These Metaphors

You breath insanity like
Aryan deli shedding skin.
Like a post-apocalyptic
Renaissance man.
Our lives are but the
intertwined swirls of
cigarette smoke,
The dark narratives in
the models' dressing room.

Walk with those alabaster
legs, string those Mexican beads.
Die in sepia illusions, this
five-dollar sunset is mocking us.
Momentum transfer is
not real until you crash your car,
Much like how infatuation engulfs
the mind in a bulimist sense.

These metaphors exhaust me, these
endless references to crevices and shadows.
To the selfish search for no self,
As the solitary bell and futile
bamboos crave for abstractions.
A wall alienates me from the
city, that beautiful filth.
With a thousand mothers weeping
for their youth.

Look through these nihilistic pair
of glasses, they are life-changing.
Genius always springs in the past
like the purism of a coconut.
The night is spasmic like
a seaweed farmer's nightmares.
In the delta where sensation
struggles as a monist pursuit.