Crackling criss-crossing blue in mind. It scissors down the lanes through the pipes and tubes and little dividers. Electrical mind numbing beauty. Veins-bursting in excited anticipation. Convulsions and scenic skittering routes. Into the Nexus! Here simmers what we are thinking and believing. Our mind's eye focuses and drips into the pool until completion. Psionic figures dance flicker through life existence. Pulse-width fluctuations. Tiny menagerie of our Will. Scribbling through dusted panes of time interface. All afire with ourselves once we have discovered ourselves. Nano-tech emotions. Hope fear anger mercy curiosity buzzing swarms of grey goo jibbering and bubbling in an artificial mind-****. What is all this allusion? Nothing complicated. Speculation on future times where sensual technological biological singularity is paramount. In my room where the clocks are taped over and the sun is dark and dim. Through the windows I see myself. The boxes on the floor emanate simple clickings with melodies intertwined casually. I myself appear redundant. I have done this and so have others. To discuss oneself is worthless unless you become convinced you are another entity gazing back across the room. I feel I am being watched. I become cautious as he may have noticed. Tingling weightlessness tickles in waves in both heads. The Jazz Classic appears. Old dark men and women in hazy environments. Organic supposition or cold observation? Both hold importance so let us appreciate it all. The cello quivers and hums with vibration. Fingers callused and riveted like the age-old corn field bother still strings. A child hums to just myself. What does he want? I never asked him for an audience. Yet he freely gives it to me. Now he multiplies. Or she? Children confuse and cause one to be apprehensive. Nothing and silence. Silence in movement. Cease my visual stimulation for a couple seconds each. The child is back. What does he speak? Pray inside the rubble? Heal in this place? In disgrace? I do not know. His octaves are meshing together. Whining and thrumming with strange alterations. Some madmen tweaks my ears. Maybe he knows the child? I'm not sure. Let us continue on. The flute is the child. Old cello, you have stopped? These musings mean nothing. I would look upon them in a year and think nothing of it. Yet it feels as if this time is important. Da Vinci knocks on the door. Not as if I wanted to talk to it. Wouldn't mind I suppose. He is gone. We talked but I do not remember the conversation. Perhaps we've all talked but we just don't remember our conversations. That's ridiculous though. Then anything is possible. We could have flown to the moon on scarlet weasels outfitted with the latest nano-pores that secreted pure liquid indulgence. And we did because I just imagined we might have. However, I don't remember actually doing it. Just what I thought it might have been like. How frustrating. My thoughts are the same as all others who write out their thoughts when under the influence of yourself. It always seems like some thing is scuttling near my feet or under the nightstand; just out of view. Strange. I would be afraid. No reason to fear that which doesn't bother me. No reason to fear much of anything. That's been said before. Why are we so often concerned with saying that which has been said before? Cliche? auump-ump auump-ump auump-ump little thumping noise in my ears. That vibration is calming. Every night I am awake. Every day I seem asleep. I do not like it but I do not care yet I allow it to be what it will. Vision defaults to out of focus. My eyes always cross if I cease trying to control them. People are strange. Animals are strange. Same thing I guess. Someone will find that clever. Someone will find it cliche. This someone won't care. ****** fantasy permeates day to day. More entertaining than living a fantasy though. ***. Not that entertaining. Perhaps no one knows how to do it properly anymore. Maybe we never did. Maybe some people are just disenchanted with it. When I'm by myself, I never have any ****** desire. When around others, I generally think of it out of curiosity: what would it be like to please the person in front of me? The only enjoyment I've had with *** would consist of pleasing another or observing another ****. The human body is intriguing. Definitely. I really do think so. Sometimes I look at my own. Not out of appreciation really. Just the fact that I have body allows me to investigate it and understand it more. Pain is merely a stage one can get past, so I suppose I injure myself sometimes to see how I react. It's like I need to check I'm still working properly. I can't tell when I'm tired. I feel something, but when I ask myself if I'm tired, I murmur back, "I don't know." Maybe that is why I stay up till early mornings? I wanted to add again that the human body is beautiful and unappealing all in the same space. Perhaps the unattractiveness and softness and strangeness produces attraction. A negative and a negative equals a positive. Three negatives likes to fluctuate. In my mind at least. I may ask another to remove their clothing and whatnot during those intimate moments. Eh, never quite feel like having *** though. I like the emotions and sensuality of just looking at someone. They usually want to physically play around with each other. I think I enjoy fighting more. One day I'll leave everyone except I'll reminisce on those I enjoyed meeting. Maybe come back and visit? I would like to ride something quickly through an empty desert. Find my own food and water. Create shelter. Think by myself. My room is the smallest desert I have and the biggest. I have more in my head but I only occupy one at a time. I suppose I like I do like things like all others. I mean, materials can be nice. If I impart meaning on to an object it gains importance. I see it vital to also say that if it were to be lost, then I wouldn't mind and I would obtain something else or nothing at all.The constitution. Just mentioned by some woman in my room. Or in my ears would be more correct. Constitutional Rights. I honestly don't see the need for them. I was criticized for burbling that once. We should not need a constitution. We should be able to do what we like to do without fear or concern. Unless natural fear and concern appears. Now that may confuse a bit. Right to bear arms. I shouldn't have to be told or allowed to massive bear arms if I feel the need to have them. Big hairy bear arms. Curious little mishap. Freudian slip as Johnny said once? Danger Danger. Anyway, Right to bare arms. I shouldn't have to be told, as I look back,  go back and throw in that comma after told, that I'm allowed to bare arms and defend myself. I'll just do it if the need arises. Freedom of speech. That already has many issues these days. However, there shouldn't have been a need to tell people they have freedom of speech. Speech should have been freely allowed and never oppressed in  the first place. Theme? We have erred so much in the past and I would think sometimes we ignore that and just try make little cosmetic fixes by saying it's okay. Another point. Hold that: side discomfort. I sometimes feel like a little spider or creature is crawling or skittering on my leg under the covers or I'll change the music to Galaxy 2 Galaxy 90's hi-tec jazz there we go. Done! Now back! Or I forget what I said about the spiders. Another point: what? ******, curse damnable ****. Can't recollect what it was I was connecting together. Something that tied in to deceiving people into things are okay. I could go on about consumerism and all that jazz. Instead I'm listening to some techno-jazz whatever-decided-to-call-it. Hyphenated phrases are fun when I decide they are appropriate. English and grammar in such can be cool but at the same time I want to say **** it and stay proper. Do both. Acknowledge how to write and speak "correctly," but as long as someone understands what you are trying to say, then why correct more? Someone large doesn't like the fact I make a lot of noise in the morning. I stole some speakers and subwoofer from the room next to me as I was going to say Austin.  They are on the floor and whichever large person lives below me is probably annoyed or was. I don't spend any of my actual time despising them, but I'll easily say I despise them when someone asks. Otherwise it isn't worth wasting time on. Perhaps the vibration quivers downstairs and shakes them silently. The greate beast is perturbed and sneaky vibrations cause electro-annoyance! Her pulsewidth as I understand it must be like a super-saw as I think it. Silence. Some woman said it's just a feeling. HEA not sure what why I put that sounds like a garageband song. Switched to Inspiration! That is what I did this night. Finally start writing and making things again. Even though I never did and always did. My head sometimes hurts from thinking. Never truly though. Gotta say those things to keep the conversation going. That is really the only reason I say anything. To keep the conversation going. Otherwise I'd just watch people and be just fine. Just yelled "bahh," out loud (didn't sound the comma) because I felt the need or the want. Same. Wrong keys erased. sdas=a====dddddddddd Sorry. Oh well. Oh My. How the time flies goodbye. Going nowhere. Could write more but I felt the slight flicker of wanting to stop. So I do. What an ending. Now I'm only typing to continue the conversation with myself. Just thought ******* sounds good melody. Do as I sayt way to go good job. STOPSDMFA

****** a

Guess I'll read this little conundrum I wrote up. Stop writing ******. Stop EDITING

dear old sir, poor father of mine
you've left me quite alone
all on my very own
I don't miss too much

dear father
I don't miss you

dear sister
I don't trust you

dear mother
it's not a bit real

there's a little baby bird with a hold on you

dear baby bird, sly thing you
with your man, watching clear and strong
may I take him along?

For my eyes are starlight black
With those spirits on my back
Somebody must be watchin'
As we dance these wicked tunes

Old eyes rise
Sun slowly opens upon a room
Old bones shift and creak and shiver into motion
red-veined eyes flit about
focus on this and that
figure stubbornly drifts
over here and over there
amidst it all: a blinding surface
white canvas, stretched until it can stretch no more
glaring, screaming, pleading, suggesting
more and more intense at every moment
the room is the canvas
ancient eyes lock themselves upon the intensity
Ancient, dark, spindly hands push through the air
the canvas is a searing vision
the spindles pluck at the liquid colour
carefully dipping into the pools
collision of vision and now...passion
dark, flowing hands, delicate, fingers drift over canvas
a soft, dripping, spindle presses itself into the blinding intensity
bright passions left in its wake
there is no room
only vision
there is no ancient
no age
only passion
passion permeates the vision
grabs it and throws it about
threads it through the medium
the room is filled with passion
the canvas fills the eyes
intensity shaking those creaking and creeping joints
spindles, whisk to and from the colour and the vision
specks of passion, drops of vision speckle the room
time clicks
a light dims
a canvas is no more
a vision lives
ancient, wise eyes drift away
sun drifts it's way closed
a figure creeps it's way to a small, rugged mat
old, ancient, red-veined, dark, knowing, wise eyes set
tomorrow is another canvas

Listen to the bell's toll
It brings solace to the soul
The imps of my fitful slumber
Hope to drag me in the deep of sleep
Awakening to the noon of day
I leave my house with no delay
Hoping to find the one I love, dream of
Upon the stone from where she lays
As I rush into the sea of granite
The tombstones' voices drown my thoughts
A hundred murders, a thousand deaths
Accusations, reveries, pleadings
They cloud my mind
And I embrace darkness.
I feel the chilling touch of winter's baby soft breath
As I rise to my feet
To find myself in front
Of my long lost lover's
Final retreat
A heathen's breath descends upon
My heaving breast
As I claw the cursed ground, oh, the cursed ground,
Away from this place of solemnity
‑­
As the final clod of dirt is removed, in an air of infallibility
I hope to obtain a glimpse of my dearest
Only to find those accursed pits of black like a pool of tainted water

With hair like limpid worms in the night
And that ghastly nightmare grin,
Mocking my very existence to see whom I seek
In a terrible rage, I shred, I tear, I smash, and render the Beast
Indistinguishable in any form
I fling myself into the streets
Tearing thru the crowds
Vaulting over and thru the market stalls
To find my wild flight halted by a pair of
Panicked citizens hoping to alleviate my obvious distress
Only now in a flash of mental shock
That throws me close to an unconscious state
Does the realization of my actions ascend to my heavens
And as the citizens holding me let go
I myself let go
Of everything and everyone that matters
Or should matter to me
Stumbling, hoping to hold my balance along the precipice
From which my mind has already cast itself
‑­
I once again see a dripping, searing red rage cloud my vision as the madness
That had taken me among the tombstones returns
Swatting aside those near me
I approach the river that runs thru the city
And staring into the depths
I see the creature that I had become
A haggard defeated man that had succumbed to the
Eternal darkness that engulfs everyone in time
And I see my love, the one who I had sought for so long
Alongside this poor creature that is within me
Her presence is all that I can now perceive
And I let my grasp on this world
Decay, and as I sink into the depths
My love approaches and embraces me

In the final act of Love

In the final act of Life

In the only act of Death.

Sweet owl!
Flown to me
right inside my eyes
I can't ****** anymore
but I say I'd love to bleed you dry

This knowledge is astounding
I could just cry or try at least

I've let out a moonlight sigh
these furtive festering dreams inside
right between my eyes
but the owl is in my pocket
so lets peel apart my eyes

and even though I might try try try
we never stop looking at the sky

Try men's souls. Provocative mind-whip how you soothe me. I scorn modern poetry...not because it is truly bad or truly good. It just makes me feel as if my pores are ever-expanding with clicking, skittering, masses of insects.

Black shiny minuscule monstrosity.
Beautiful in gritty grotesque.

A lamb lights upon the searing dark-light torch...**** them all with glee

No pity or remorse towards humans humanity human nature,
we are disgusting creatures until I cease thinking about us.
Then we are interesting and subject to more discovering and journeying.

Take the child and expose it to everything at once; it shrivels and mumbles distant screams of flaming cliches combined with a burning shot of plasmatic soul searching. How would we approve of such?

Inside the black brown shriveled parchment child-casing: The other children are ignorant. My crooked cracked being shivers disgustingly. I hate them instantly. Not hate. A rigid viscous feeling. Rip apart the sublime ape. She-he in all splendid obsession. Strive, then, no more to ape the emblems of the spirit that was, but evoke anew that spirit in modern life.

I, we trust none. Drama drama dramatic dramatically dramatical in all appearances, but truly flat-line non expressionist.

I love only once.

Burn them and their wicked kindness.
I will soothe my satisfactions and live love only once.

My Muse is the riptide chainsaw hackslash terror of our generation. Reveling in the natural ones. The rocks  scrape phrases up of graves and trees wickle waveringly with pleadings of insane sleeps.

How beautiful is nature. That it can reduce us to nothing at all and raise us upon our grandest delusions.

I love to despise of women's voices. Androgyny is revelation worthy. Epiphany causing in romanticism.
I love to desire my emotional and mental consumption.

she is grandeur made flesh
epiphany constituted within reach
glorious
*******, you sweet, sweet *******
this soul will rest
not mine, not ours
it will take rest and tendril itself through all

love commissions such things
what ****** soul
She I Cannot Resist

A point
sequence
perchance a pattern
things constantly intertwined
perfect circle
golden ratios
where there are 2's there are 3's

but in the end...mystics

Our lady & father as named in scripture

sequential gatherings
we join as community worshipers

there are patterns as I walk
numbers as we talk
non-believers gather on us
Herald, we walk as words from your mouth into eternal
shall we seek forth that which repeats onto itself, changing again and again into familiarity?
Or has it been found already?
Perhaps before the eye could see it or the mind conceive it.

We take hope upon the chance
That this is but the process into something, we have finished in ages past
For what would it be to know the answer, without the how, without the meaning?
We may know the how, given time,
however the meaning hasn't been seen yet & the purpose has faded as other things become clear.
Must there always be this strict balance?

Perhaps the comprehension of such balance is a sect, missing among a unitary spiral of knowledge.

Always this path is uncertain, I navigate it as much as can be done, but this vessel is fickle & prone to deranged bouts of change.

As I think, breathe, see, hear, vibrate, pulse, fluctuate with life...there is nothing and I revel in it.

slight music
quite instrumentals slither through the space

now an ethereal silence and a curled, gnarled hand rest at the table
weather-worn pockmarked face twitch
a common occurrence
a scene worthy of a masterful painter
the air sighs, not in sound but in feeling
it is demure, languid,
a seamless bond of hunched figure and wispy breaths
a heart feels light and hollow with pulsating winds surrounding it
a man's hide tingles, prickles
pores gently widen in anticipation

a boxed room
a shackle room
dark, yet for the dim lantern
and a speckling of pinpoints in ever shifting pupils
patterns shift with tightening skin, hackles raised
billowing smoke against snarling and jolting

our West is not kind

a child stumbles with its chittering and chattering, back into its hole
an equalizer delicately rocks upon the floor
hot in its despondence and billowing smoke barrel
the metal becomes cold, uncaring; what despair was impacted upon it has left, as is the same with all objects subject to human emotion

Old blood sleeps in the shackled room
with chattering mumbling children in their holes

life is but glorious process, while we all wish for results
how deplorable

A point.
sequence
perchance a pattern
things constantly intertwined
perfect circle
golden ratios
where there are 2's there are 3's

but in the end...mystics

Our lady & father as named in scripture

sequential gatherings
we join as community worshipers

there are patterns as I walk
numbers as we talk
non-believers gather on us
Herald, we walk as words from your mouth into eternal
shall we seek forth that which repeats onto itself, changing again and again into familiarity?

Or has it been found already?
Perhaps before the eye could see it or the mind conceive it.

We take hope upon the chance this is but the process into something we have finished in ages past
For what would it be to know the answer, without the how, without the meaning?

We may know the how, given time,
however the meaning hasn't been seen yet & the purpose has faded as other things become clear.
Must there always be this strict balance?

Perhaps the comprehension of such balance is a sect, missing among a unitary spiral of knowledge.

Always this path is uncertain, I navigate it as much as can be done, but this vessel is fickle & prone to deranged bouts of change

As I think, breathe, see, hear, vibrate, pulse, fluctuate with life...there is nothing and I revel in it

Fever clutched down
grasp again and I'll make it
furtive glance around
I shiver

You have, dead grey surface pores that gasp and pull
we try to breathe through, but you **** in and control
all the while radiating that fever feeling
of a surface wide fever-catch reality
that awful feeling
all for the sake of continued neutrality

I yell, but you take it

a clamorous reduced warbling of my own voice drawn into grey gasping caverns
you see nothing with that pockmarked visage, but I've still one good eye
I'm blind as any fool but I can fake it
screeching truth through bland ciphers
dreaming on and on
it won't be long till I break it

You've still got some sort of hold on me,
but you know I'll make it.

Walking
Talking
Seeing
Breathing
Living
Loving!

Little boy all eyes wide open.
Spinning head with 360 beauty all about!
The world is alive,
He says,  "Oh! What to do with such a wondrous day!"

If I remember correctly, there was a slight pause in the day. A little boy enthralled with the world floated above in the still air. One skimpy leg outstretched with ragged shoelaces and an expectant weight.
Then, a plunge!

The street I lived on hadn't been repaired in years, and right at the end of it a large hole had developed in the nearby grass. Perhaps a sinkhole of some sort. There was a little boy who ran around our street for a few weeks. I used to wave hello. Now I never see him. How strange.

Art is delicate
yet it will tear you open

a silent night spent pondering
with music lapping at your ears in the distant background of a room
when that one wicked note appears...that frustrating, elating, releasing, infuriating, frantic passion!

You think to manifest something,
No! It takes a hold of you! That thing!
It throws you on the floor and you let it run!

Muttering, you grab your medium, you gaze at it, witnessing visions of those particular fantasies cascading around your brain and throwing themselves through your eyes! Words roar onto the page, taking their rightful place in this creative freedom. Perhaps there is colour, a photo, a leaf, some of yourself that has drip-fallen from the wounds in your brain! Giant cerebral colour crevices torn open to let thought, love and ideals flow out! They will close up and heal stronger than ever. However, you first must empty yourself into it all.

Time is up.

Slumped back against your life you can gaze upon this thing that has shown itself to you, perhaps you thank it for giving you a chance with such passion. Then you can return to what it is you do in the mean time. Waiting for that delicate thing, that is always there, but thrums and hums with your creative spirit in waiting, until it is delicate no more.