Cyclical Cunts

I’ve lived a thousand lives. Each one pristine, clean and ready to get dirty. Each role as bias in circumstance as the last. Sweeping up unequal wonders yet, the consistency is undeniable. They all settle in the same banks, and while the mouth accepts all unconditionally, the trek back up the mountain gets harder with bad knees.

So I write. To release droplets of authenticity that won’t be washed away. I write for my children to have a place where mom had influence. I write so that the voice in my brain can have a place to express so she will shut the fuck up.

Life is a cyclical cunt. Giver of bliss, nagger of freedoms.

Sit down.

Stand up.

You didn’t stand up fast enough.

You should have been kneeling the entire time!

I’ll admit, I wasn’t even paying attention.

I was lost in … nowhere.

A familiar dwelling whose denizenship is of my own birthright – my own callus-creating den of splintered pallets so tempting to peer through into blinding nowhere.

Wait a minute. Don’t go just yet. I’ve saved you some room. Don’t panic. Your eyes will adjust.

Manic? Without a doubt.

Useful? Debatable.

Consuming? Almost.

With the erradicies of a beat-deaf dj, let us continue to rove-on. Seduced by the left side of left – somewhere between logic and lunacy. Closer to lunacy.

Wu – Tang spits rhymes while Julie Andrews pines. The VonTrap clan ain’t nothin’ to fuck with.

Where will this venture take us? What treasures will we find? Let us search this velvet cloak called space, filled with tiny pockets of time, hiding trinkets of wisdom and cinnamon within its folds. Copper scarabs keep our soles electric but water is still the best conductor.

Ahhhh water. The sweet nectar of the gods. Flows beneath our feet. Flows above our heads. Flows within our soul sacs.

Cycling in cycling out. The repetition of its flow. The current of life is like water?

No.

Is water.

The jump from simile to metaphor is vast in its fleck of a space.

No?

This is the most hidden pocket of all.

By that logic … Water is a cyclical cunt. The ponderment continues. There is no anger in a wave, yet it crashes. There is no despair in the tide yet it vanishes leaving soles to flounder and gasp and die. No remorse. No apology. Only its endless undying love for the moon. Which, I can’t fault. Have you seen her? I feel her draw. Perhaps my soul sac is being led by my more aquatious desires …

Who survives? Those that stay within the folds?  Another pocket.