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Apr 18 · 44
What Pain Is
Needed what I never got --

got what no one should have --

now I yearn for what no one should,

and it hurts like
a dog tethered in the yard
barking its fool head off

and no one is coming home
Oct 2020 · 102
The smell
   of smoke from my father's Winston
   in a Datsun Z
   on a hot day in California
        in the summer, the crinkle
        of a bag of chips

with the wind ripping
through the window, a skip
through the cities between
there and home

memories like
ashes in an ashtray
Sep 2020 · 83
Letting go of the pain,
it falls to the earth,

an anchor
to the torment of men,

a world on fire,
where I breathe smoke and dream
of a dreamless sleep.
May 2020 · 130
The wind blows;
turning the sail, I allow
an aimless drifting, between
the billows, caring nothing
for the ****** of the gale

and everything
for the pistoning
of the wave
May 2020 · 103
I put myself in,
partition myself off,
sever the tie.

Separate, umbilically
severed but

still connected at the belly

A vehicle in
the stars, a pair of
legs dangling in

Wandering alone
in the wastes,

with you,
my significance
in the void.
I have not written in years.
Dec 2017 · 954
The Trap
There is always someone watching.
Someone is always there.
We cannot get out. This is the trap.

Everything is known - not by us.
What we have discovered is irrelevant.
Discovery is inevitable by the law of the trap.

Someone is always there.
Someone is always watching.

This is the trap.

We learn in,
we live in,
we enjoy,
we love,
the trap.

We are finished.

Someone is here.
We cannot escape.

Who cares why?

These words
are the last.
Time is over.
Five years old and they
   could not hear me in the backyard --
   I called out, the gate was locked and
  the screen door, mesh frayed at the handle,
  was locked too -- I could see it --
  and they still couldn't hear me and I
     was afraid and the mesh
     was frayed and my little finger
         just barely fit through and then
             aunt Lucy came and made sure
                 that I was punished.

(The reward for my fear was
the most frightening and humiliating
experience of my childhood)

                   I hid.

"Get out here!" my father yelled
and his voice made me flinch and
trembling I unhid.

       my uncle and aunt watched
as my father spanked me
harder and angrier than ever before,

       my uncle and aunt watched
the shock of every blow
through my tiny body

       my uncle and aunt watched
everything let go
and I ****** myself on the floor
in front of them

weeping and violated

I do not remember what was said after

they left the room and
I was alone with my shame
while the sun fell the walls
faded blue the ride home
was silent --

-- all over some torn mesh
      and doors they should not have locked.
I hope it was worth it.
There is naught
which is not
That which is Not
A prayer for the wise.
Aug 2016 · 1.2k
That Awful Itch
When writing about oneself
ceases to scratch that awful
self-absorbed itch,

and the heart realizes
that writing about others
and what they've done to us
is the same itch masked
in a fresh disguise,

the trail of words
leads away from "I"  --

   like breadcrumbs
   dropped at intervals
      for poetic feet
         to follow --

            -- at last finding the untamed

where one is more than a mouthpiece
for sorrow or rage,

   for ignorant opinion or
       self-righteous argument  --

where the horizons are bounded
not by fear but imagination --

The irony: what one keeps thinking about,
one keeps thinking about
convinced that integrity depends
on never letting go.

fettered by a soul
feels sorriest for itself.
Ruminating about oneself and one's problems creates the habit of unhappiness. What we think about shapes our perceptions.

If we think about nothing but ourselves - our comfort, our entertainment, our disappointments, whether others please us - should it be any wonder that life is unfulfilling?

My advice to all seekers of self-knowledge, wisdom, happiness, and truth:

Believe *only* what makes you laugh.
Aug 2016 · 1.6k
The Essential Ayn Rand
Dazzled by
the glamour of robber barons,
   a **** fetishist
      shills for feudal revival
         ambidextrously flogging
      bleach-white equestrian bones
   eventually dying
a looter's death.
Ayn Rand was a Russian-born American novelist, philosopher, playwright, and screenwriter. (via Wikipedia)

Mortified at Trump's presidential campaign, I can't help but think of it as the logical conclusion of garbage philosophy.

The "**** fetishist" thing may seem provocative for those unfamiliar with her work. A review of the *** scenes in The Fountainhead and Atlas Shrugged should provide context.

My partner pointed out that mentioning it at all might be perceived as ****-shaming. She makes a worthwhile point, so to clarify - that's not my intent, and my sincere apologies to anyone who might be offended.

Rather, it seems metaphorically apt as a description of American politics - the powerlessness we seem to display every four years in the torrent of  manipulative, exploitive electoral pandering. When will we finally tire of it?

I imagine Rand would have voted for Trump.
Aug 2016 · 800
Most spend their days
obsessed with themselves:

   how the hair looks,
   do the teeth sparkle,
   what others think of them,
   whether they're happy enough,
   opinions about others' opinions,
   the validity of their arguments
   their educations

   their careers
   their achievements
   their expectations

      their fading youth
      their politics
      their legacy

         their entitlement
         the imminence of irrelevance
         the safeguards against

            their avatars
            their audiences
            their likes

               Biding time with empty
               distractions and temporal
               snares keeping the mind
               oriented to survival.

is what it means
to be self-centered.
Jul 2016 · 715
Woman as a Literary Device
She's a rainbow

-- that rainbow in every
rock song about nothing,
a hidden hook that snares
a sucker's wallet

   *I'm so hot for her, I'm so hot for her

is the philosopher's stone transmuting
garbage lines into shiny trinkets
in desirous minds

   When you're old, nobody will know
   that you was a beauty

         What would pop culture be
         without woman to exploit?

   She's a gooooooood girl
   crazy 'bout Elvis

Obscured, behind
the Micks and Pettys
   the Kellys and Ushers
      the Pauls wailing MAMAAAAA
         the free spirit groupie cliché

is Woman fictionalized
by peacocking pimps
deceptive plumage splayed

is Woman
   sung about
   talked at
   reduced to an abstraction
   dispensed with
   and sold
   and the men
get rich.
Jul 2016 · 607
Frenetic rhythms
smooth, softening and
ripening into
grooves, the space
between notes
now comes-to-presence
in dimensions
younger ears
will someday hear

waiting for unsure
notes to catch up
to the perpetual
pulse of the hidden beat
that drives this ecstatic
dance of self-undoing

a dynamic storyline
within the silent
odeon of an aging heart

where one day
Wisdom will sing
the Beloved to sleep.
Apr 2016 · 1.5k
Past and future daydreams
the delusions of
a present tense.

Unspeakable longing
fills every fissure
and pressure demands
the yielding of limits.

            (a dark torrent bursts forth)

      the shores will recede
      until the island is
      swallowed up by the sea

No survivors remain
when the tide, stemmed
for sakes external,
recapitulates the beachhead.

A great ache fills the land
with anguish, beckons
all beginnings to unite
with the end

      {the memory will fade
      to total silence
      beneath the roar of the waves}

Where wilderness waits
to interpose the tamed.
Apr 2016 · 568
shoving ∅self rudely
over ∅s conspiring back,
was abased, and gave birth
to the cosmos.

Every star,
freshly born, at once
saw the joke and laughed
until they all winked out,

Yet Laughter
lurks in wait --

to shove the dead
into Life.
∅ is the mathematical symbol for an empty set.
Mar 2016 · 1.3k
The Wrong Choice
is a warning
that points to danger --

      that the wrong choice was made
               in baring hand to flame;
      or the wrong thing was desired
               in the objectification of another;
      that the wrong expectations were held
               in contempt of circumstance;

The truly foolish
       romanticize the warning
               and ignore the danger
                          to which it points;

and the lost
      mistake the warning
               for a guidepost beckoning
                          toward safe-houses;

This obsession
the pearl of Pain in ignorance,

      for the wrong direction taken
               at the fork of Pain and Sorrow;
      the wrong outcome desired
               in pressing on unbalanced; and,
      the wrong ideal held as Truth
               in seeking fulfillment;

the burden of youth yare
to claim its potential, ready
to risk and fail.

      Wisdom says, "Push on through"...
      and also, "Know when to quit."

For men yet forget
the meaning of Pain.

is a warning
against ignorance, inviting
the seeker to set aside illusions,
coaxing the candid
to shed misplaced pride;

The truly foolish
       romanticize ignorance
               and endanger the soul
                          to which it points;

and the lost
      mistake ignorance
               for reason itself,
                          and become enthralled;

This obsession
the pearl of Pain in ignorance,

      for the wrong direction taken
               at the fork of Pain and Sorrow;
      the wrong outcome desired
               in pressing on unbalanced; and,
      the wrong ideal held as Truth
               in seeking fulfillment.
As a younger man I had many ideas about love and the purpose of relationships; many of those same ideas - and their troubling implications - regularly find their voice here, both in lamentation of love lost and in the idealization of a current mate. The same illusion underscores both.

The assumptions seem to be that 1) only perpetuity validates a relationship, and that 2) we are not objectifying someone, i.e. reducing them to a concept in our own minds, through romantic aspirations.

The first assumption is dealt with straightforwardly by recognizing that we are attracted to people who embody the issues imparted to us by our parents. The point is not whether it lasts, but to work through such issues, which may be deeply challenging.

Having done so, we stand to develop character and become emotionally and psychologically mature. In the process we learn to overcome the urge to cut and run when relationships cease to be simply gratifying, and bring us into transformative states of crisis that ultimately lead us to self-knowledge.

The second is not so easy, as we are taught that we must respect others, but entertainment media constantly imprints us with the notion that we must impress and captivate others by a series of gestures. This is basically manipulative and disrespectful, however well-meaning.

Thinking long-term, a relationship established in the glamour of extravagant gestures is the very definition of "form over function". This is perhaps not surprising, as the prioritization of gestures over character results in competition for a trophy. In other words, romantic love is fraught with objectification, which makes it difficult to recognize the Beloved as a person rather than a projection of our desires.

This is exceedingly unfortunate, as romance seems to suggest an almost supernatural quality to the Beloved that draws us in - and in that sense the object of our affections may bring us to a state of awe and reverence, a perception of something deeply significant. It should be noted, of course, that this brings us into the realm of religion - that is, we experience such awe and reverence because for us the Beloved represents something deeper than the finite - we may call this "the promise of continuity".

As such, love can lead us to very deep contemplation indeed - but it has been said that religion carries with it the risk of madness. It has also been said that religion is about relationship - and I would agree this is true, for religion itself is much broader than the picture painted by individual faiths, especially in our theological traditions.

This leads into the juxtaposition of pain and sorrow exhibited here. I've discovered that while sorrow makes possible a greater realization of the depths of relationship, pain is triggering and keeps us in survival mode (fight-or-flight). Maslow's "hierarchy of needs", then, becomes all too relevant - for psychological needs may ONLY be met once basic survival is ensured, and that simply does not happen if you're in fight-or-flight all the time.

To objectify the Beloved and rely on our illusions and projections is to miss the point of relationship. It does not matter whether we objectify the Beloved as a desirable ideal, or a failure to obtain or achieve it. The end result is the same.
Dec 2015 · 2.7k
A solid center presages
two generous edges
to shoulder the weight
of the curve: the bow
relinquishes tension
to the anchors of the
taut bow-string.

The wayfaring archer
tends to the curve,
notches the arrow,
selects the target,
gauges the wind,
surrenders --

Riding like an arrow on the wind,      
sure to find its mark in Breath,      
and the end of Breath it portends.

A reveler
abiding the flirt
of angle and arc,
finite and eternal,
arbiter of the holy
moment, the dance
linking death with life;

So unbearably
near the horizons,
desire yields its grip
to the coaxing
womb of the curve: tension
sighs into the space
between arrow-head
and its mark.

And in the transmission of feeling      
is the spirit of Life,      
clinging - so gently - to free itself      
of its own burdens.

A sudden violence
voids archer and stag:
Continuity rushes forth
to meet the sacrifice.
The heart of the bow
resumes its tension.

And the curve
all but a trick
of Timing.
Mathematically inspired.

Italicized portions are from "Memory Is A Prison" (, a work of automatic writing the meaning of which is further illustrated here.
Dec 2015 · 1.2k
Unfolding into itself, inviolable
in prosaic self-*******,
a boundless repertoire
of shape yearns forth surreptitiously
from inscrutable amniotes to claim
time as its own:

  Here a thicket
  of sycamores, there a baldaquin
    of pinnate branches, yonder
      a periphery of marigolds, below
        a cacophony of hyraxes, above
    the corpuscle of a lynx, the mid-flight
   jink of a darting swift and moribund
  crawl of a mollusk;

     Hymenoptera coaxing
     their haploid broods into teeming
     life as a cell of the swarm
         and viviparous apes cajoling
         suckling chimerae at the fathomless
         fountainhead of a rosy breast;

       Higher still,
       Cirrus cephalopods traversing
       the trench of sky, dandelions
       hitch-hiking the drift of a barren plains'
       wavering hum on cockchafers'
       forewings and a turbine's
       bombinating pulse, the chattering
       of roots ravenous for depth --

Jittering bangtails the hallowed echoes
of lascivious manes --

   inchoate sprout-hood the daedal
   nonage of towering evergreens --

      the plaintive shrift of elegiac
      redbreasts a goad to silent elation --

A likeness unlike
     (vocabularies of vertiginous blinds)
          (the eyes of ignorance closing)
             (the mouth of the mystery)
                that spurns the truth of tongues

                     is nature naturing.
A somewhat uncharacteristic display of vocabulary. Rather than ostentation, my intent here was to convey the scope of nature in vivid but elusive prose.

Proteus, ever changing to remain fundamentally himself, perfectly embodies nature's unity-in-multiplicity. He evinces a dynamic view of nature espoused by Goethe, and in authentic Platonic thinking. Essentially, the entire web of life is a single organism, and each discrete life but a cell therein.

"Nature naturing" (*natura naturata*) is commonly known as "Spinoza's God".
Dec 2015 · 1.4k
Nightmare Hustle
Dizzy, the rush
of thoughts incapacitate
synapses firing, neurons
    throttled, a crescendo
    of dendrites branching

Experience roots
inwardly, tearing the humus
           of pregnant dreams, scratching to see
                               the blood beneath the scab.

     The greater the itch, the greater
        the disturbance of sleep,
            bound by a tangle of vines,
            deafened by the cobbling-together
                of thrushspeak, the cry of clouds
                contorting into unthinkable
                     and suggestive shapes        

   Bleary-eyed, the lost wages
   of sleep gambled away
   on a ticking clock.
Say only
what must be said
and ears will hear,
not merely listen,

Do only
what needs doing
and restless thought
will come to rest;

Think only
what creates beauty
and hearts will feel,
not take for granted.

For this world
is bright -- sharp --
it hurts to look at
for too long;

  For trauma
  demands a story --
  how what shouldn't
  comes to pass --

    For ugliness comes
    of the artifice of men
    creating in isolation
    their ******* essences

        And it is only the heart
               that can see rightly.
"Voici mon secret. Il est très simple: on ne voit bien qu'avec le cœur. L'essentiel est invisible pour les yeux." ~from The Little Prince
Nov 2015 · 1.1k
A Wolf Called Hope
Too-simple eludes as
too-complex disturbs
the instinct to grasp,
clutching at emptiness
in trembling fear

    Hope says, "there is
    always Hope,"

        A lure to elongate
        the reach, further

              Hope the crafty wolf
              stalks a deer in the glade.

Hope for what?
Acquire what?
Purchase what?
Become what --

           that could fulfill the yearning
           of the bough for the root?
           ...that could elucidate its relentless
           aspiration skyward?
           Oh, but if -- !

                   freeze at the snap of a twig

All aflutter at the
promise of sweet water
against seeking lips
     hungry fools chase
             Hope for a taste

          Into devil wilderness
       exposure threatening
   surviving by the teeth.
   Reduced to mating behavior,
         territoriality, predation --
              all else forgotten.

              the measured twitch and
                 watchful eye fail to outwit
                     the cunning wolf in wait

Nowhere we bring ourselves
is safe.
What compels you?
Nov 2015 · 547
What is there to speak of
when identity includes
all things?

Generalities flowing
in breathless currents, drowning
        these hollow perceptions
        and empty comforts
        in wondrous depth --

Who is this "myself" but
attachment to a cage, a cage
that scarcely contains the force
  of conviction, the assault
       of passion?

Time the river of blood
flows upstream to source
in a pregnant oblivion
obscuring abortive abstractions,
   carelessly dreamt.

Something rages,
ever watchful. Whence
comes this terrible Eye? Whither
does it sleep, sparing
its awful gaze
and the hallucinations
of unceasing desire,

But in every bed?
Oct 2015 · 2.7k
Hunger and Desire grew
'til bellies everywhere were
ruined for sustenance,
so in went the troops to wage
war against ideas and
when they arrived there were no
soldiers to speak of

so they set up tents
and didn't go away

they sang drunken war-songs
until the moan of starvation bellies
sang louder and more terribly

"That must have been them
the whole time!" they said, and
suited up for the charge.
So they trained their shells at the city
excited to see if target practice
had done them any good

but all they did was mortar themselves to bits

squadrons of video-game experts
sent drones overhead to drop
Hallmark cards titled "Why it's your fault"
and coupon booklets for American
chain shopping outlets to come

but they only marginalized
and condescended themselves

"Bring in the reinforcements!"
they cried, even conscripting
their hapless targets. This mob,
too, was a hungry belly
bellowing for satisfaction,
a cannibal ***

So they set up tables and stacked
boring paperwork, filing away
spirits broken by shrapnel and white

but they only resigned themselves
to imaginary lines and the plunder
of Control, insensibly
****** themselves to death

while they watched,
“Two things are infinite:
the universe and human stupidity;
and I'm not sure about the universe.”
― Albert Einstein
Oct 2015 · 772
Paved-over swamp sprawl
squalor of strip mall and
college-trough parking lots

No lap dances allowed,
though. this
is a decent place

with stand-your-ground laws
and sulphur in the water

Where groups of white
men chase men that look
different and white-haired veterans
yell "nip" from burgundy Buicks
with long pull at glinting flask

a decent
place for squirrels chattering
"*******!" between acorn-throws
and dinosaur cockroaches

And then the rain starts
and then everybody drives worse
and the guard-rails cringe

A decent place
where every road
charges a toll.
Ah, the college years.
Oct 2015 · 1.7k
To-night is dark, so
  step lightly and carry
  a large lamp into
  the howling woods

Wisdom says run, run
  to dark caves and
  harrowing silences
  mirror the bottomless

The abyss, gazing
  headlong into itself,
  recoils in horror,
  shudders dis-eased

And only lamp-light,
  courage flick'ring
  in oppressive depth
  persists, defiant

A stain on un-becoming
  a trampler of stars
  peddler of filth
  who knows all the answers.
Oct 2015 · 688
To Be A Great Lover
'Twas the firm and fervent
    wish of a youth yet
        to flower into a jaded
           blossom, before understanding
        what it meant to love or why
    it was so important to learn
  to do it well,

whose childhood ended rather
      abruptly, watching the slow
        crumble of supposed soul-mates
            as love was not enough
        to overcome the inertia
   of their own.
Oct 2015 · 363
To get to Anywhen,
be Here

proceed forward
in any direction
Oct 2015 · 496
Mind Is A Dog
Mind is a dog
that barks, a dog
with a bone that is
never buried,
and thought like
a dog's instinct without
the anchor of volition.
We train dogs to bark in order to teach them not to.
Sep 2015 · 24.2k
{i remember}

She comes to presence
in a great wave of grief
that has no bottom.

{water cannot swim}

Feeling the unbearable
weight of womanhood
tearing me open,
revealing my own sorrows.

{a channel of life}*

To be a gate of love and blood,
the flesh of desire,
bearer of all burdens,

was so traumatic I was reborn
in the body of a man.
Sep 2015 · 1.0k
Wheel of the Year
Leaves skitter as shoed feet
fall silently, wind clinging
at clothes in the death
                  of summer.

     A once-verdant echo
          sighs into place
      clouds weigh heavy
            warmth is savored
                  the grasses die
                       instinct stirs.

The world dies
      to be renewed
            in glorious flame,
      changing to stay
the same.
(igne natura renovatur integra)
Sep 2015 · 736
Home is where the heart
breaks.    (fall into bed)
Familiar smells entrance
and lull, the warm
hearth of embraces
shushes    (a murmuring wellspring)
where spirit fails,
soul and body crumpled up like
scratch paper.

Hemmed in by excess
of Self, persona
blind to its orchestral
shadow,    (wrought by irony)
the mind scribbles
and raves unrepentant.

       (subtlety aches for
       skillful instrumentation
                to give it breath)

Singing the pain
of ages past to mourn
these harrowing visions

Beating on in leaden
veins to the lurch of a pulse
    (the crows take cackling flight)
         time the river pours off

The edge of the map.
Aug 2015 · 1.2k
When the last strained
chord of the parade
blew sour and home sounded
good again and all the trash
was meticulously placed
on the floor there was
a bottle rocket peeling
past the grim-faced throng

to adorn ribcages
with a scatter of sparks
the desperate stink
of burning hair wafted

all was transgressed
and now the walk
of shame.

a swig of honeyed
gin and all was
right again

until next year
Fanciful memories of the Rose Parade.
Aug 2015 · 712
Panic Attack
This was the last
ragged dishwater gasp
before the panic

Before the bloated
swell of a sagging heart
stooped down
to ache

its gutters overflowing

choked with drowned
rats and mildewy leaves
and when at last those
flaccid lungs failed

The sun shined through
inscrutable walls of cloud
but its aura could not
woo the mud
Aug 2015 · 830
Sleep did not come
and his stomach was a sea
of acid festering on the rotting
husks of swallowed lies
and quarantined pain

objects too sharp to fit into any
puzzle strewn over
carpeted floor   they lie in wait
to **** their tithe

Every one a knife

every stab a cruel joke
painting him into the corner
where he belongs.
I have ruined myself best.
Aug 2015 · 875
Generation of Ruin
"Pics or it didn't happen" and
the lemming-herd of uneducated
Google debunkers and
farming opinions from TV shows
and arguing before being willing to listen
are watch-signs of cowardice
and servility
and emotional isolation.

Through abstraction
we have distanced ourselves
from presence and experience and other people,
and now we can't even
imagine what it was like
or why we bothered.

Just win - win! - and we can
perpetuate our division!

Ignorance has become
a coping mechanism
for ignorance.
Oh yay, and it's election time. This bodes well.
Jul 2015 · 1.4k
Gitano yawned,
stretching out under
the shrine of Öli.

Here he plotted
and hid a mouthful
of secrets; and the Lord
watched over him
as he slept.

He plotted,
for coyote wisdom
is disguised by folly
and cunning
and guile.

All about, the vermilion
stain of Mars. The coyote
chuckled mischievously,
dreaming at the feet
of the Master and Judge.

a ziggurat raised
to the Goddess.

Two great black eagles
circled in a sky
of dry roses and lilacs.

La Santisima Muerte
stood at a distance,
yet bore Gitano
in Her *****.

His mischiefs were scribed
upon a cartouche
to amuse gods
and teach men;

Yet men are not
so easily taught
as gods are amused;

For men have not yet
learned to believe
what makes them laugh.

And so Gitano sleeps,
and talks while he sleeps;
wherefore the Ways
of mischief and trickery
were laid bare.

The secret is to teach
at the expense
of innocence.

Certain illusions persist;
they must be shattered,
but their thrall
can only be broken
by design.

Whether bitterness
takes root in the wake
of the shattering
is not Gitano's concern.

Because sometimes
realization can only come
through being made a fool,
revealed to ourselves
as absurd.

Angry at our own foolishness,
we blame the one
who denudes it.
The coyote, too, is a Fool.

A Fool can learn,
shaping destiny
by taking responsibility.
Through death a Fool
becomes wise,
seeing the joke.

The burden of karma
is left to those
who cannot laugh.

Man grits his teeth,
his brow furrowed.
He despairs.

Gitano chuckles,
Gitano is a familiar spirit in the form of a coyote.
Jun 2015 · 597
Daze That End In Why
the trance of sorrow
      falls flat; behind,
           the universal joke.
                and behind the universal joke,
                     the trance of sorrow.

then the weekend comes
and goes

and we remain,
yearning to be

And behind the disappointment...
the universal joke. ;)
May 2015 · 2.2k
To fit well
into this scheme,
my slice of hell --
my wasted dream.

Never fit
the social stencil --
messy colors,
lines in pencil.

Could not see
that I was strange,
nor feel free
within their cage.

On the fringes,
binary fear
oft impinges
upon the queer.

No context,
bridge, or adapter:
and person after.

in word and deed.

Life between
the lines, beyond
median, mean,
and mode is odd.

On the fringes,
binary fear
oft impinges
upon the queer.
It gets better.
Mar 2015 · 2.3k
Soy Chorizo
"I am sausage"
in Spanish
It would also be the best name ever for a luchador.
Mar 2015 · 2.5k
Technical Difficulties
The error is
   somewhere between
                  the keyboard
                           and the chair
True story.
Feb 2015 · 4.2k
We ****.

I brushed her hair just
the other day
and left stinging
handprints on her
eager flesh like she

Loved her in an
undertow of
blankets and throes,
fullness and

until the drums
pounded in my
ears and
the adrenaline

On altars,
in tombs,
the sabbats,
esbats and

We slap
each other
     for fun;
     she listens
when I tell
her to

I'm sure you and
your mate do just

we **** better
than all of you
This poem is about ****** *******.
Feb 2015 · 1.2k
The Pure from the Poison
after me:
I am not
my past,
my mistakes
or my shame
or my sorrow
or my loneliness
or my preferences:*




all my
truths, and
secrets & stories,
their potential
and beauty.
We create our own unhappiness;
we can create happiness just as easily.
The unfortunate thing is that
we don't.
Feb 2015 · 1.2k
What is the Soul?
Not "you", the ego,
but your "you-ness".

Not a family member,
or a twig on a family tree,
but the life of the tree itself,
and the soil in which it grows.

Not a person,
but an essence -
a flavor,
a perfume.

A seed unfolds
idea into matter,
and imbues it
with Itself.

wears Body
like a suit.


*(And these
are only
convenient distinctions
for the sake
of storytelling.)
Being is self-referential.
Feb 2015 · 2.0k
Doing unto others
as we do with ourselves,
we manipulate
and conceal.

Power -- poorly understood,
absent autognosia --
seeks gratification
and little else.

and unscrupulous
hypnotic pageantry
holding sway.

A visceral magick
used cavalierly
by vampires
on the hunt.

Rapt in the Promise
of continuity,
the world
watches on.
Feb 2015 · 875
Hell Is
Mistaking "unfortunate"
for "unnecessary"
Stuck to an icy
   history of thought,
   the habitual web caught
the Fly in its enticing
   display of verbs
      that match the pattern:
      language is the matter,
   betraying ourselves with words.
   A tongue to its Work tied
      might make the spider
      think twice before biting;
   those venomous lies
we tell our Selves about
   helplessness and somedays
   victimization and blame,
empowering our self-doubt;


Devouring our might as writers,
    we have nothing if not pride;
      We take flight to the deepest parts
        of the universe of literature.
Neither nihilistic nor cynical,
    our linguistic is made of visuals.
      Verily we write with studious care,
        veracity a common trait we share:
We are an orchestra,
    a symphony of synchronised melody.
      Epiphanies emphasize tragedies
        that consume us repeatedly --
We seek to
    link our verses
      and feel deep connections
        when engulfed by depression
Verse 1 - M.P.D.
Verse 2 - Jamie King
Jan 2015 · 1.4k
The third power of the Sphinx
is Courage.

"Herein lies the great mystery of the empty throne." ∆
Giddy in the throes of realization,
        the Arbiter, imbued with needful action,
        takes a great, daring leap across the chasm
                into the implications of knowledge:
                This is It - the Puzzle that Fascinates Itself.
"You awoke in the Kingdom with eyes closed. In the beginning was the Trapezoid called Control." ∆

Borne by an umbilical Breath
to a lens too small to see Itself,
Buoyed by the lapping waves,
Reason wrought a waking sleep
of hallucinations, a sea of dreams
and possibilities to become;

        Memories too large
        to conceive by aught
        but the perennial story
        that swallows the narrator:

                "I see their entire lives in an instant,
                being devoured and loving and living
                in a world that does not realize
                it is already over."

Courage is the Bearer of Truth.
Headlong into the open maw
heaves the gleeful Fool
and his glad Word.

        "The excess of Meaning must be wrought on the Page,
        on worlds of our own imagining." ∞

To Dare is to risk:
consequence the reward
fraught with baited hooks
to tether the Arbiter to Time.

The web of attachment
sprawls, an expansive net.

                "The web is infinite -
                those caught in it are beyond Number."

                        Yet the spider is never
                        ensnared by its Art:
                        a master of the net,
                        a climber of the Tree.

                At the summit of its dizzying heights,
                the depth of the Fall overwhelms.
                        Responsibility follows.

                "Thou art That which resolves the frustum."

Escaper of the Labyrinth,
Master of the Maze,
no longer merely Thou:
Dilation devours the Iris.

        "What speaks through You has Ordained it
        from the Beginning of Time,
        and only in harnessing it
        will you learn to devour your self

        "Then will you know me
        as the eye that never shuts,
        the eye that blinds."

The way
is through.
Intent, consequence, sorrow, realization, repeat. To the fly, the web is self-perpetuating.

Legend (links @ HelloPoetry):
∆ - Liber Delta (
‡ - Liber Plangere (
∞ - I am versed in the deeper color (
† - Liber Vorare (
Ω - Liber Atrocitas (
Jan 2015 · 5.9k
Thrill of the Chase
The chase ends
when you stop running
from yourself.
That thrill is the fear of responsibility.
Jan 2015 · 787
The second power of the Sphinx
is Will.

"Motion is by mind alone."
Intelligence, armed with Wisdom,
        fortified with Understanding,
                The will to power orchestrates
                desire, giving flesh to dream.

                       (ripples in the waters of מ)

        Who awakens, ceasing Motion,
        becomes the Mover:
        the omnipresent Point.

Will is the Artificer of Truth.
Truth embodied by Art
follows conception.
Existence produces mythos.

                "The Maze, the Maze that is the Secret,
                loves Itself.
                And in the love of Itself,
                amazing things Become."

To Will is to express:
to falsify the inestimable
and create by omission.

        "The world-dream is a lie." Ω

        "Lo, for these words that stain the lips of the Anointed,
        the Smeared Ones.
        Smeared in the ashes of My blood
        is the lie that is Our story."

The cause of Action is narrative.
The effect of Action is narrative.
I speak the Word.
I hear the Word.

The Story begins.
And begins.
And begins.
And begins.

⊙ - Motion is by Mind Alone
⊾ - Liber Labyrinthus
Ω - Liber Atrocitas
Jan 2015 · 1.0k
The first power of the Sphinx
is Knowledge.

Science, philosophy, and religion
are the Holy Trinity;
        once a singular discipline,
        broken today into Three
                over differences in

the First is a narrow window
into empirical space;

        the Following a flexible framework
        in conceptual space;

                the Final, all-encompassing
                on the stage of the soul;

                        neither invalidating
                        nor undermining each other,
                        but Checking and Balancing.

Facts are interpretations;
theories are stories;
storytelling, myth;
myth, the key to Knowledge.

To Know is to conceive.
To conceive is to objectify,
but far from objective:

We understand
what we invent.

                        "All things are Known.
                        What shall we do
                        with what we Know?"

When curiosity is not slain,
but permitted in the vacuum
of the eternal Question,

Then are the journey
and the journeyer
Science, religion, and philosophy can never disprove each other; they are the three facets of that jewel of knowledge which is the stone of the wise.

¬ - Liber AIN (The Book of Self-Undoing)
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