Feet clench when meeting the cool tile, Cold feet make way
to the trying wooden floor boards with subdued creeks
On a level so high up, there are two sets of thick glass
and a city just beyond my reach
This is where I rise and ponder at all hours of ever
aimless to the point of seeking something further
Than what my eyes have always sought
Waking searching heart beat ripples
grating fear dark moans my questions spiral on
Into tunnels where the Gods play life or death
and the air about them is so unapologetic
the sterile resistance of the catacomb becomes
Unaware
Can you hear it?
Chaos till the calm, the still
adrenaline on the breeze, the pulse
The hand grasping the arm in an attempt to relax
Me me me
Oh' you see me but do you empathize?
My defiance is as aimless as existence itself
meaning from something closer
Than what my mind has fought
The cure is liquid clear and precise
the instrument holds the sharpest alleviation
Potent in my veins I can feel sleep puncturing
Pure sedation, and now I grow quiet, still again
what's that word? "Indifferent"
Indentured to the sterile glow of the catacomb
I'm sure the needle would at least apologize
for all of these misunderstandings
Constantly within their mind.
Immortality
is such an idiotic
idea. Fuck that shit.
Thoughts of prolonging
life through vegetables &
tea are greedy. sighs
I do those things cause
they taste delicious, & I
work out to feel good.
But I drink, often.
I smoke occasionally.
My body's been through hell.
I'd rather die tomorrow
than live to be like
100 years old.
My mind shutters
to think what this world will be
like at that point. sighs
I don't want to live too long,
I'll know when my time
is up, hopefully.
My mom says "frick"
or "fiddlesticks"
even when kids aren't around.
She's holding in
some of that pure, unfiltered rage
each time a plate is dropped
or toe is stubbed.
If only she'd just shout "OH FUCK!"
she wouldn't lash out
at grandma or sob uncontrollably later.
Someone once said to me, "Fuck you!"
and I was happy.
It means they won't murder me in my sleep
because they expressed verbal and not physical rage.
I was happier when someone told me "go fuck yourself"
because I went home and did just that.
Speaking of pleasure,
the act of fucking
burns between 85-250 calories,
improves sleep & your immune system.
Google it.
I've been fucked;
a realization &/or learning experience
having gone broke without a way to pay rent
resulting in the lesson of moving back in with the parents.
We can get fucked up.
A couple too many tokes &/or shots of gin &/or punches to the face.
We learn the perils of excess.
In third grade, I was fucked up by a group of 6-7 kids.
I learned I never want to experience THAT
uncomfortable feeling again.
Why is fuck such a bad word again?
As this world wretches behind the piles of our institutional bones, I turn to look the other way.
When the beggars graze my pant leg, I don't stop mid stride and feign over their disparity,
For gaining the holy marksmen’s approval. When Judas kissed sanctity’s cheek beside the frames of broken-hearted men, I shook the feeling from my sleeve.
And I no longer feel guilt, shame,
Out of mere cerebral obligation.
So, have me for a worthless sinner. I will fall to the dust before I bring myself to stand beside the husks of humanity that so many have become; spewing their filth on unfortunate blindfolded men, expecting me to follow suit.
Well, fuck off, kindly.
I’m living for the god that answers to no titles, and parsonages none of these black suited scumbags. I’m living for the god that inspires harmony, and lifts my fingers to dance for liberation, and pleasure, and hopeless longing. I’m living for the god of progress who shakes pieces of enlightenment from his gray beard, and swallows up the offerings of his every wounded child.
I’m living for the god of no religion,
Never saying
“God,”
For this name is tainted by old customs.
Cheapened by the misguided nature of man.
Sometimes there’s a line
that we have to respect
because we can’t forget
those who raised us
made us
Sometimes there’s a line
we cannot ignore
because of certain morals
we were born with
live within
Sometimes there’s a line
we shouldn’t cross, but do
because of who we are
as we don’t realize
everyone’s line
is measured
differently.
Sometimes there’s
a line
that nobody thought
to cross
until…someone does
& then
the masses either crucify or celebritize
depending on pop-culture references.
There’s always a line
somewhere,
we just
have to
choose
where
we
want
to be
aligned.
Collecting knives Fantasizing steroid use
Patriarch Society indulges mass rape
to produce An uncaring chain of follow blindly
Hoard money buy my new CD wanna be skinny
God says my Dick is small in need of a pyramid scheme
Your problem is your not standard like me
I guess it's an imbalance, maybe I need steroids
Maybe I should just collect knives
And fantasize
Oh the things I could be!
Late night TV.
I
A playing raging guitar
Of a kid with taboo thoughts
The first cigar
Who fired shots of dots...
Don’t care and
The revolt of caring
Be scared and
Be the scare!
The acquaint of survival
The wrath of revival
Is everywhere
Anywhere, not visible too
The wrath is the root of trouble
But the root of solution is not wrath
II
A desire so
Excessive,
Rapacious and
Overweening
Of wealth
A pursuit so
Excessive,
Rapacious and
Overweening
Of status
A need so
Excessive,
Rapacious and
Overweening
Of power
A greed so greedy
III
Slaves of virtual reality
To whom dictatorship is not real
To whom liberality, brutality and unreality
Is not real
But the ticking clock is not sloth
Tick-tock, Tick-tock
Men who walk toward sloth
Tick-tock, Tick-tock
'till old growth
Tick-tock
Loath
Tock
IV
Sit idly-by low self-esteem
Caused by lack of vulgar
Translated to scheme
And unfortunate dream
For achieving an alleged excellency
Or a lengthy and empty possession
What frenzy
And all for envy
V
Advertising
On bus stops
On train stops
On metro stops
On everything that stops
To make you stop
And start
Over-consumption
Over-indulgence
Over everything
Obesity!
Wealthy
Withholding from the needy
From what they really need
Advertising gluttony
VI
A feature of abstinence
Leads to a lack of extravagance
But there are no angels
Only fallen angels
Or angels about to fall
A feature of desire
Leads to an higher feature
Noisy or hushed
It can't be crushed
It's just fuel swallowed
A tool for lust
VII
Pride is divergent
A dreadfully enemy
Or an inside allied
Pride is divergent
Anything goes.
Tonight, anything goes.
Anything goes
In this misty midst of
Shell-shock lights through deceptive darkness,
And adhesive spiderweb floors,
silky smooth and trapping the dizzy flies
Who are writhing and twirling
And believing that this is IT,
That they are living right now
And now alone
Before they are devoured.
Man in trainers swoops towards the floor
(He's flying, he's finally flying)
Ready to let the spider,
Seductive poisonous spider,
And her silky silky voice
That only just masks the clicking
Of her sharp sharp pincers
Swallow him whole.
I have seen the empty eyes of
This undernation of tiny tiny
Swaying dancers who don't feel the cold
And so the cold no longer feels them.
The man in trainers will keep
On and on, swirling with delusions
Of sexy, sexual appeal,
Groaning senseless with half-shut eyelids
Until he ends up splattered,
Dignity dripping down his legs,
Against an off-white city wall.
I have seen myself in empty eyes
And have known what it means
To be a butterfly pinned
By the heart behind a pane of salty glass.
The lonely slivers of blood left struggling
In this people's poison streams
Don't reach the heart anymore.
Blood is thicker than water
(water.. please, water)
And poison is positively viscous,
Bubbling torpid and hot through
Sluggish veins and brains that no longer
Register what is real.
The lovebirds singing, each to each,
Cannot be heard above the beat beat beat
Of lightning drums that were never hit
And don't exist except for in the pulsing waves
Of foggy and permeated smoke-air.
I have become the empty-eyed mass,
Then awakened and sucked the poison from the wound
With sickened stomach,
Only to realise that these undead
Leave it festering there, along with
Thick, hardened, creamy bedsheets
And rotten, rotting cores
Where love and faceless, careless sex
Aren't different
Anymore.
self-righteous souls
saved from the
everyday run
of the world
skulking throughout
the shadows
cast by the
most holy
fallacy
grasping at
the lost the
unknowing and
the damned
who don't accept
their beliefs as
irrefutable excuses
to be pretentious
oh how far you will fall when brought low from your exalted pedestal
down on your knees, covered in the wretched filth of the masses
that you had gazed down upon in all you hypocritical glory
everyone looks the same when your eyes have been gouged out
you bleed the same as everyone when your too-godly heart is removed
you liar, you snake,
you backstabbing fuck,
hidden behind
accepting smiles
go forth and
be righteous!
go forth and
beat down the weak!
go forth and fill
the world with
your treacherous,
blasphemous rage!
pray for the
strength to fell
the wicked
non-believers
pray to keep
a closed mind
and to be
unwavering
in your silent
hate, mistrust, and
suspicion of all those
different from you
pray to keep your teeth sharp
to devour those deemed less holy than thou
and go to a fitful, dreamless sleep at night
confident in the knowledge that you are saved
First,
Thank you for this poetry, precious intellect.
For employing each muse, under no objection--
Working hard so that the words in my head can sing their celebrations
As if without effort,
And take their leave in abstract
Unity.
Second,
Thank you for my pain, you lying motherfucker.
Every time I fall under the spell of night silence,
Unencumbered by those solemn realities,
Somehow, still, I long to be bound in the ribbons of mental garrulousness.
Because damn,
It'd sure be hard to write without any words--
Without the consequences of this troubled mind.
So, it looks like you’ve found a convincing way to pitch the worth of suffering.
And Darlin’, I suppose that
I'll be the buyer of your generic brand of heartache--
Never cared for that top-shelf quick n’ done despair anyway.
I must just have a pallet for lingering bitterness.
Third,
Thank you for this herb, mother nature.
For the improvisational song that it sings in my veins,
Tuning out prosaicism’s drone.
For the rocking motion of my psyche
That starts when the rapid and the slow converge,
And the configuration of the fourth dimension warbles me to sleep
In a chorus of veins—
Conveying each of life’s cadences,
All in vain
Of what I myself
Ordain.
