A poem

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Photo by Nick Matz on Unsplash

Plunged into history.
Hang ourselves with
headphones and effects,
not intents.

Now
I can hear my foots step.
How
deep can you breath
in order to believe again?
The rupture of placement,
of time’s effacement.
Shielded from a sinister sadness.

No love is enough.
No mind tough enough.
Leaves in January,
a snowless march.
The warmth affronts
four hours in the dark.

A concrete behemoth.
Accumulating characters
on life’s cathedral.

A winterless winter,
the trees vibrate
and the leaves shiver.
The stillness is chilling.
What object shall I consider?

A trembling triumph,
infecting local,
footsteps to the moon.
A stairway of silence,
guardrails all the way up. …


“When was the last time you had a couple of days of just relaxation, without the pretext of a holiday, which didn’t involve checking emails, buying things, or guiltily trying to catch up with undernourished relationships? When did you last get through a month without having to borrow even more money so that you could actually eat, meet your rent payment and afford public transport? Can you recall the last Monday or Tuesday you got through where you didn’t at one point experience a feeling of fairly moderate terror and anxiety during the daily email bombardment?”

– J.D. Taylor

This is not a guided meditation. It’s the opposite. …


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Photo by insung yoon on Unsplash

Oh, how different we could be,
when I look at thee
rush and flushed
with an inward push.

The towers, the powers
that stalk in evening shadows,
give rise to a sun
that ceases to seek
our admiration.

Oh, what do we admire?
Not the sun’s fire.
Not the magic of thought.
Not the beauty unthought.

We’re fraught, that is,
with an inward fire.
But it’s spectacular burn
is nothing but dire.

Swallowing magic,
charcoaling beauty,
crisping listless love
fortuitously.

A warm impression
like I could touch
melts my heart
from the very start.

Oh, whose heart is this?
Under constant pressure,
so uninspired,
begging to retire,
and dying tired. …


A poem

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Photo by Yann Le Comte on Unsplash

Cynical pleasures and
the embraced illusions of martyrdom.
We’re after something that
simply doesn’t exist.
I’m welcoming the inconvenience of questions:

who do we do it for?
Bag of nutmeg on the floor —
blocking out all expression,
no teeth, just mysterious eyes
departing —

but not ready to depart.
Inhales are like sheathing
a frosted sword.
Emptiness is dangerous
but it’s also our bedrock.

Wants are warped by unspecified voices.
Rationality ravishes
what could be reality.
Devious attachments
and discontent commitments.

I know how I should,
but know not how I might. …

About

Tanner R. Layton

(his, he, him) sociology instructor, habitual philosopher, cultural critic, anti-capitalist, aspiring killjoy, pretend poet, and psychoanalytic wanderer.

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