Poetry – Leigh’s Chaos

What Could, May be

————Authors anote————

I recall a college professor once cautioning that fixating on death in art might blind one to life’s beauty. It was a sentiment akin to a Hallmark card, don’t you think? My flippant retort:

“Well, the day death ceases to exist, so will my fascination with it.”

—————————————-

In the tenuous realm of survival’s gamble, A spectral echo of beginnings whispers, Navigating the turbulent seas of existence,

To fiercely love, and let hate wither in the shadows,

To glean timeless truths in the flux of each fleeting moment,

Savoring the essence of life’s elixir with voracious hunger,

Unearthing the buried relics of ancient pain,

In the fractured mosaic of memory and desire, To transcend the illusion of survival, And embrace the infinite dance of chaos and creation.

Hurt

——————-

Hurt hails from a hidden hollow we haven’t heaved open within ourselves,

A realm we recklessly refuse to roam, a region we revile more than any other recess of our riddled psyche.

We shun hurt, sometimes subconsciously, until it erupts unexpectedly from our souls like a flea fleeing from red festered flesh.

We yearn to yield to hurt, we yearn to yield to ourselves, solely to sunshine and shun the shadows of sorrow, suffering, and the sting of hurt that leaves you languishing in a lagoon of liquid lamentations.

Hurt hatches hideous hues, sometimes anger, but often an ache that abides only with the passage of time.

Hurt, however, holds hidden harmony, though it may sound like a step back. It’s a boon to bear hurt, to brave those bittersweet aching emotions, to know you possess a pulsing soul and the poignant sensations that render you so profoundly human.

So, the next time you nurse a nagging hurt, nestle in the knowledge of your own humanity.

Humanity

———A Poem————

Let us think on our greatness!

Seeing birds swirling over long drifts of snow, majestically atop mountains we could only conjure in artistic imagination, while coffee billows a hot steam from below some kind of sub-standard boil of cacophony maelstrom and tempest anger. Bent on rage yet finding solace in the ability to stew and flicker like a flame from the pale slick oily wick of a dead man, choking on blue fumes of oxygen-rich despair amongst the ever-vomituous calamity of the same shit over and over until our brains implode in a goo that is commonly found built up around a banana that has been left to decay. It takes its turns emerging slithering, screeching from the rectum of creation’s pus-lubricated sphincter. Can we change? We ask ourselves before screaming “wake me” then crushing our own eyeballs like grapes stuck between pleather cushions and a behemoth’s chip-scented garlic posterior. Rubbing the result in matted hair folded like a horrifying, vacant wooded hollow in between thighs of boils and maggots. Only then, seeing reality of viscera and ravens stuck with forks to the dead forgotten ground.

We might deserve this.

How Things Are

By: Leigh B. Evans

Shitting, pissing, breathing bags of stardust, compressed protoplasm, scream from the street.

They chew and crush their teeth, crafting counterfeit sentimentality to taste humanity’s touch.

They yearn for green, yet green wilted to plastic, which surrendered to binary, then yielded to a laughable, ludicrous lie that shall someday lack value.

I can’t conjure from void, but the teeth still gnash, apathetic and audacious.

These assholes, elusive as eels, elude your grasp, as they slash and sever, slicing you down, down, down, deeper and deeper.

The landlord breeds the homeless, while the homeless breed the landlord, and the suits sit in their gilded, gutted wombs, greedily grooming for greater gains, like a loathsome leprosy-ridden phallus, bloated and bursting, blinding our sight, as they seize our minds, palms slapping and slashing, feeding them into a monstrous machine, whose sole purpose is to spawn more destitution and dreadful dragons.

These assholes defy your grasp, relentless as razors, relentlessly rending, reducing you, down, down, deeper and deeper.

Artless, handless, the corporate demons squeal like swine, their prophylactic vessels brimming with spent flesh, aptly christened “writers.” They proclaim, “We birth the art,” as their maws spew forth a torrent, hoping to mask the fact that they’ve plunged a clenched fist deep into your rectum, manipulating you like a marionette, a puppeteer’s plaything, yearning only for a demise swathed in felt and foam. Beware, for they are naught but masquerading monsters.

These assholes evade your grip, relentless as scalpels, incessantly severing, carving you, down, down, deeper and deeper.

They persist, unabated, these incisions unceasing, carving away until there’s naught remaining, descending further and further, into the abyss, into nothingness. Deeper and deeper.

Metamorphic Contractions

By: Leigh B. evans

My fingers fumble ‘neath writhing protoplasm, seeking sanity I strain to retain.

Toadstools gleam with verdant hue, a radiant bouquet of virile yearning,

Yearning for release, yet finding no solace amidst stones and sinuous intestines,

Coiled ’round their shafts, corpulent and undulating.

Have I tread this path before, or is chaos and hate my unexplored domain?

Are these visions of impending oblivion, conjured by past traumas?

Traumas born from denying desires to be dominated, longing for friendships?

Yet still continually perceiving others as mere flesh, vessels of pulsing vitality,

Possessing but one thing—a living, throbbing conduit,

That which the pious deem God’s sacred fluid?

I conceal those urges like a deranged deity hides decaying bodies ‘midst roses,

A veneer of masculine purity, illogical and nonsensical in its embrace.

This trauma, this curse, both exhilarating and terrifying,

I purge and self-gratify, yet it lingers, unyielding,

Until one day, like a crumbling dam, my walls erode,

Trumpeting a rebirth, a new iteration of myself, a moth emerging from its cocoon.

Madness arises not solely from an imbalance of the mind,

But from a repugnant lie, crafted to obscure our true essence.

The lie of masculinity, wielded as if divinely ordained,

Emerging from nature’s viscous, glutinous walls,

Blended with urine and saccharine ectoplasm.

This word, masculinity, a fabrication,

Just as these words on this page, a vomitous heap,

Distorted, contorted, molding into any desired reality,

A phallic protrusion or a welcoming vulvaic opening can

both embody masculinity or transcend its confines, in flux and undefined.

Truth, the sole compass in categorizing your place in the vast tapestry of gender and sex,

Truth applied to oneself, truth in navigating the fabric of existence.

Words, truly hollow vessels, crafted and counterfeit,

Reality itself, an illusion, no self, no origin, no linear odyssey,

Only existence, fleeting and finite, slipping through our grasp.

Thus, expending a solitary breath on sexual preferences,

Is a feeble, futile endeavor, reserved for the joyless souls,

Who find no solace amidst the beings we’ve labeled “human.”

No, embrace whom you desire, entwine and connect,

With consenting partners who ignite your passions.

Surrender to life’s abundant pleasures before you,

And the rest shall inevitably unfold.