Sugar I don't particularly like sugar It's not that it doesn't taste good Because lord knows that it does But people forget something Sugar and dopamine aren't the same thing I know it tastes good But where's the feeling good? People eat sugar when they're happy Sugar when they're sad When they're down When they're up It's like tiny wings And your thumb Thumb for up Thumb for down Thumb even when your joint Hurts All you want is the streak Enough of the graceful lows And all the sudden you're flying sugar Highly addictive - an obsession The sugar obsession Is because it makes them feel Sugar makes you feel And I can't feel So why Would I want to eat that sugar That's going to make me feel ill Feel gross and glutinous and Globbering and gahhhh!!! So...what's my sugar? Everyone needs sugar Without it you're confused You can't think Can't walk Can't talk Things stop. Making sense My sugar is the real sweet stuff You could call it slightly Cannibalistic Or you could call it Vampiric Or you could call it The obvvvviously better of The two options for The first of four on The Meyers Briggs They're really the same Your dopamine just happens to come from Consuming something that's abundant 7 billion times over The other beings blessed (?) With walking around this Giant, giant bakery Replete with the pastry chefs in white hats Glazed, sugared bread lining white shelves With clear glass coverings to block the Urge we all have To stick out our hands Grab the sweets Oh, they taste so damned good So see I get my sugar in a secondary way Most people eat sugar I eat people And when they're not around I get hungry But the problem is that now I have a diet And nothing will satiate it Except for the Dopaminergic human Who rings the bell when she walks into the Bakery. Who smells the sugary air Whose pupils dilate Who's overwhelmed by the choices Who experiences Who feels Something maybe like elation That's my sugar And now I'm trying to Cook for myself And it's not working
Heed the dragon
Heed the dragon Although we believe sanity’s surface To be smooth With close reflection we see A different story, winding its way like a tail We see rough, rigid notches Fiercely arpeggiated scales We indirectly peer at a world’s worth of light Shining over shoulders With a brilliant light-stepped dance Transposing our past to present History, a city of dark radiance: All its veracity preserved With a listen, we hear a low beat Welling slowly with deep-seated power Our bones can’t help but bitterly run Back and forth with the tumbling tones Boulders audibly bash each other Low sounds ring, heard in the belly A great life jaw grinds open The sharpness of teeth makes its point We are inescapably bound in the sound But we drip under rapture’s chains, too We come to face fire-breathing sanity.
When, in my cup of tea, I saw love
When, in my cup of tea, I saw love The tea steams, and it leaves a ring of condensation denoting with transience its firm, sizzling Life on the table. The dark, earthy fragrance wafts high. Electrifying, or so, still alone, it hopes. A battery, an engine Its fuel begs to combust. Begs to reach out and embrace, And excite, And uplift both inertial conveyors of life, vessel and axon alike. The tea itself, however: It is embittered. It is overwhelmed. And with perhaps greater fervor than it wishes to excite, it wishes to be at once excited and swirled and dulled and lightened and written with white ink into the book of life. My tea wants a pour of milk, and so I oblige. Have you ever had the Pleasure & Privilege Of watching that white love enter the crystalline walls of a dark tea? I tilt my hand and pour white ink to life’s volumetric tune. I almost hear the synesthetic hum. Hmmm, the tea sighs. I look on in awe. At first, nothing. Then, a hint of motion. A fractal’d cloudfront climbs the walls with swirls for fingers, pillows for toes. The clouds of clarity Make all of the sense, and none of it either. The smell subtly changes as they now hold molecular hands, in a union opaque to the outside, but so inevitable from within. And now I sip my tea, with an understanding of what grace May be wrought by the lovely fusion of my tea with milk.
What is a Metaphor?
What is a Metaphor Imagine, briefly: A set of parallel bars. Where one goes, the other follows. Where one terminates, so too does the other. It takes an existential gymnast to balance with just two hands and one bar. It takes but a human to balance with bars in parallel. Perhaps a little strength is required, but that’s a life-requisite anyways. So, to address the titular motivation: What is a Metaphor? A metaphor Gives balance Where, with but one understanding, we might fall hard to the floor.