Headache according to Daisy

More of a prose poem I guess.

Headache rouse after holding the 

mere conception of them, 

what a laevorotatory Freud imagined~ 

congruency with your baby after

bearing your eyes on it with the stature of Hera.

I feel relaxed, nevertheless in the sense that bearing

the saturation of morning's orange meadow 

makes one open to all cherish

of gorge like flesh, but I pray you

I am waterborne- i pray you,

that I, once vinegar, once scavenged

To meters and metrics

Of happenstance

Will survive the colossus 

Of an unborn sun

born mistwice.

Will my friends abandon me?

I have always felt that their immune corpuses

would turn eidetic to  the tantrums of my mind,

but in a way, they have been much understanding,

much forgiving even.

Friends have their own contracts, 

particular unwritten rules that sometimes play schizoid with the terraform that wants to radiate, a kinship that really ceases to understand itself.

Maybe they keep me around just by the posteriority that they are not to hurt me, that they have accommodated a munched tubelight of a mind just to pay for their own sins,their own short comings.

That's not it either.

There is something in me, perhaps that which is the suction of all gravitational values, the inner totem conduits itself after a certain twang- something so decadent in me that appeases them as I become the excrescence of all lopsided thoughts, all anticuboidal gyrates.

..

..

..

I feel serially depressed, I want to be gnawed into a wall, walls with teeth that crunch meaningless dryads that munch the sear of your purple heart. 

Isn't it wonderful that all this teary glaze erodes, so clever and much beguiled, for it knows where my anchor sleeps, an upset monsoon that sneers with such viscous timidity, that we lunge at bare naked nudist gravity… I am so braindead. 

My eyes rave like glaciers and peers through the the world crawling through, a luculent demure virgin eyed sisyphus dressed in peach yellow curtains and a postmodern sun becomes the salivate of the underworld… and I need to learn to shut the f**k up,  I am just so tired, just someone nail me to my bed,so I wane an even happier sisyphus.

Reviews

[Jansy]

Ah, Degare, this piece feels like being inside a fever dream narrated by a philosopher who accidentally swallowed a prism. It’s chaotic in the best possible way...language collapsing in on itself, reforming as something raw and strangely tender.

The “colossus of an unborn sun born mistwice” line--good grief, that’s gorgeous. You make despair shimmer like oil on water.

And yes, the exhaustion seeps through it all, but so does this odd, stubborn pulse of life. It’s the kind of writing that leaves you dizzy and a little haunted…like the words might start whispering to each other if you look away too long.

[Degare]

Thank you for your kind words Jansy.

Degare