DAVEN SHARMA

 

wet materialism for aesthetes

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"distance makes the heart grow fonder" what they sayin as they lockpick your po box

my pool cue's name is cataclysm because it only always misses the 8 ball

certainly space wouldnt matter so much in an age of instant communication; it does, and this
says more about how important bodily experience is and how shitty it feels when
corporeal matter is reduced to hankerin after the ass of thought and desire and non
corporeal desire, all of which is to say Reason

i read spinoza when i was shooting black into my ankle—
a campus bus squeaks past my window, my hard drive
clicks into a rush in my ears the plaque of my guts:
post-alcoholic fat is a cataclysm only for those
dwellin in the past; walkin five miles a day
surely appears as an option when your shoes tied together like moonlights fighting over a dusty
windowsill; all of the fingers belonging to daylight couldnt strangle a disjunction

all of this is broken prose or disfigured verse:
i’m sick; build your own highways ive
sucked at engineering my whole life

When we think of extreme violence i like to start the conversation off with a glass of water,
which is always holy in itself: you hold your demons carelessly like death would clean
them off of your fragments greedily and we all know that matter is as eternal as the pacts
you make in compromise with yourself: an ashing of blood over a community of sand

i fucked up my brakelights when i backed into my landlord's car and then later that night scraped
my fender as i was backing out, all of which happened after i locked myself out of my
apartment on my first tarred up day back in santa cruz—belated, even still

A school bus is just education cathected into a fatigue-tunnel in between nightmares

My verse is full of bricks because i drag my feet in between fire escapes; i only mention you as a
foil so i can wrap it around my gums and pretend that my words is rich enough to flex
about

and that isn’t true: theres nothing valuable about this; i never in my life figured
poetry as anything meaningful even if i find meaning in it daily

i’ve never seen it punch a face or sign a petition
never seen it vomit over the hood of a squad car:
—it's distanced is all,

and if my heart grows fond about it then fuck it—
well my jaw sure as hell wont—
i still have to speak different voices about it cause i don’t want to listen anymore

/

Daven is an editor at TRASH Magazine and Inspiritus Press.