rant of scant merit

I guess I’m an emotional masochist because I always fuq everything up far beyond the precipice of merit propitious.  Dare I say, it’s depressingly disconcerting for it’s duly quite fervid, the ferocity with which I unfailingly inflict this inbound bondage.  I have deemed a living hell upon myself whose reins I shall never relinquish.   Nor shall I ever dispel the curse that these verses disperse on my pithless personage.  I search for the dirge that might deign to divulge my divergent urges surging to ravage my visage with savage compulsion and vague supposition.  Vulgar and vile these vices I vaunt when enveloped in venting with vanity’s wont.  As I saunter hauntingly to a daunting demise.   I witness this witless world through wistful windows of time since rescinded sans residual reticence of rote compliance that readily dotes on my amative recalcitrance.  To further articulate this artless affliction so to properly parse the veil of this valse lacking prevalent cause, prudent pause must be given to parlay the amplitude of dispossession so that I mayhap, per se, gain from said deprivation.  With all best intentions mentioned ad infinitum, impressed upon god’s greatest audience of none.  Yet somehow I find that the soul of my mind ever shuns me thus spurring to run underground just so that I may hide from this hideous horror whorled in writhing. Undermining my chances to shine with such vibrancy confined to contrivance in idle contradiction to idyllic ideals.  Where no sound is present to presage profound plights of piteous people persistently perishing garishly sinking into sentient pits of sapient despair.  And here I lay, hapless in hyporeactive states hopeless to extend a helping hand bearing the selflessness of our sole salvation.  To solve any quarrels of lore’s requiem as ennui quandaries of quietus quell squeamish skin squandered.  Acclimatization to scandal and scourges encouraging naught but a purging averred. Spurious inference evinced disingenuously, a word so misused it defines what is wincing.  Thrust upon miasmic oceans of plasma in plumes plotting schisms of ruinous rue.  Sophists usurping poised with dissemblance, in spite of supinely presented sound pleas.  At which point I ponder to pander implore that you please apprise me what purpose this is for. Aside from assuaging an aging aplomb ere appearing as pompous as this pen’s pathetically impaired plies of reasoning so paltry. Alas, I digress, for my state of distress is distorting the functions compressing my chest.  Lest I cease and desist I shall cease to exist but at least I know this much is blissfully true: I am fuqd and I cannot resist this fool’s fate of such languorous and lasting lamenting libration.  Intent on selling my soul to the devil in reveries of such voracious dyspepsy and lack of discretion so disseminating degrading the ground that I share with my fellow formations of foul indignation interred.  In tombs of tempestuous vestibules flailing in failure so profound it resounds and reverberates in sonorous echoes that beckon our reckoning in this armageddon that hails from charred skies. Rippling throughout our decrepit contortions condemned to a cold crippling morphine drip faintly gripping death’s sinewless hand where we lie.

Author: Max Meunier

Feminist. Ailurophile. Musician. Poet. Human.

4 thoughts on “rant of scant merit”

  1. A brilliant lament that likes of which I’ve never read….so poetic and emotive and rife with such eloquent resignation….what a profound vocabulary you have…this was awe-inspiring…thanks for sharing 🙂

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