Love This Broken Glass

Do you really know yourself what to expect?
Curses run dirty veins from your mouth
and blisters ambition with indecency,
and the heat of incompetence.

Cauterize your severed fingers.
You can stand the smell of burning flesh
but not the sight of blood,
and you love the inconsistency.

Listen for these special whispers
breathing gold-dust glitter
into open ears;
muffled instructions;
cancerous elation.

Zeal for the self bleeds dry
as death is always impatient.
Ignorance helps, like a sedative;
masking the terrible symptoms of consciousness.

You transcend the self by
pushing it lower,
not by raising above in
ecstatic meditation.

Burning bridges of foresight,
painting individual hindsights,
kiss the sand that will bury you.

Your words are temporary like sleep
temporary like life
temporary like death.
And wait for no external approval.

Written 30/03/11.

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