poem: all madness, no genius, pt. 1

two thousand 17;
the aesthetic of this,
it is like spring, the old suicide
days, when the poems
dripped — no punctuation.
music stuck spiral-like
in my throat, the pulsing pulsing
wonder: my chemical shit
in the bathroom (before class)
the animalism of no-one
meeting your eyes — I cannot
write like that
anymore. The downsides
of friends, of making it.

two thousand 19/20;
remember the chemical swings,
the sex in our eyes? that poetry
is gone; I see him, around,
not looking at me.
Remember the s/c/a/r/e/c/r/o/w,
the romance? —
consummated in mosh-pit playlists:
your skeleton face
(you look a little like
gerard way
)
my sensitive black nail polish
(i am finally
the aesthetic
).

quarantine summer;
our eyes drop flat.
we are both ugly.
no response no response —
the return, very nicely,
of the madness
(the aesthetic is death,
it is real).
And Now,

two thousand 20;
mythologizing my own
jazz-black decay, there is no wet rush,
no epiphany jumping
in my mouth and falling
out, cum on the page; I cannot say
(properly) how I feel,
drained out,
disinterested, fuck me, don’t touch
me — I ate an Entire,
choking on the fingers
in my mouth — and sometimes,
there is the sensation
of two plugs forced together
and sparking, in my head; but then again
it could be a sugar-rush,
on par with normality, sertraline dreams
high-class vivid: I have married,
lounged in glass manors;
waking up on the floor
(again)
I know it is depression,
because the music sounds
like it did
in highschool: high-strung shit
rattling inside, there is no
such thing as chaos.

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