Posts
Jesse S. Mitchell
part 1 here
The cold firing of guns, immortal. I imagine the cold fire of guns, immortality. But don’t let me live, live to see the color of the last night, endless night, the blinking of the eye coming, closing the aperture, strangling out the light. The end of the world.
The end of the world, people will be prophesizing Armageddon until Armageddon and still miss it. Apocalyptic and quick and it will pass over like a ghost, aghast, a split in the seems, a leaking in of radiance, a brilliance that soon fades again.
And is gone
And even oblivion has lived on too long and folding back in on itself, disappears, leaving even absence even more empty, more void than was void, and so on and deeper and deeper. Amen.
Talk about occult possibilities, sensibilities, naught coming more and more from naught. Never-ending pure, paganism, a soft slow wash of pixilated sorcery that reads the blank spaces instead of the lines. Lines, wrinkles in time, that grow more and more gross and noticeable, around the eyes and down the hands, galaxy burning and liver churning and it is right after all…after all, aching feet, burning in the arches, busted nails, shifting through the hot ash, the dry ground. Cursed.
I am cursed.
Gilgamesh.
You are cursed.
Gilgamesh.
I hope I get carried away to fiery cities with fiery spires and cinder glow that turns to buildings light at sudden nightfall and all and all, everything remains and no matter how askew, a glimmer, a few nearly departed eyes can still see, the view not diminished and not dull.
So, heaven so where, some time, still exists.
And all the king’s creatures
Still all sprawled along the universe, end to end, constellations a’ glimmer, miserable or restless or glad or all of it,
Shuffling our feet between and never making up our minds. Bending or unbending but still blending and blurring and becoming, cold fusion, and new symbols, emblems, embolism and aneurysm, flood flood flood, Mississippi mud.
A curator of a museum of vast empty spaces
And in the blank places breeds the savagery, bitter wars, that travel around the world in thin elliptical orbits.
I wanted to get a tattoo. Just lines and points, no shapes, black. Lines, connected and broken in random orders like some I Ching prophesy. But I didn’t want it mean anything. But I thought that meant something.
I balked.
I thought.
The world continued to move. Some things never stop, unstoppable, so
I balked.
part 1 here
The cold firing of guns, immortal. I imagine the cold fire of guns, immortality. But don’t let me live, live to see the color of the last night, endless night, the blinking of the eye coming, closing the aperture, strangling out the light. The end of the world.
The end of the world, people will be prophesizing Armageddon until Armageddon and still miss it. Apocalyptic and quick and it will pass over like a ghost, aghast, a split in the seems, a leaking in of radiance, a brilliance that soon fades again.
And is gone
And even oblivion has lived on too long and folding back in on itself, disappears, leaving even absence even more empty, more void than was void, and so on and deeper and deeper. Amen.
Talk about occult possibilities, sensibilities, naught coming more and more from naught. Never-ending pure, paganism, a soft slow wash of pixilated sorcery that reads the blank spaces instead of the lines. Lines, wrinkles in time, that grow more and more gross and noticeable, around the eyes and down the hands, galaxy burning and liver churning and it is right after all…after all, aching feet, burning in the arches, busted nails, shifting through the hot ash, the dry ground. Cursed.
I am cursed.
Gilgamesh.
You are cursed.
Gilgamesh.
I hope I get carried away to fiery cities with fiery spires and cinder glow that turns to buildings light at sudden nightfall and all and all, everything remains and no matter how askew, a glimmer, a few nearly departed eyes can still see, the view not diminished and not dull.
So, heaven so where, some time, still exists.
And all the king’s creatures
Still all sprawled along the universe, end to end, constellations a’ glimmer, miserable or restless or glad or all of it,
Shuffling our feet between and never making up our minds. Bending or unbending but still blending and blurring and becoming, cold fusion, and new symbols, emblems, embolism and aneurysm, flood flood flood, Mississippi mud.
A curator of a museum of vast empty spaces
And in the blank places breeds the savagery, bitter wars, that travel around the world in thin elliptical orbits.
I wanted to get a tattoo. Just lines and points, no shapes, black. Lines, connected and broken in random orders like some I Ching prophesy. But I didn’t want it mean anything. But I thought that meant something.
I balked.
I thought.
The world continued to move. Some things never stop, unstoppable, so
I balked.
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