Synaptic Habits

We are not who we once were

crippled fools learning our dance

we have hallucinated these moments

defined by our erosion

and these monuments of our domesticity

grand and eloquent emotionally illegal constellations of humanity

suffocating pabulum of posterity

our dissonance will be emancipated,

soothed by atonality,

creation given wing in the breakdown of form

functions of unresolved ambiguity deny the sirens call of repetition

while madness boxes us about the ears for the sin of inexperience

a desperate, despairing lust for pattern

A demand for order, a resolve into certainty

The muscle memory of music, an organ of synaptic habit,

a violent sacrificial dance

goaded by abstractions that threaten to electrify the familiar

difference is noise and ultimately, loss

Foreknowledge is everything,

tension without release is unbearable, inorgasmic

the slow death of the unfamiliar

we are built to abhor the new

even as we weep, we know we are lying.


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