If you take away
pain, what's a slave?
If you take away perceptions,
what's a cave?
If you take away a shadow, it's some
other emptiness seated on a throne.
If you move one boulder, theres an even heavier misconception
weighing on your own.
If there is one whole truth, it is true to be you, in everything you answer, ask or do.
No matter how
worthless, selfish, or crude.

Gilded sun, black hole me
endless thoughts-endless weeds
the more these men burn
through my shaking sands of hand
the less it hurts to burn

Ripe old earth, what
what stories may you tell
what of pain, what of heaven
what of war, what of hell?
My story is being written
in every ****** road I walk
along a liar's web of arsenic
and milk white chalk.

There is one thing true to me
and that is being a fraud,
as waters bear witness
below to shadow of
a false god
-Me.

The only thing that helps
is to burn, burn in pleasure
when the hour suits,
be pleasing to strangers
to seem familiar, and
strange to be invincible.

Treasure among words,
blizzard wanting to
be heard, Queen of
the consonants, purveyor
of sound, painter of the
first flower. First to be loved,
First to be Forgotten.
In the kernel  of everywhere
and everness, she confides
like iron, quivering like frozen
thunder, waiting to empty
everything noiseless.

The hardest thing to endure
is to be a Coward. My broken metal
wings resonate like angered antennas.
My soulful dirge drags painfully moaning
in the swamp that I call my courage.
There is a swollen whale
in the needle of my eyes.
Nobody but I can pacify
the whale out.

It is not as though,
I can't cry, but I could
all the time. My lame steps
stop short of breath, these desiccated
lungs are swallowed by smoke
by fire that isn't there.

I hide again for the enclosure
of my cave guides me back like
a false messiah.

As long as I am religious
to my sulking fear, then
I am continuing to collapse.

Build me again so I may begin to
deserve to be afraid.

There was a time, when you
walked with your
heart on hand, shinning.
Nothing could impart
you, but then as a poison,
Civilization toppled your
walls  screamingly and bore
its burden upon your arms
and spirit.

Bounded, they spat on you,
shackled you with their insults.
They called you Beast,
but in your own way,
you were anything, but
slaven.

You are conflagration, but
Civilization consumes you,
mutiny creeps in the cells
of your veins, you hope to
strangle it and charm
the world as yours.

You are expected
to be a saint, but you are
anything but saintly.
You are a raw torrent of velocity
-you await to burn dry the world
of its own criminal flood, the
very one that binds you.

They deny you, to be any
part of god, but god's machinery
is nothing but cosmic, ******, profane
blasphemy, hunger, goliath, mutiny,
unbroken.

These images, this
love grows shattered
between us.
What never was
always refuses to return
What never was
always burns
what could grow
between us.

Nothingness is
pregnant with misery,
questions and answers
buried under
sand and cries of wind.

Questions may never
know their answers
when estranged by distance.

Questions once
estranged make more
questions and such questions
multiply unimpeded,
until they starve themselves
for lack of answers.

Your answer suspends
itself as gold,
in the pendulum of
infinity, the treasure
immense, far beyond
any such reach as you,
yourself could ever allow.

You could bring
our love to deliverance.
You could crash the famine
between us. You could
reconcile the answers
and resolve the questions.
Once quenched, these questions
cancel their thirst.

We could be disastrous together
or I could be a disaster
alone. But, this is the world our love
lives in:

Our children that may
never be,
that we may never have, putrefy in
nothingness of bone.

Our words that we may
never utter,
gallop upon the
hooves
of failed horses.

The kisses that may never meet,
that we may never share,
stir upon frozen waves
of reflectless waters.

This house, our love
which never stood,
waits to rise, vacantly
in a forest of nothing.

Facts are Poison-
There is nothing as poisonous as ash dead, cold-hearted
facts. When the first Pedantic was brought into the world,
he took with him his axe and his facts, and axed
anything that conspired against him, for he idolized
the rigors of science and wished to emulate scientific method
, so that he may properly pollute the minds of artists by reassuring them
they are constantly misguided- literature is meant to be abstract
and remote. Therefore, it is necessary for the Pedantic to interpret literature. He set artists to be bound in chains and set them to
mine mountains of literature. His purpose is to cannibalize art to shreds, **** the aspirations of artists, so that they may never reach the heights of their own magnificence.