#Philosophistication

Sing My Soliloquies

It’s sweeter in Limbo,
where the sun turns crimson,
where we fall from rainbows,
where disorders are the norm.
We deform and get clothed
in our faults, read these scars,
or call them stars; Capricorn goes poof,
thorns left ridges on these shells,
angels who tend to fall when
rememberance of falling befalls
their thoughts, grant me license
to embark on a journey with comets,
free falling, my freedom keeps
bleeding, a new smile I keep needing,
fantasies I keep kissing, it’s a season
of my faulty thinking, mental
treason, I need judging, judgement
keeps building, I’m leading a life
that begs for my eternity to be
served in seconds.
Less sounding depth bound,
I’m grinding teeth to feel
my brain shutter, buried in
clusters of memories, ambiguity
and wrong sanity, my reason stutters,
devour my brain matter; maybe my thought
shall begin to matter, maybe your
intestines might feel butterflies
or caterpillars, or maybe it still
won’t matter. So gather, I’m
about to hunt for meaning while you
tour my rapture, these poems are
cancers, chunks of my mental
weight that serve no purpose,
so propose to I where this prose
tends to sound intended rather
than sounding like manure, I knew
I tend to soothe those with open sores.

Exploding stoves; they try to
grill these words, I don’t live
through them, I manifest when
they seek my matter, I’m a ledger
storing the horrors of unknown writers,
find me with snakes and ladders,
trying to convince man of the
divine essence of their substance,
now that the snake has taken
a stance to free you from bedridden
gardens, take a ladder and go above
Babel’s tower as a bilingual,
explore your existence, through
me you can be cynical, I’m the
Pinnacle, the dipple carrying the
bitter waters; water to wine,
fermented berry and grapes,
the darker one tastes like
darkness, I carry consciousness
in my right hand, I write hands
of God and men touching fingers
in the sky, I’m the albino who dyed
when dinosaurs scorched, I’m the
Crow that gized ink on fingers
of speechless scribes, I’m the only
one willing to leave everything
feeling shallow, I’m the hallow pit,
bottomless ink, I write until they
spawn gods, I’m a spore, during
ages I flipped pages, through the
dark ages I wrote light before
enlightenment seemed narrow,
maybe I peed on that corner of
a pyramid with your favourite Pharaoh,
I need to still believe these words
need subtitles for you to understand
why I’m entitled.

They critized and grew liable,
karma sung mantras and their
eardrums blew, lewd son caressing
the sun in front of the moonlight,
I decide to reside in light, on the
seaside I collect your ancestors’
toenails, I delight in none of your
struggles, go back to slaveships, I’m
cacooning on pages; I’m in spaceships
colonizing your zodiac signs,
I’m an astronomical anomaly,
not cosmic in poetic matters,
I’m gnarly, hardly easy to embrace,
I race with reason, I’m difficult
to racially close in a box, stray
king ruling anthills, another cult
begins without context, con text,
I’m in a contest with all googled gods
of writing, Apollo and Thoth,
I’m no likeness, penchant of
theatrics, I challenge your
verbal gymnastics; I plot twists then
twist the plots, now I’m a gyre,
fold lands now I’m Gaia,
then profit from these prophecies that
I barely page, I’m |kaggen with
the tales, I’m a sage with the
Solomon spells…
Now Google what a soliloquy entails.

By Eugene ‘Philosophisticater’

Artwork by Avogado6

℗ Philosophistication Poetry ℗

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