Personal Dialectics, Or, How The Spectral Masks The Hideousness Of The Solitary

I waited for the first person to get up, and got up myself immediately after that. The movie was over. The projector behind us threw white light on the dust in the air, and along that thin, artificial beam I showed her the whole cosmos, the night sky in absolute flux, performing a dance of chaos and certainty, reminding us that we shall never love it for what it really is. These Occidental nights have denied me the stars, which used to humble me and remind me of my fleshy insignificance. Here, Eros feeds on amphetamines and reads superficially radical pamphlets. Can one really bleach the alienating motif which asphyxiates the human condition?  

All this, a while ago. Since then, I had to fight against a few months, the length of which I inflicted upon my skin; but I also got off the pills, so allow me to fantasize of control. I often think that if the past is projected upon the present, and vice versa, a sense of totality might be achieved, but I soon realise that the past is but the present’s recurring tumour. At 11:32 p.m. the curtains obey the wind, and the bottle gives up on me. At any moment Algea’s caresses shall remind me of my heteronormative bliss, and lead my hands to the third drawer.

Dry recollection, I was taught by isolation, can be distasteful. I allow - no, I beg - the bourbon to water my lips, hoping that words sharper than pain will blossom. Yet, my utterances lack a receptor - the mirror, of course, thinks otherwise. It’s been four years since I strangled my habitus, using my own umbilical cord - not for convenience, no, but for the aesthetic apotheosis innate in the act - so I declared myself a post-modern migrant: the journey is long, yes, but I lack an Ithaca, and have no one to deceive. Length is negated, and the burden of Identity I must carry alone - I am still denied the stars. This “I” which persistently invades my words, I often wished to extirpate. And while Bill Evans’ fingers are throwing stardust on my hair, I understand that it is Phantasy that slaps my hand every time I reach for pain, and so I stay here, admittedly perplexed by my own choice, but still wondering whether guilt will go away when I surrender to the Inanimate.

A noisy urge tickles the roof of my mouth, and while Sanity mimics my father’s voice and humiliates me, the familiar quartet of walls exclaims the most monotonous de profundis - in my name; in the name of a dream buried under the dust of grinded benzos; perhaps, even, in the name of an optimistic insincerity, the one from which the kindest diurnal lies germinate, precisely at the point where Melancholy hides under a couple of squashed pillows - at that very moment, I speak! They are here, abstraction is no longer ashamed and the hostile space is finally confronted by their frail figures, a sudden proliferation of Schiele’s self-portraits, my spectral comrades, and Bill is playing for us, the Magick makes my ribcage vibrate, the present belongs to no one and the Solitary is overthrown, here, in our supra-somatic symposium, while the walls contemplate me - us - and sing: “shall all your cares beguile”. 

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

Below lines. Strong and worthwhile.
"A noisy urge tickles the roof of my mouth, and while Sanity mimics my father’s voice and humiliates me, the familiar quartet of walls exclaims the most monotonous de profundis - in my name; in the name of a dream buried under the dust of grinded benzos; perhaps, even, in the name of an optimistic insincerity, the one from which the kindest diurnal lies germinate, precisely at the point where Melancholy hides under a couple of squashed pillows - at that very moment, I speak! "
Your writing deep and powerful. Made me want to know more. The above lines left me thinking about my past and my father. I believe the all of us gain the motions and thoughts of elders. Wanting them or not? Thank you for sharing the outstanding poetry.
Coyote