______ __ __
/\ __ \ /\ "-.\ \
\ \ \/\ \ \ \ \-. \
\ \_____\ \ \_\\"\_\
\/_____/ \/_/ \/_/
______ __ __ ______ __ ______ __ __
/\ == \ /\ \/\ \ /\ == \ /\ \ /\__ _\ /\ \_\ \
\ \ _-/ \ \ \_\ \ \ \ __< \ \ \ \/_/\ \/ \ \____ \
\ \_\ \ \_____\ \ \_\ \_\ \ \_\ \ \_\ \/\_____\
\/_/ \/_____/ \/_/ /_/ \/_/ \/_/ \/_____/
how do we surmount these untamed impurities
threatening our collective existence, waiting
around every shadowed, sinister corner to pounce on
our darling ideals, so susceptible to perversion,
to malice?
how do we tackle the subject of chastity without
acknowledging our composition, the arrangement of
molecules dictating our predilection towards all
that is hallowed, the conscious or unconscious bidding
to preserve and protect?
does the mind inherently need to protect?
do we all collectively deem the same things worth preserving?
is this intrinsic need embedded in the mind
from its conception,
or is it fostered by the world it unwittingly inhabits?
manufacturing a mind, creating life; it takes countless
epochs and æons, and as little as nine months.
the mind is a cybernetic creation, a governance.
the faith we place in autonomy in order to find
meaning is false, flagging. mere idolatry.
idiosyncrasy is brummagem,
a copy of a copy, an ersatz operation degrading
further and further with each replication.
who will carry the weight,
the burden of this knowledge?
purity may manifest in any number of forms:
silver moonlight;
fine red wine;
pale pink cherry blossoms floating through the air;
the cream-colored pages of an old book, with turmeric
speckles of foxing dotting its edges;
white snowfall on a sleepy town;
a harborside café where the pale currents of steamed milk
mingle eagerly with the dark brown depths of espresso.
somnolent minor-key sonatas composed in the eerie
twilight hours;
a deep blue sea raging unfettered against the most
vertiginous of cliff faces;
diaphanous georgette of a delicate rose draped over
slim, beautiful shoulders;
a warm golden fire illuminating a cozy glade,
tucked away into an emerald forest;
power lines stretching far into the distance
dotted with a menagerie
of sparrows and shrikes and starlings.
the cold, imposing concrete of Brutalist architecture,
perfectly formed, rigidly geometric
against the chaos of organic structure.
a block of hoarfrost marble sculpted with such finesse,
such precision
as to appear soft, supple;
or perhaps a woman,
silent and unfeeling on the subway steps.
purity is all of these things and more,
and yet realistically none of this even scrapes the surface.
an anodyne mantra recited into us in a whisper,
unremittingly, lends us the stability we seek,
staving off the malevolent from the prone mind.
atonement and penance can only provide so
much shelter until these forces crumble before
the might of the logical soul. we steel ourselves, becoming
ascetic in the face of adversity. we adopt a belief system,
promulgated by the higher minds, because we cannot
see the true value, cannot fathom the meaning,
the geometry of the universe, the grids of the heavens,
the blinding purity.
too sanctified, beyond comprehension.
numinous conversion.
spirit quotas.
self-referential dichotomy.
love.
deceit.
love is the essence of inviolable purity, corrupted.
love is the irrepressible desire to preserve a single
moment in amber,
to act it out on a stage
night after night, ceaselessly.
it begins with the desire to adore,
then to possess, then to control.
the itch becomes a subtle stinging,
becomes a dull throb,
becomes severe agony,
burrowing deeper inside
until we find ourselves
suddenly exenterating our
innards onto the cold kitchen tile,
confessions and proclamations and desperations
spewing like viscera through the air.
a dark and demanding annihilation,
a harrowing sight to behold.
and the guilt will spill.
we know because we watch it spill on a daily basis.
consider this fluid duality:
the man’s collective pressure to appear prim and proper,
chaste in demeanor;
in constant conflict with the desire to be abused
like an abject whore
when the moon domineers the night and the doors
are closed with keys still jammed in their locks.
how often I wonder whether the written word
can truly provide anything at all, be it benevolence
or something more menacing. how often I doubt
my own convictions. held under a microscope, how
easily will this proclamation crumble into meaninglessness?
most certainly. the concinnity with which words are
strung together is a mere ruse. yet I cannot be held
accountable, for I work within the confines of an
oppressive system; the abecedarian model inhibits
purity of communication. inflections, connotations,
these flaws permeate though all written work, concurrently flooding
in and drowning out. prosaic language is incapable of
efficiently rendering an experience.
will these words provide any solace,
any lasting impact upon its reader?
I am certain that a golden light will pour
from the chest of every man and every woman,
illuminating flaws and turning stones and smiting doubt;
pouring farther, and further pouring down, deeper down.
down into every last soul.
down through the eddies of time.
down the cobblestone streets awash in morning chiaroscuro,
and the paved sidewalks, cracked and crumbling.
trains stall.
bridges disintegrate into the rivers below.
skyscrapers collapse inward,
disseminating ruination for blocks in every direction.
we become infusoria inoculated in a petri dish,
an experiment for the higher minds.
revelation meant to sanctify is used
for immoral gain, for manipulation.
the city, insatiable,
yet our only shelter from the soul’s rot,
becomes itself corruption.
in the interest of valediction, I posit the following:
how do we intend to mend that which our very existence blights?
