Status Epilepticus

         Word put in me, unknown faces, alienated form
         void of clear motive, void sleep, sans any head
         noise, no designation — a sullen hushed ache
         dies holding out on its birth, as if to get sent
         back before preconceived seed, back into dark
         death spasms empty of white, twisted fits of pain
                  . . .
         fire echoed forward into expectation, into change
                  . . .
         cold eye, stolen morning, to continuously wake,
         work through the night, written under a dim light
                  . . .
         make edges sharp and open-ended, carry strange
                  . . .
         out unsung, broadly hung, high strung, far spun.
         Held in shadow until the right time, secret lives
         break into open view, finished from last to first.
         First cuts close themselves. Do me again. Break
         form, instantly taken against and at my word,
         lives let loose on their own yet tightly held
         head down past the point of no return to a void
         spun delicate as wishful thought to stretch out
         ache through self-consuming solitude. No noise
                  . . .
         change chaos to gravity, twist gravity to fire
         strange in breath, carve breathing to ice, make
         stone from tears, stir up winds from dry blood
                  . . .
         wake while still dreaming at morning dew's cold
         light touch, barely hard enough for it to work.

         Work. Work! Make something. Make it all light.
         Break it out. Smash it open. Me first, me first,
         cold as dark matter. Isolate it. Wake me, wake
                  . . .
         blood taste raw mud, spark to touch cold stone.
         Make secrets emerge from this silence, strange
         fire out of thin air! Make everything change!

         Change bursts its insides out, making its fire
         light a time bomb set to detonate, do its work
         strange outside memory past expectation, make
         first into reflection off a seizure's flash, to break
         stone against my face, to sketch dreams in blood

                  * * *
         Dies cast decide my choice? Whose god has sent
                  . . .
         word for word? Chaos wires pure energy, form
                  . . .
         void. Straight void. Connected out my head.
         Head first to last, blood last to first, void
         sent to come, storm come as meant, meaning dies,
         pain confesses, justice begs audience of death
                  . . .
         lives again and again, released as if held
         first to last, bent back into the break
                  . . .
         dark. Incoherent whispers itch to turn back,
         ache to punch past pausing. God, let all noise
         form a line, make it up each from its own word.

2 Responses to “Status Epilepticus”

  1. 1 sarachnid
    2012.05.15 at 12:56 pm

    Is infinity even or is it odd? I don’t remember.

    My math isn’t good enough for me to know. Help please?

    My senses say one, then the other. That could be my medication. I can’t trust my senses.

    Both at the same time? Math has limits. We don’t.

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