my back, a tingle as recollections of the coarse experience in the depths
of a moonless night where proclamations of the one question and
supplications for help relayed the sonorous fright. Voices that are never
heard drown and fade away automatically and proceed backwards.
Sometimes I hate pathetic fallacy.
In the beginning we are alone but individuality is a test; the separateness
searching for a station in life or at least a place to sleep without
interruption. No, there are no divine exams.
Mostly these illuminations are never found in daydreams, no
radiance before the dawn. It is the search that drives primal suggestion
to the pointed faculties of mind in the climax that there is
struggle, strain, strenuous suffrage, and to wear this is too much to bare.
Bombarded by blocking thoughts or meditations unnerved by anxious
hooks in the stomach reel us into physicality. Uncertainty looms as a
weaver in the back of the mind stringing the high strung, dangling
a statement, “It is a waste of time”. Go on like the dreaming ocean of
ensuing devotion and to do all that others say is impossibility, in
the eventual outcome it is will or the lack of that will kill.
Or are we all lying?
Are we creations and creators? Maybe just some infernal joke or
an excuse of some other? Artists, we all
are! Damnable polysyndetonic syntax.
We must take a step out of life as the snake out of its skin, oh no, sexual
symbolism, so to shed the opaque covering of the eyes, and see
the hive hunting its impervious prey in the forest of the twilight
as we are tinted a King Cobra gray. Sorry William! No tiger.
When you are on the safari yourself you never see anything but
the targeted, and everything is a target as you are and will be.
To be an artist might be to document behavior, culture, social problems,
perceptions, deviations, and the vile as well as pitiful conditions.
These are targets and artists are fundamental targets. Maybe artists are
simply sociopaths with outlets besides human destruction medicated
with a
placebo?
Naughty, naughty, don’t worry it is all bullshit made up as we go along
with the influence of the past astonishment and creation. In all media
they trying not to overtly plagiarize. Artists are just thieves stealing
from others’ lives as well as their own and other artist’s work, just
recombinant conditions. Everything is communication through
symbolism and that is what people do so we let you do it and then modify
and regurgitate it back to you in a nice mix of acid and beauty. Sometimes
we pretend that we know what we are doing.
Maybe it is about deliverance from insignificance and the token
realization that the metaphysical connotation of living may not be
anything but us fish swimming from danger and a flight into the open
sea’s light or no? The insatiable calamity has no relief
as stars, designated constellations, or personal
suns.
It is just the universe mumbling and
self-esteem draws death, as said before life is a theft but death
is something life lives in. I don’t want to be this mumble or this simple
horrible
mortality.
Fraud is the most genuine thing we have. Love, emotions, plastic
moldings of the face. Truth, beauty continually erased but seldom ugly.
Trite, banality never fugacious these things are to determined to exist
through comfort. Once we are engaged, we are too blinded to redeem
identity. Even the silly plastic moldings on my face find their ways to
violate the daydreams and rip the layered fabric.
Targets are acquired but life never concludes while you are watching
as absolutes never existed anyway. An artist’s creation?
Or a bullshit excuse? A plagiarized science experiment forgotten to
its own devices?
***
Creators and creations are developed myths of martyrs and
meeker manifestations. And by the way,
Beauty is not all we need to know ugliness is just as relevant.
Everything once was and will be symbolism and if GOD exists and knows
all pain I am sorry it had to feel mine, but I didn’t want to be this way
it is too convoluted without prenatal talent displaying itself
so not to decide.
The act of deciding is probably the point but how trite is that because
everyone must do it except……..
***
GENIUSES and trust fund babies.
***
Nope, I wanted to be something else.
I wanted to be Nietzsche, Jimi Hendrix and Bruce Lee.
I wanted my ideas to manifest and spread for all to see.
I want my will to be fulfilled and be an earthly guru.
I want to be an evangelistic with philosophy and music
and to be feared so nobody will try to fight me.
I want others to add to my images and progress in a radiant form
of talent of soul, mind and body. My shadow would cast darkness
and doubt on deluded ambition and would create a resolute condition of
creativity. Meeting the godhead and conversing having power
without corruption.
Thoughts could be mutable flesh.
***
Once in a time before thoughts escaped and became.
They fell to freedom on their own.
We went on in different stratified existence and
they went on in an innocuous form independent from us. As once they
were just ideas as we were just ideas and it could happen again.
We might encounter a thought from GOD and the infinite choir as GOD
Maybe? or even something beyond comprehension. But on a side note
I don’t want to die of syphilis or any remiss vomiting events.
I don’t want to die from some death touch or allergic reactions.
***
Hell’s fury can come from women but it is not the only scorn, I don’t want
to die at all and maybe in the future of
genetics
and bio-engineering I won’t. Probably not in my lifetime I want
to be delivered into my daydreams without plastic moldings
and cold stones. It is just another stupid opinion on another earthly
rotation in this mortal condition.
Situation Tragedy
The gleam fails
as dialogue distorts
A clear crystalline
shattered scream
A mosaic of prosaic
storytelling falters and flickers.
The circuit breaks
and the lights fail
spiraling outward
to a single burnt image
History records a symbol
The symbol is intended
Instantaneous folly fools
the frivolous enraptured
captured voyage of digits
The gleam fails
The signal goes down
and all are symbols
Burnt down again
in the prescribed warning
DON’T ATTMEPT THIS AT HOME
A mold
Tears of bile and urine run in
thin rivulets down the
Sm
ooth pore-less pellucid plastic
veneer, a mask of elastic membranes
A blink behind the eyes lets slip the
wink of coy renewable promises
The molded, formed, seamless, seemingly
surreptitious screen is seen simply
As it casts a shadow where the
smile meets the sky and the
Hominid and homunculus hand in
hand happily wipe the lines
From the map of age and memory
Journal thrice
The everyday seem to be innately dumb at first, so blessed are those
few contrived moments. My days are called to grief by just waking up.
I have overseers that tap their feet on the thinning plush carpet.
It begins with the feeling of when your first crush was crushed.
The first love coming over
and saying indifferently “no more” and the ache in the pericardium
is amplified ten fold. The cavity left is iced over and as empty
as the space between galaxies. This is the everyday.
Then the apprehension of doubt of the dilemma comes quickly like that
the significant other was reconsidering, but that is just a feeble mistake
and miscalculation. It is not a state of feeling sorry for oneself.
Thus accepted and acknowledged, the ability to move hurts
to even think about over the torturous heart cracks and beats
as it brings tears to the dry ducts that should have been
deluged years before.
The only way to survive is to turn it into itself and modify into anger;
anger is a motivation and something is better than oblivion.
I just want to become. Sometimes. I feel as a waste of carbon and water.
Carbon better off as a filament in a light-bulb; water better suited in a
fish tank filled with the string like feces and ammonia.
***
Then as if submission did not count for anything, the humidity of
the day increases and no matter how much I towel off there never
is an obtainable sense of dry. Clothes will put up a struggle also
but they always win. There is a tug on one side to fix a wrinkle and
that in fact causes a worse event. Try and straighten it and the
back comes undone. Fix that and you know what will happen next,
but it is hard to be naked in public. Frustration. Castration. Asphyxiation.
***
During
the days of summer, I try to stay inside the sun burns so easily and
cancer is. Then you go out just as a glimmer of
hope glimpses and tears through the layers of humid skin
and your olfactory senses have been depleted by under use.
To go up and smell the wild flowers you must get close.
The majestic bewilderment of nature takes a slight chance to kiss
you delicately on the forehead and inspiration becomes. Insipid
inspiration
I should have known such trickery was involved. Kneel down to smell
the blooms and a squishy squash gives under the knees.
How beautiful it is when the growths have just been fertilized with manure
The scent is truly the combination of mammal and plant. Then a notice
of puffiness swells the nose and reddens the eyes, thank you dear
pollen and confused immune system. An affirmation that nature can smell
awful and be implicitly painful.
Inspiration come and divine this life, wash and evaporate
the mundane ever-present stain and release
the trade winds to take this stench to the
doldrums and maybe off to the distance of the jet stream.
Intrepidation and passion rise in the uplifting thermals of ethereal
emotion that find spaces between the heights and the fall.
We must survey the scene from all possibilities and be quiet in calm
and serene in the connection. Beneficence of being can melt away from
the mind’s antipode when sensation not contained reveals its form verily.
Bequeath the bountiful external worry to the dissidents and when
driven by other’s, hindered and ashamed, to thine own self be true.
Fucking Hamlet, yes perception is a problem and dreams and insanity
seem to be the same sketch.
***
With every Moon’s suicide, seppuku, and resurrection, the Sun plays
dirty games of treachery because they die and rise again. I cannot shout
at them to stop because I don’t speak to anyone anymore.
I had a singing voice once with quite a range and sustain with vibrato.
I have since lacked lacked lacked lacked lacked lacked lacked…lost lost
lost lost lost lost lost the ambition to practice vocally and they, the chords
have atrophied. I can hardly speak and only whisper
penetrates as a myriad of mumbles under the soothing blankets.
The only resonance there is for me is as a hum and a facial expression.
The hum of the chambers filled with the summer wind drowns my
projection.
That there is any resonance at all from an honest place is
befuddling and time is running away like a castigated mut.
The summer Sun once again has allowed the shadows
to be in the only place that retains composure from the frustration
instilled by vengeful cherubs.
The violet, violent strobes of bright and bold violations shine with such
arrogance.
The surges and pressure builds to the stress points. It would be reassuring
to be a balloon or a bomb. A feeling so strong that all is needed is an
object,
oh pitied object but there never is a suitable opponent deserving of this
disturbance.
Like a whip uncoiling and breaking the sound barrier the
air is punched and the sirens and screams of uncontrolled being resonate
and resound the question. React or be dormant?
Which will prove? Which will suffer? Which will cure?
The causation is the primer to action with the consequence of responding.
Sleeping an escape from the heat of the day and in night terrors there are
no beings to talk to but demons and peons. Looking to dreams blinded by
moonlight, coming from an acute angle, the shade is drawn.
***
So comes a change of state and a click of a button. Answers to questions
conflicting sources on the television. Conspiracy of silence and
the black and white static bleeds into red.
Zion, Blitzkrieg the shipbuilder prophet isn’t dead. Lions of
Judah on the mountain cry and are pushed into a salty sea.
Zeal as a shield to destroy
indiscriminately, how pathetic not to think for one’s self.
Horse worshippers in Japan and it is only eleven fifty nine
on the subatomic clock as the time goes on this channel
dedicated to history and development. Omni abstruse is no excuse
to the abuse and bias.
These narcissistic nirvanas are negated nocturnally.
A press of another button and the narrow road comes to an intersection
a tree and a human dangle slowly and dry as the dust builds.
A solitary fruit that was once ripe as the night, falls
in the western direction, how dramatic. Surfing without standing
and the ramifications of regal recession and abdication shown
as the rising day delivers their heads. T
he spiraling sun sets as the tube
just warms up.
Drunken jesters running on to battlefields, Earthlings sorry
for such seemingly bad narratives but the surface is not the truth
and while searching for a link on this broken chain of events, the links
are made of balsa wood painted by
another institution involved in revolution
surface reality is in conception on a back lot somewhere.
God I hate euphemisms
and lowest common demons.
The Sun shines again to laugh arrogantly so the repose will wait for
another date but the feeling of my first crush being crushed remains.
A void, an unavoided day without time and
lunacy without action is nothing more than non-existence.
I crush the crush myself along with all other
compact Mayflowers or Continental breakfasts in a crowded congress
of conversations in my head. Wait! that is what we are, in our heads is
redundancy.
Never completely dark
Close your eyes
Watch the world thin
Close off the spears of sight
to open the expanse of unspooling
night
that is the imagination unleashed
***
Slow the insistent breath and listen
The lower the threshold the more
We know there is never pure silence
Only degrees of dismissal as the air
Molecules ring
from high to low, it takes a constant toll
***
The fulcrum of smooth imprints
dissolve to pixels, there is no need
to blink, the eyes are closed, the fight
to see faces begins, they are sketches
in shadow, negative
relief, the engravings digest each other
a panoply of pandering stills seize
in black and light
slow the breath and look
there is no pitch filled pool
in which meditation can gaily swim
with eyes closed open to spontaneous combustion
Withering depths/dried
Yellow rose without life
Does not relinquish its beauty
As petals become dry paper
Pigments change from sun to sunset
The fragility commands distance
as the setting beckons.
***
In the frosted leaded crystal vase
The sands of the past solidify
The rosy stained imperfect grains
that holds the thorny bent stem
As the leaves sharpen to points
The indifferent container mocks the rosy sand
As sunshine through the dirty window
High-lights the death when beauty intensifies
post-bloom.
Bladed weapons
Occam’s razor dulls on the sharpening stone of ego
Easily chipped if hit hard enough
A slice, a laceration of logic seems straight
But a cut of truth can be infected.
As those who hold the blade