hang futile objects
   and applaud the bursting of their vessels
   nod with approval their reddening eyes
   as life is drained and colour destroyed
   clear blue or jade
   now messed up and strained
   burst screaming out of the skull
   commend the death of things
   that we,
   the sitters of chariots
   the masters of dogs
   the burners of oil
   have no use for
   that we,
   who redesigned nature
   can not benefit from
   we,
   who for ourselves
exist
and conduct the orchestra             of an axel´s
turn

Chased alone by Exterior Judgment he found himself face to face with The Mirror,
Its surface winked at him, but the person who stared back from within did not.
And then came his Interior Judgment. He asked of The Mirror,

“Phase me out,
Obfuscate me,
Obliterate this judgment I feel.
Make me concrete
against which solitude will
beat its relentless fist
so that I will no longer bleed or bruise”

And so came his christening, the depth of shallow water.
For years he paddled and splashed there knowing his time would come,
Because this was where real pleasures lurked, just beyond his reach.

“Cloak me here,
Keep me invisible to all,
Except those who matter,
And then take me blindly to my coffin”

And one day, while he lay in the pool, he felt the world’s foot on his back,
And he gasped for air, though for what use he didn’t know.
Years later when he finally captured his breath, the only words left were:

“Make it stop.
Make it stop.
Make it stop.”

And now he stares back into The Mirror and the Mirror glares back.
And he wonders who he could’ve been.
Where all those years had been spent.

Misery is an unrelenting downward escalation.
The heaviness of trapped energy becomes real weight,
it drags you down and fastens you into position,
a relaxed position, though you are not relaxed.
Placed this way, you burn as unstable chemicals burn,
fall as heavy objects fall when dropped by those
who possess them.
You are abandoned.
Left to stew in this pit of flames.
Those you danced and laughed with stop holding you hand,
for who would wish to cling to a burning thing?
This is why you deal with The Issue alone.
Because those who claim not to need anybody are liars
who wish to justify their solitude,
who wish to bury the fact that their companions,
when proven incapable of helping, no longer wish to help.
Alone, you are disgusted with them.
But now you understand. You do not act as they do
when the black clouds part because you have gained more
alone than they ever will together. And when you see
the blue sky again and regain your ability to fly
you will forever leave them and theirs behind.

Torn between a hundred mindsets,
never resting on one.
See-sawing back and forth,
swinging high and low.
Spinning on the roundabout,
experiencing a thousand views and one.
There's no black and white.
Who would want to see in such binary vision
when the multitudinous colours are
incomprehensibly twisted and ugly
and so rich and beautiful?
Duality? Quadrupality? Infinitality.

They don't care why.
They don't care why.
You can laugh maniacally,
burst in screaming, burst out crying,
and they will look at you cheaply.
You can lie fetal and slam
your fist down repeatedly.
And they won't care why.
They don't have the patience
or the sympathy, to dissect it.
They act in a societal manner
and expect you to reflect it.
The only thoughts your outburst
evokes in them are those of how
their lives are affected.
They don't care why.
They don't care why.

Life is not hateful. Nature is.

A person can't make It happen so
he acts as a shark and moves without remorse, though
a mere ten second's contemplation
and emotional, intellectual understanding
of the things he, without sorrow, ignites in his wake,
would be enough to force his hand to
tie that well deserved noose and slip it around
his slimy neck and hang himself dead.
He, much like a snake, is deaf to the
screams of those he has bitten, and blind
to the ruin behind him. His one track mind -
his selfish mind - which blocks out all that his nature doesn't wish
for him
to acknowledge - does
for him
what is convenient
for him.
Eliminates the reality
for him.
That is his nature's wish.

They say that psychologically we all got triggers,
but they're just part of the guns to our heads.
A day job requires you to hit certain figures
and in that regard those triggers are all pulled

simultaneously

I don't say it lightly, the lot of us are simply doomed
if we stay here. And truthfully that's what I dread.
The fact that we never move from this ******* room
is a constant testament to our nature.

our divine comedy

Have we become futile? To tell you the truth, probably.
Who did that? Them or us? Who tossed away the toast
and handed us the dry, hi vis laden crusting?
You, my friend. You who tripped. You whose mind

is stripped away

I live in fear
                  and worry.

While I'm here

everything is a slight
                           against me.

                           Noone to go to and
          nowhere to flee

                 The only thing keeping me
   here is money

Tell me all is well
                                        No need
to hurry

But the clock
is ti           ck   ing

                                                                 I can't see

                                                       what I'm mis sing               ?

              nothing matters

                               more
                        than money  ?

Inward fury
The creative jewelry
A mind plagued with fire
As it counts every turgid wire
Time spent here is sorely a waste
The mind surely starts to operate at a slow
and let's be honest
******* pace
**** this place.

Crawling into my own head space
only reminds me of the mediocrity
that climbs the walls of every town and city.
Every thought that races furious around
my brain screams
that I can never be the curious one.
Just the One who observes and never truly
finds his home.
Just the One who whimpers
among those who talk big
and in arrogant tones.

An unfamiliar thing that
never embeds itself in-
to my being.
Talk of arrogance - everyone has it.
Even those who are above it.
Even the One who is not amongst the arrogant,
because he is alone with it. He does not
confide it.
For the One who sits alone confides only in himself
and shares his arrogance with nobody.
Why else would his self indulgent scripture be titled as it is?

**** this feeling.
I thought it was all over and it was,
but today it came reeling
back in, to damage my contentment.
There's no comfort here.
There never was

and never will be.
I thought it was dead to me.
Thought it was all for the best.
Here's to hoping it will die again
and you with it. Here's to hoping
one day my mind will be able to rest.

I’ll only say this once, and once a ******* lone.
There’s a problem to address, and yes, there’s a reason for my tone.
You’ve been prancing around me blissfully, and in a few seconds’ time,
you’ll think of someplace else wishfully. Once I say. Just once.
It’s certainly not fair when I’m the one removing the hair from that hole.
I’m a sick ******* but I have no lust for disgust.
After my mind is perused, I’m angry and confused. The possibility
dawns on me that it could well be your *****.
Or the gel ridden, straw-like hair on your head.
That image fills me with a different kind of dread.
With this in mind, I’ll be shuddering with repulsion,
Trapped later in life with memories of physically indulging
my hand your slimy Barnet. Believe me, that’s not normal hair,
so don’t start telling me to calm it.
Or no…perhaps…

It’s sent my mind searing, it’s ever so weird
to, for one moment, consider that you have the ability of growing a beard.
You’re baby-faced, commonplace, and don’t have a thought worth hearing.
You’re still a child, a mental ******, and to top it off, a beard is now appearing.
Well that’s great. Another thing I have to deal with.
Can you not take care of your own affairs?
If I were you I’d encase all the little hairs
in a purse of some kind, so you’ll always pay mind
to the fact that you now look like a man
despite being a ****. Miraculous. I must say, I’m a fan.
Well I guess now it doesn’t even matter,
your face is bare and the bath tub is spattered. I’m shattered.
This isn’t how I pictured my early years, wasting furious tears over beards.
If only early on I had been told, that eventually I would end up
staring in outrage daily at your beard in the plughole.

The hollow comfort is your ideal state.
When nothing’s lacking or wholly great.
You’re too unhappy to fall behind,
and too content to change.
The small pleasures are the world,
and the societal ‘leisures’ are no longer your mask.

The ecstasy is the excitement. The looming
joy, the ideal and the desired are all it takes to tip you.
It’s a rare and tainted feeling,
where your mind is in the warm clouds, and your feet
are reluctantly rooted to the cold concrete.
It’s easy for the dream to melt into ash and dust,

and once this goes amiss,
you plummet into the gaping abyss,
and the things you cared about before
are already nothing because you’ve tasted much more.
You can’t even see the precipice from amongst the rocks.
A shattered statute shadow. What were you like before?

You can chase it back and do it again.
You know you can climb.
You know it.

Trapped in the anxiety
created by society.
It forged a mist and it won't let us go.

Feel the churning hollow pain
at the centre of your brain.
There's nothing really there,
and if there is, why care?

They'll ask you what the point is,
a question that still taunts us,
but the question makes no difference,
and the judgment has no existence.

Should we, or could we flee?
Will we ever be free?
We run, but it's always near.

The unshifting terror, strapping you down.

When the norm is your night
and your mind operates in blackness,
Where do you stand when the sun rises?