I live with an assumed knowledge of self that like Hamlet keeps me in a catatonic state gilded by fear. Too true to ignore, such contemplation may turn the anxiety of living into art and make a sullen madness beautiful if sustained in the static magic of the written word and not within my flesh. These lines of thought born from a cry in an atemporal, distant realm seep into my flesh to find meaning, and so, it moved through me onto these pages: an imagined apotheosis howls to echo out of time once again.
Category: Poetry
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Hold a metaphor, like a carrot, in front of life’s unknowns to falsely tame that which cannot be tamed, a poetry imposed on to this mortal horror. Allusions to life scraped together with dirty fingernails, lipped in spittled breath, passed down from dying hands to dying hands, from dying mouth to dying mouth. Let it decay and become a known stillness, more dead than dead in mourning.
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The Assumist 