.
in arms the dread lifts up inside out my stomach curls
its over im over its here
.
for giving and enabled
my spite hides in a tube crossed under channels
good friends should offer first
good friends should understand
.
clouds in hands, silent saints,
something slithers passed saying very little,
low and alone i want it i want it
.
noise and noiseless anger resents something in your ear coming through your mouth
i have no talent make all this shit up for no one
leave from a want a right to taunt myself and tear
.
driving stakes into the sky crucify clouds
adore each thought every worry
.
i only know throwing up this raw spit and thoughtless thought
fuck getting laid think of godly things like this or fear
.
filling the bowel proud i suck hot air and shoot out fire,
then on my knees, grass.
each dew bends and gusts break me
.
in an ounce of fear to break in silence, i swallow i swallowed
but what teaches?
.
the rush at the peak is a puddle on bottom of some fantasy of ache.
what of it?
my heart is down here
.
silly little ideas nothing stands more real than pain and here it is here it is
where am i off to?
ThirdLakeBurn 
Finally, right?
I love this, Warren. The video-game of emotional self-destruction, eh? The epistemology of what hurts.
I find your stripping-down of stanzas into segmented verses so interesting; where did you find the inspiration for such?
LikeLiked by 1 person
I’m afraid I’m a bit one dimensional here Joao. Ikkyu was a huge influence for this and all the poetry I’ve posted. His excuse is transliteration, mine on the other hand (while similar, at least regarding my approach to moods), is mostly a lack of knowledge and practice. I’m reading Dickinson’s collected works now, so maybe I’ll learn a thing or two…
Anyway, thank you for the interest and kind words Joao. It means a good deal, and I think your descriptions of what’s here (I’m embarrassed to admit, curiously), is on the nose.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Well, I’m a trained reader of poetry. There is little that escapes my grip at this point, at least if I try hard enough. I do think you’re immensely talented, and though Dickinson is a fundamental reading even beyond the richness of her verse, I do not think she shall be the one to teach you something about the conjuring of poems.
I know truism is the venom of the creative, but if I have anything to pass, is that we’re taught our Art quite outside of it. Some hugs have influenced my poems more than Eliot, and I’ve read every Eliot word as a desert vagrant drinks from an oasis.
And you will always count with my support and assistance, shall you need it.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Don’t spoil me Joao!
In all seriousness, I deeply appreciate the words. I hope you don’t mind me quoting you to some of my peers. You strike something important, and uniquely.
You will make a great teacher someday (if you aren’t already one), should you decide it!
LikeLiked by 1 person
I’m not a teacher, I’m only 24, geez, and I couldn’t teach a pool noodle how to float.
You may quote me all you want, though I’d advise against it, haha.
LikeLike