heavy eyes

I wonder where you go with a face as heavy as stone.

Do you carry consternation like contagion? 

It overflows into the souls you catch with those heavy eyes,

the weapons of a man who imagines he carries the woes of Prometheus-

you will always be a child

compared to the myriad of life that thrives around you 

(is that where hate stems from?).

Like the original sacred whore

perpetually laid out beneath the expanding blue sky

you moved through strange flashing moods

and tore through the layers of all that was left,

love and love and love-

equational instructions for building trust

(until you wielded the eraser of your cynicism

and removed the components we needed

to reach the far side of the equal sign).

But I'm wrong to compare you to the Earth,

you with your black moods.

Even Poseidon's lifeless trench couldn't match them

and if I am the mother and you my consort

what of the rains you produced,

they were made of salt

and eroded the planes they poured through. 

Meconium

I remember affairs I haven't experienced,
taste them on my tongue as a child
envies the indulgences of every other lunchbox-
those are superior too (higher quality smarter plastic brighter images,
with statements du jour involved in their making)
more desirable, if only in so far as their unattainability.
Self loathing is less complicated than empowerment
and earning my keep requires more effort than coveting an others;
the cycle is as we feared,
endless or is it unendable I mean unendurable, disgustingly predictable-
a trick or circles within circles forced easily into squares,
but what will fill all the empty space at the corners?
It's the three sided shapes we need.
The distinction of the human soul
lies within our capacity for change, effortless or effortful-
the heifer does not chew over the nature of her existence
while masticating her cud
anymore than the lion alters his way of living because
eureka! he's ashamed of all those infants he's been eating,
but man sculpts himself like a slab of reusable clay
heaving the cleaver of change unto himself, knead roll shave chop mash stab
no no no squash it all and start anew, adjust correct perfect.
His medium is nothing more than waste and regurgitated matter
or at least that's what he's been led to believe
frequently and most deprecatingly by himself.
Time compels him toward the final act of change
the snuffing out, and he looks more and more like nothing
but a meat casing full of freshly ground down organs
stretching skin thinner each day he slides by.
He experiences the changes of waning, expiring and decomposition.
The life cycle blows sulfurous smoke and laughs acrid spit into his face,
full of too late regret;
a redundancy I know, or the point of something strongly hammered.
Man was under the impression that happiness could be found in constance,
fucked by the fallacy of security and the illusion of fear.
Sometimes I tell myself
that this is the meconium of a mind
who does not always know the meaning of those three vague words
my last drink.
I open my mouth and make myself sick.