I Do Not Consort With Facts – Eris Mohr
September 13, 2019
well really there is absolutely nothing going on except i am dying i am dead
it’s hard to say it’s even easier to mean than it is to say although i have no strength for either anymore i was as clear
as i could possibly be which is i was prone to tremendous focus but now this has all but destroyed me
dear aliens, because i know you have eyes in the sky and agents on the ground;
take me to your UFO, s’il-vous-plait. i will gladly let you eat my soul
& sponge off my hormone storms for the good of your species;
i will hang-out and mutilate cattle with you, i don’t get home-sick,
but i am smart of the flesh sick. we’ll make crop-circles,
joy-ride around the universe.
wagers of vastness
good of the galaxy
malign or benign it’s a sign
do i have any friends left? but this besides the point really, bygone by the by.
you were never there for me, not for one single second, can’t blame anyone but my own self,
forevermore. never there. i am awake and still sleep. just one cog in a big loser machine.
i utter forth & it comes to naught, i emit no echo, i have no sound left in my belly, spiritual autolysis:
my ulterior body is digesting my body, and all my brain can do is pitch one last cry at the side of the road,
while i gush from my wrists and trust my tenebrous heart. there will never be anyone left: there is no point.
there is no didactic misery: it’s its own sight, you look through binoculars and all you espy is your own sight in the selfsame distance. i have a fear of finishing, i never finish anything i eat, it’s all stale. i’m consumed, i’m done, full spent, no more autumn. i’ll never be again. there never was a wonder. it was all one or multiple, ever the same.
the story that began from before the beginning, and god morphed Adam out of loneliness. he wanted to fuck him, but turned
Eve from a gratuitous rib. there is no humor in this. it’s not.
these days burning with noisy sacrifice, the executive sun-up and the imperious hush of cavalcade
dusk are without a doubt hemorrhaging semantic justification with each vicious and inane, anecdotal return–so disoriented to my insular reflexes i have mislaid any outward facility with number i may or may not have once possessed.
i cannot discern if i am any, few, or many, or who altogether; i cannot count because i patently refuse to establish myself
in any of these shoddy drifts. i do not consort with facts; i do not cry for my god. the stimulus has been definitively loosed from the shadow response. all light hurries by me when i open out. i am too heavy to bear the verboten substance of my name
and the trail of ugly junk that clings to that sound. all objects repulse me and vice-versa. you can eke out all my screams,
but it’s nonliteral obloquy; howling in the vertiginous wilderness of descriptive psychology. & deepening still, my skin and
my inexorable shakes, my insides wretching to be released from this implausible and arbitrary flesh.
the terrified soul languishes in a gas chamber and cannot arrogate any reflection for itself.