a transparent system of children

Surrounded by light and trampled here under
the children in my head
feel like champions of all gods.
screaming with ease and careless abandon as they conclude.
they know not how to admit the façade baseness
of the thoughts in their minds.
and with their fear of things they can predict a time
of slow death nothing, of slow dead paralysis.

small space confused and surrounded. Surrounded by
likewise thoughts, by statements, proclamations of self.
what they have they will never hear of through the screams of their bodies,
their confused and padded heads.

and those childhood strikes and blows made against the self,
by the end they won’t even know their fathers and mothers or their failures.
keeping corpses around as a reminder of the day,
the day which I cannot stand.

smoke drips out the mouths of the dead
while their parents scream.

they say they have kissed their smoked filled mouths, the taste of yellow dreams,
and all the twisted fingers.
they saw hands growing up towards yellow desires, towards
the faded promises of youth.
they saw children left alone to linger.
children left on the floor, left serious.
and parents have seen the lines, the ground that spreads.
the children, the drugs, the ground.
let them give you their dollars while they kill young heads.
parents are free with no mind
they’re free with all the minds on record.
and they say we must break repeatedly, desperate for sickness.
they say they are here, but they are free and worn thin.

disassociating with arms and legs and hands
now it is closing in.

and the splinters,
what can be embraced of pieces.
a splinter has no body and no place.
and she likes all this, this of a thousand pieces.
it’s a sick as who knows.

and he who makes himself unmb to the complacency that creeps
up the body, he feels like nothing.
he has no body has no place, here he is.
here they are.

by angles their feet grown down into the earth.
they remember what they do own,
what they saw on television.
they carry around their own selves.

and the smoke makes lines in their heads,
thin yellow lines.
and these broken lines, these lines drawn between children,
between the dead, these lines grow to nothing.

and our father will make solid the ground,
as they recite they create.

they say, move the culture against the children, against our terrible pride.
against that childhood state on the verge of god.
provide every youth with footing,
give them years in a field to make in them a thirst for parents.

fathers predict all crowded and pooled and wise,
they foresee a great transparent system of children.
children on the floor, cut up line by line.

they foresee minds that will destroy themselves in
fits of repetition and fits of sickness.
children writing on the floor,
full of their father’s potential and excess.

that from which the children come makes in them a void.

but the children are all swimming in too small space.
I see hands and teeth, ease and careless abandon.
the children all sing,
“to medicate everything, I’m beginning to throw myself
onto walls. The takers gain nothing in the end when we
reach our climax. Our cyclical climax. Relations now
angular and rooted, floating in me. Floating to that from
which I have come. I feel like I am the loss. That which
I remember, I own. This opposition of conflict leaves
me in a state tired & disoriented, with a walking
sleeping stuck on nothing-stuck on the ground sort of
mind. The ground is burning. My childhood is burning.
I feel great proclamations of worth all swept into nothing.

from my own mind, my childhood is burning away.”

I foresee a great transparent system of children
that will make of itself progress.
that will one day see itself
in all its transparency.

they will see, though dimly, their machinations.

they will watch their hands as they tear apart
what they see in themselves, what is seen.

they will run and grasp at their great transparent system.
I foresee a great unraveling, I foresee exposed walls,
I foresee no children.

A childhood burning, all descending into a sudden
screaming and daunting conclusion,
all of use to come with our numbness
surrounded by process.
so we walk pulling behind our past moments.

and the children say, they believe,

“I will grab and kill my own
corpse, and hers and theirs.

and we,
we begin to see-”