lucaso

'-=-'

It is not the birth of an orphan.
It is not some unlovable mystery
Salved to a joke, where in-between is outside for it is not.
It is not Dawn, the always retro cancer of dreaded breath.
It is not the universal cry
Or revelations of transparently upturned creators
Breeding the living, artificial, the artificially living
Which, at heart, are the make-up of my tragedy
Re-writing another myth of enslavement;
It is not boredom, it is not dumbfounded, it is not believing, it is not amazement.
It is not the brittle honeycomb of disappointments
Shaping the after thought reaction of death.
It is not the abyss, nor the will to say it is not, it is not what it is.
It is not abstraction, it is not possibility.
It is not memory, a mother of history.
It is not poetry, or eternal infancy
Nor the metamorphism of a leech suckling our pets we become;
It is not positive, or the harmony of balance.
It is not even love, it is not the unknown.
It is not expression, it is not spirals, portals, blood or beat.
It is not irony, the cuckold emperor.
It is not irony, it is not tiredness.
It is not irony, the justification of madness.
It is not irony, the inbred conscious explorer.
It is not consciousness, it is not understanding.
It is not itchiness, it is not isness.
It is not space, it is not conceived
Or to be, or to not, or to be, or to not.
It is not embodiment, or the awaited sermon of the retrieved.
It is not even the unknown love.
It is not in being in never can be being.
It is not adolescence, 'thought-over-arch-aging'.
It is not that rare feeling for a specific breath.
It is not the wicked, or the desire for their departure; it is not question.
It is not the call for revolution, or the people who are never really there.
It is not whether or not you are alive.
It is not the magic forever at my fingertips.
It is not the delayed, green chamber of my heart.
It is not Earth or apathy, or appending.
It is not sphere, cube or linear split into two and then resurrection,
It is not its equalling, or the origin of symbol.
It not mislead, a fool's undisturbed gallavancy.
It is not the all-electrifying zang of creation.
It is not instinct, the first step of supposed evolution.
It is not crude simplicity, it is not the beverage of sea-salt.
It is not the halo of a mushroom, or the afterlife foreseen.
It is not what hasn't, or without.
The devastating drollness of deja-vu,
The pre-stating deepening of unsavoury doubt,
The sodomy of mankind, the hybrid innocence
Of shuffling entwines of voice, a beanstalk
To a seed of self-neglection.
It is not destiny, the ever-lasting identity.
It is not embrace, or hallowing.
It is not the hallway's face narrowing.
It is not trust, the endless forms of forms, a higididity of rejoice.
It is not the spotty prophet huddled over a computer.
it is not the ancestors huddled over the sphere.
It is not who'll make there ever-it better.
It is not the cocoon of vibration,
The magnets of mother,
Where she was before, all is right.
It is not the absurdity of assessment.
It is not the fact that I know everything
And have pierced the reconciliation of nothing for mankind.

It is not the fact I try, or do; or stop my ending short.
It is not the deceit, or the nuance of deceit.
It is not any other, or the other which makes me many.
It is not the innate, rounda'-bout-time I get this.
It is not metaphor, or product placement.
It is not salvation,
Now-turned-to-be-enslavement.
It is not the fleeting speed of light
Preserved before any recognition of space, or lessness,
Our hands captured widow, the twinkling of light.
It is not opposites in love, or out of it, or both, or none.
It is not the collective apparition,
Torn indications of pure solitude.
It is not the resentment of loneliness
It is not the critic of whom I have placed
Besides me, and everywhere, since I was a child.
It it not disintegration, integration, dissolution, digestion
Or of any sort of regression, digression, or here-to-die lesson.
It is not secret, litanies of negation.
It is not meaning, it is not ever-to-never devouring.
It is not so what it is or the will of difference.
It is not pretension, or the hatred of the undiscovered.
It is not the parents of a child who died in their blood.
It is not spoken, it is not awoken in number.
It is not ripening prematurity, or fossilised horizons, swirling in stillness.
It is not the tunnel of the stem of here to then continuing.
It is not the rim of our boat, it is not the river with wings of fire.
It is not the secret past which is no more than a vagina.
It is not an eye, or wisdom; it is not I, or attachment.
It is not just, or just, or what is left of nurtured dust.
It is not repetition, or clones we have never seen.
It is not the petition signed to never have been.
It is not the moving, or the named, or taming.
It is not the magic forever at my fingertips.
It is not the turquoise figurine waiting for his grandfather
Who can't wait to play the tambourine in front of his wife.
It is not the child seeking the surprise from others.
It is not the endless, horrific, beautiful, hilarious game of two brothers.
It is not returning or reversing nor the patten founding the disturbing.
It is not reason, or the reason of life, or the universe.
It is not three-quarters; - the resemblance of it, revelling

 



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