I have made.
Every iconoclastic blasphemy.
A sigil to the loss.
Of my humanity.
As a mythopoetic respite from the contradiction.
Of life.
And, I am super position.
To myself.
A sadhu of dirt.
Brahman of filth.

And on the pyres are burning.
Former lives.
As each taboo.
Spills forth from my mouth.
Each symbolic act of my own personal apophenia.
Is carved on my skin and I don't.
Hide.
From the light.
I announce.
My own divine dusk.

I picked death.
As my austerity.
Not *******.
Absolution through annihilation.
Nolan, the great destroyer.
Saiva of the unambitious.
Stuck in a great protest against.
Light.
Defiling the temple.
That is my grace.

My blessing.
The fall of nations

And, here in the gallows field.
Are hanged men.
For hands of glory.
Necromantic rites of antideluvian.
Ideas.
Strange unknown Gods of distant mountains.
Looming ominous and odd.

In the burial grounds.
I abide.
With the insects and lowly things.
I am a statement of the triumph of rot.
In the face of beauty.
I become abominable.
In flesh.

And, God made the low.
Like God made the high.
And when he made me.
He blessed me with.
Sacrilege.
A wicked tongue that forks out of my mouth.
A will stronger even than absolution.

If I am clean.
I will become *****.

Here lies the ambition.
Of Nolan Bucsis.
Caked with blood sacrifice.
Filth.
And suffering.

Life has become Hell.

So, through my ego.
I ascend beyond it and never leave.
I abide in the abject misery my life has become.
I willingly become the scapegoat.
I will eat the sin.
Dine on sacrificial beasts.

Discarded.

The theology of collective guilt.
Trickster spirit using misery.
To blossom beautiful fruit.

They will know me by my ignominious deeds.
Even though Raven steals the sun.
Even though Coyote eats his wife.
Even though every ***** lowly thing.
Exists in itself.
The lesson remains.

Looks can be deceiving.
Bluster isn't belief.
And the urge to be isolated.
Subverts the need to be.
Loved.

Maybe I need to be.
A prophet.
Of destruction and desolation.
Woe and foreboding of doom.

So I remember the contradictions.

God made an angel of death.
Azrael.

God made an angel of sin.
******.

God made a great destroying chief of Satans.
Samael.

Where there is light.
A long shadow is cast.

Because God made me.
And,
I want.
Eternal night.
Perpetual sleep.

No one hears me recite.
What I write.
Except these four walls.
The creepy crawlies.
Midnight.
And the moon.

I don't exhibit.
In an institution.
The art is in.
The performance.
Of.
Trying to be.
A normal person.

Failing horribly.
Making it up as I go.
Worded poorly.
Nothing profound.

This is my ode to the empty places.
Darkened and foreboding.
Where I can be myself.
Dancing alone.
In the dim dark dusk.

The light doesn't shine out of me.
It leaks out of cracks in the facade.
It cascades out of me in moments.
I cry for no reason.

My poorly written lyrics.
To songs I never sing.

Love.
What was love to me.
Other than someone.
I could throw away.
And,
did.

Babe.

I can't care anymore.
Your absence isn't important.
Your presence was a bit of a.
Burden.

You're just here.
Now.
Perpetually leaving cause.
I can't think about tomorrow.
Or where you'll be.

After.
I leave.

Nothing in me yearns.
For another person.
More than a single night.

My schizoid salvation in.
Right now is
never lonely.
It's poignant.

Love?
I don't know that.

Whispers old women tell to children.

Sentiment.