cravings misconstrued in flesh’s clime. He recalled that burdensome Elysium she called home…how his terror peeled the gold of her rims. Perchance she fenced herself therein, like a tormented incarnate to assist in his burial.

She must have had the benevolence of a chivalrous love to query the valid he displayed, the rule of this angelic rescue blind in the sizzling balls of her maturity.
How could he misunderstand that secrets don’t exist?
How’d he love in a method known solely to his-self?

He came trudged to the city’s clutch, air choking the raging hobo’s momentary vigils at crossings – ambiguous odors fogging routes of tarmac. Breath struggling, puffs of sheets coldly rising to embrace the nearing noon. Work-mates joined the waltz of order, flocking to near-by taverns and side-shops.
The many avenues of departures rigged with plain black visages… menials always in queues.
Wading stung balls through acid smoke, melanin coliseums founded on legislative poison fillings, square holes of residence; there he grinds his knuckles on roughly plastered entry-bends. Cabs whiz past serenading noises into oblivions, half-blinking moon staring with contempt at serpentine eyes. He blends with the crowd…fat faced wreck seeming broken in tin-drums.

The face high lit by fierce inner-sun, rays aglow for his shame…whisper from stray gossip mongrels. The shell of his welling covers his identity…this he finds comforting. ‘They can’t recall a broken face…’ he swindles a retort based on the notion of neutrality and anonymity among his kind – the Negro cloak of invisibility. The shell awaits this exhausted lout… air preying on him through the jacket smeared with dried black blood. He sulks innards, defense of his aging is in the aching teeth. He reacted to sidewalks with such automatic response that one would think him home among these who night often to catch the moon’s sweat up the sky’s lace in chase of mid-night.
The poet walked his sobriety to wounds, among streets and rusty grins of glass brains, aim of a somnambulist was written at his heels. He was trembling still, rage and blob left-side of portrait selling him to strange laughter.
He became a bleak shade on tar, as white stripes of neutrality that led him here.
Black sacks bulging with elements of nuclear-families’ refuse, waste consumed from radioactive intestines and butt-holes not so laconic. One is slit underneath, oozing glue-yellow glistening.
He bends to finger the point, from where he doodles the smeared mess…montages of hallucinogenic bites spinning abound his twin tombs. Cotton brain soon runs his mood in chase of calm.
The chase toward his vacancy breezed through erect masonries and stalled automobiles… a town with its lone ghost named MAN’S. He figures the absurdity of all this and halts. On those tracks he raises his head – there in sight still, strapped at its mouth – yet another sack, black with mystery. He fondles the plastic make with a stick he picked up lying next to the anomalous object and rips pressure out.
Contents are gut cut-offs, interesting mingles of bile-sour seeds burst over gonads of a dead thinking animal.
With each poke, each stretching of intestines therein, antiquity floods his brow.

Maps and star-maps of anatomies beyond flesh’s design plunge at him as if into a calm pond. Sages of hidden tribes gather in his blind eye…his dark; and thenceforth solace was only in departure.
Dull chill of late winter bleaching his skin, hairy and ugly as he slides a palm into his mouth – magically grabbing hold of his right leg.
Uncomfortable as that show had become (even to him) – he resolves to drag his entire skeletal posture out if the naught and turns himself inside out. Bundle of shifty slime – bloodied and washed in gall looking at him.
He knew himself…rapid projectile spark of life flexing through an inverted skin sack. Foggy burps emitted a stream of an exposed soul…naked before his claim for composure. He felt leprous now – the breeze milking his strength.

Growl of worms in tripe, exasperated sugar-hungry intoxicants – he would pass out soon - throat chapped for words of begging.
How dumb could a servant be to think work causes not hunger?
What hunger is this which the hypothalamus cannot torch on pages?
His white matter sloshes into sewers puking drained ideas.
Had he strayed from the target view of that window cut in his chest?
‘Had I?’ He petitioned among other whispers.
‘I hurled stones at my own panes; yet, do I remember?’
‘Did I disregard the mystery of her face to that which I can’t see?’
‘Do I resign all might for the mockery of my ancestors’ cruel silence?’
‘Why does terror bring out charm of most men?’

These queries exhorted the poet against his gay ideals fathomed about sex and its proponents. The progressive demon vexed on the hobo… chest filling with many dead vagrants of his making.