Stalled

4 Jul

Stalled out of first,
stuck in the rain,
I mourn the evisceration of painted canvas;
layered, thick paint;
horrid memories play out on stage;
photographs come to life as I slowly drain the clear liquid
strained into the veins through a dirty filter.
Floating residue, jealousy, bile, incapacitating regret and melancholy.
Every ideal presupposes love and hate,
reverence and contempt.
Whatever kind of bizarre ideal one may follow
(Christian, Muslim, free spirit, immoralist)
one should not demand that it be the ideal.
One should have it in order to distinguish oneself,
not in order to level oneself.
Out of fresh produce, I offer you regurgitated sustenance,
weird dogma, strange karma, bum dharma.
Out of fresh produce, I offer you leftovers.

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