The VGP Literate No. 11

Pressurized Gravity

 

Born under a velvet-lined purple sky
after revolving inwardly within a chaotic womb
in fluids of the River Tao symmetry, a shining babe emerges in flashes of
neon radiance; aligned geometrically in
vital waters and then spit out violently to evolve
with enough destructive urges in tow to reform paradise; a warrior of truth
enters the garden; thrust into an ongoing makeshift plan,
constantly progressing without much thought given beforehand.
Space and time creak as the forces of creation exert their pressure.
A swampy marshland, situated far beyond the forest of green trees
that burn upon the slightest touch by torched fingers, bends seductively
as the path is beaten out beneath heavily trampling feet.

Calcified water cells and the inferno induced prismatic light
hypnotize seven layers of hypocrisy using the
sordid, occulted knowledge pertaining to acid rain
that sings as a siren unto scorched skin about atrophied wisdom.

One lonely minute remains in which to think about
the oncoming disaster of a holy drought; the clouds disperse and drift into the silent
ether, never to grant another sweet kiss to the waiting land below.
No more flooding oxygen remains in the withered atmosphere
to fend off the attacks of stick figure death dementia.
The huddled masses are forced to fight off raging devils and their
blasphemous gods with a whip in the sanctified, ceremonial
place of primal worship; nature gasps inside the spitfire circle where the mob sacrifices
the spirit-head and sorts out the remains of the deceased once the dust and ash trickles down from the heavens like manna.

Reason flows slowly in distorted waves of plasma, revolving
around the cycle’s centrifugal pain in a desperate, existential search for
meaning and logic, seeking to call home the star seed energy.
After the nebula bursts into a thousand points of chaos, the cards
fall to the table; five aces are folded, one right after the other,
as the scared bluff of the higher dimensions cannot garner
the strength to make a proper ante; all bets are off; the center cannot hold.

Scott Thomas Outlar lives a simple life in the suburbs, spending the days flowing and fluxing with the tide of the Tao River, laughing at life’s existential nature, and writing prose-fusion poetry dedicated to the Phoenix Generation.  His words have appeared recently in venues such as Midnight Lane Boutique, Helix Magazine, The Chaffey Review, Siren, Section 8, Mad Swirl, and Dissident Voice.  More of Scott’s work can be found at 17numa.wordpress.com.

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