Call me haphazard
your toot-sweet boutique of skill
a pillpopper's dream

I'm not impressed by
the tongue your mediocre
narcissism speaks

what fading color
propagating hues, faker
saturate the blues

drown that puppy right
pay your ******* dues, tighten
the knot of the noose

Now is your never
you wrought the wrong from the right,
shoddy forever

Now is your never
sever the tongue that divides
wrong from the Right Now

Blasphemed the subtle,
broke the trust, popped the bubble
and wandered away

Call me a savior
I'll interrupt with a lie
truth can never repay

Defenestration,
when the face meets the pavement
your artifice blooms

Sitting stagnantly,
in the shade of the tower
it's toppling soon

With snowflakes in Her eyelashes,
crystalline shapes past window's door,
piling into berms and caches,
seek to fractate soil and moor;

What passing phase -- full of longing
for endless Alaskan days, so white and pure,
when silence met the sunset, dawning,
dusk, and midday -- shall I endure?

Discern all things in seeming motion
from the mover that casts the spell.
Thus one apprehends the notion
of a mortem free from from hell;
though self-created hells our sojourns,
while upon on this earth we dwell.

Know "I" beyond pain and passion,
the balm in Gilead that soothes
thy frail division with detachment
as the mover knows the moved,
never leaving Self to fraction,
needle never skip the groove.

There is naught that is not That;
motion is by Mind alone
the maker that our dreams begat,
turning boundless Light to stone
and crystallized in maze and map --
that veils how brightly it once shone.

Unto the Light we shall awake
by seeking out the way between
all words: the shackles that unmake
thy Self by stretch betwixt extremes.
Transcend all boundaries that break
and reify the dream.

Wherefore
what we believe is what we become,
and what we Are is what we have Forgotten:

Whereas,
as Begat gives way to Self-begetting,
even Logic must be subjected to the Will:

Whereby
thoughts are things and things are waves
beyond the Father-machine's comprehension:

Wherein
faith in science and progress yield a sickly life
devoid of personal meaning, a suckling of experts:

Whereof
prevailing views are reinforced by shame,
ridicule a guillotine to stitch the countering lips:

No Reason is Pure;
Truth escapes the clutches of thought.
Every head has a mouth - and words to lie with.

I don't give
a single fuçk
about your ego.

Your attachments
are like ballast
for your soul.

Pain is awakening: the expansion of consciousness.
There is no half-way mark:
ignorance in sleep, health in full waking,
bound the gulf of hallucinations we call life.

In that Abyss of lies we deceive ourselves
until at last Truth annihilates the deceived,
unveiling the hidden Glory of the liar.

In the mantle of victimhood, Identity accretes
like a pearl on the tongue of a mollusk;
and a narrator, lost in the telling,
comes to mistake the story for reality,
wounds for tragedy, scars for harm.

Identity forms about Chaos,
a shell of experience that shrouds
a kernel of Truth.

A pearl is but a grain of sand
made beautiful by pain.

The stronger you are,
the more poison you can take.
It's the only way.

A spine bowed under
the ordeals of a wage slave.
It's the only way.

Picking the cherries
and popping them carelessly.
It's the only way.

Maudlin or merry,
dash sentimentality.
It's the only way.

Songs of our fathers
died in their skeleton mouths.
It's the only way.

******* of our mothers
died in ours, poured their milk out.
It's the only way.

Just a little blood
satiates the cravings now.
It's the only way.

Came to know myself,
realized my fate points down.
It's the only way.

Viral orchestrations
spread like wildfire,
swallowed her up until her body was a cage.

The deft ministrations
of threadbare desire
burrowed into my skin as I choked on my rage.

Rhythmic scintillations,
flesh as hot as fire,
the book closed before she got to read the last page.

The end of trepidation,
alert the town crier:
her white blood cells fell before a vast macrophage.

Time still stands between,
dunes arise to hide the miles
to Desert's Spring.

After departing,
a cameo in my dreams,
a name off my lips.

But the scars still hurt
when we remember too much
how it felt to be.

Swallowing heartache,
fighting the urge to be free,
it might be too late.

That's what the stars feel,
watching their neighbors burn out
vast light years away...

Thou: the address to Self.
Thou art: the decree to Self.
Thou art x: the conception of Self.
Thou art x that: the expectation of Self.
Thou art x that must: the defecation of Self.
**** not thy Self.
Thou art Enough.

Say less.
Mean more.

Being the Law
of Nothing,
which is
Our Law.

The Eye
Opens,
and Nothing
becomes Truth.

Truth becomes
the Law,
and then
the Right Way.

Leaving behind
the lie
that we
were Right before.

We, always Left,
were Wrong,
Nails in
God's coffin.

Abandoned by
a Father
who never
saw Himself in Us.

But then,
there was
Nothing there
to see.