Edison Ilan


EdisonAyersIlan@gmail.com
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Edison Ilan © 2017
Elevator ailment, miss me, light my tin-man cyst with considerable, repetitive, cross-bearing rails tanned with hunting blood -
Ice coffin lobe, said to treat our pop culture purity with grade, fright, or homicidal voyeurism -
Soup trough trust dealing mystery novels financed by the soon to be lanced and cynical majesty of love -
Don't you see... the machines walk for you, talk for you, find you consumed?

Brace yourself. I am sure to feel my heart stand, worry for a moment of our entitled hands, spell the clues in a relative mind thoroughly sat and stood again and again - as a posed and suffered, native chief... waiting for his spirit to impose -
Brush your silky brow, twixt your smarter-than tourist schtick trolling for a neck to wean upon, bait and lick -
Modern - how modern, your passage, as if won, as if a race - and now, outside, your lobby fills the same, celebrated rage, bits, fragments lost to money and language -
The timer never stopped.

Brake, shift, loosened, continental garb riding for an instance - furnished issue angled towards the sun -
Saw and hack as if a wild swarm, spiders, fists - surely you care too much to hide -
In the distance, that ship stammering with warm welcomes, artistic steads, clairvoyant meat, trees and fortunes... all meant to illuminate the militant, notebook crime spelled by bloodless letters -
We have all learned to live by first shitting ourselves.

Halfway, world-sport, binding northern flanks: Palestine, coddled horses, rulers, advertisements, and drunken ink -
Fahrenheit/Celsius - Air/God - Omit/Direct - Include/Starve - Sterling silver to your golden sin without choice -
Try again... titles this time: The tool initiative, Alike above, Toil makes me want my bones to cry, This critical machine -
Blind boats, clinked tea cups and dealt the century to the wet and witless.

Ragged, fuck-farm cleanse, execution if you will - trademarked/traded fashion sparing nil, and so on, competence and so on, crutch and cause and tons of "so?" -
Sickness pact panned, isolated daily down the fantastic mode lying to your forefathers marching home -
Child, used and slung to orbit, greet the day with art or an emphasis on art, to serve, to soften, to own the puzzle, the shackle and the beach -
I am too thick to run and too slow to measure - I am human.

Current or tide - a fickle war, excised guilt, and pieces echoe as the barren frame of art -
A snowman, then - rigid, mule in nested guards neatly stacked to look as if the outside made more sense -
The saddest star, manic dreams of thoughtless cages lined with seasonal, rinsed and pale, genetic notes -
Sing, you tensley woven noir of space and time - you can only live forever or die. 

Fins and fur - meditate or define, hoard or hold, glare or decorate - tug the surface laughter through a pore -
Now what? Time owns you! Superior in every way! Named and hoisted by a billion children, death and quaint contradictions useless in a strand of DNA -
Hands slightly tighter now, bored with "isms" and sides, province bound by legs more than walls and our consciousness clammers for a floor... a side nonetheless -
The tortoise runs in spite of time.

Kinds of birds, lengths of sleeves, vivid colors to a day in need - moderate, exceptional, little marks upon your arm that scream "I am the sum of all my cause, my effectual seams still drawn through skin!" - 
To the bluebird, cellos cringe, roguishly ramble, scribe to cinch the postural vein of a heart -
How to bear the pain of home: make it an event, lay next to the one you love, bind your time with a conservative utterance or two generally deemed esoteric to the bird-brain exiles fluttering to the ground -
When all else fails... simply... stop... time.


How to stop time:

When writing, balance, meter, rhyme and rhythm are rabid beasts gnawing at the civilian prose simply trying to be. Is it theory, essay, programmed and linear thinking that will distinguish a lackluster or cyclical time? Brilliance is a highway, a detailed dislike for pop songs and leggings in the winter. It is a slim and rarely balanced, weak and buried treasure aimed at noble people who have lived in belief that the world is one place, rather than an insufficient rock too wide and cold and deadly... and the other "side" of the world never seems real enough. Art, then, of the association (a metaphor), minced with gifted, aggregated sorts of cleverness, is the only comparable prank at war with streams of consciousness and residual star dust. Transmit or analyse. Bid or cower for or from the truth. If the song (let's say Amazing Grace) held the principal that the process of recording was the art, that the model of bulk ugliness in wires and electricity would hold more value than the sweet sound, then popular culture would be on a significantly more flaccid journey through the womb we call self awareness. Maturity would simply mean to shit ("The machine works... let it live now."). Maintenance would require nothing of our intention -  we would need only inherit our parent's genes, collect a sense or two of how to favor reality over dreams, drink water and copulate. The mechanism called the brain smokes with overactive chemicals - drives, boards, inhibits, guides, breaks and fixes every thought as if our consumption of so-called reality was of another time, as if travelled to another time... constantly. Folly in the light of entitled myths, such as love or happiness, is considered crazy, but as well the delusion we should find ourselves in another, for another, in another place, for another place. Love is folly. A genuine sense of anything that cannot be explained is pure folly. As ambitious as religion, as disheartening as war, as organized as highways, our prescription to learn and live freely is no-less a hazard to the blinding safety of our will to seek a vivid, still, and simultaneous connected sense that we do not exist alone. If we have truly informed ourselves of a contemporary courage used to merely exist and contemplate that we may only die, then the measure of our ignorance and reason, in the light of cost and implication, should nearly pause, weep, and die with every step, every blink... as we have gone nowhere... and we have seen nothing. This is only true if relative to the idea of time... and placement. We are poetry, meant for interpretation.