Nolan Bucsis

Nolan Bucsis May 13

Try and legislate away.
Each uncomfortable emotion
That destroys your
Arbitrary authority.

I hate.
Everyone.

But,
I'm smart enough
To come up with new slurs.

So these
Hungry ghosts
Get scared.
And go home.

They aren't welcome here.
They can eat mana.
From someone else's tree.

Nolan Bucsis May 13

Blasphemy

I will resurrect.
Every dead thing
That ever did offend someone else.
I will spread it in the barrens
Of isolation
And go mad with the
Implications.
Of everything is permitted,
Nothing is forbidden.

Nolan Bucsis May 13

A prayer for dissolution

My blood is coursing through
My body with suicidal depression.
I don't want to see the unravelling of the rope of
Being correct.
Or wallow in the satisfaction
That I got it right the whole time.

Redemption isn't satisfying.
Neither is being right.
I am not a phoenix rising out of ashes.
I'm an aghori, drunkenly asleep
In the funeral ash of a widow fire.

I want to dissolve in
My boredom
And be made to have no history.

God, wipe me from existence.

I want to be abnegated
Not vindicated.
Nor validated for anything I do.

I don't publicise my morality.
I don't look for congratulations
For things most people should recognize as good.

I cannot adjust to the perpetual minor inconveniences of reality.
Even though I resolved not to die
By my hand.

I still feel the same.

Alive because I am not allowed to die yet.
Condemned to eternal boredom.
Unable to sleep.

I wish God would have asked me whether
I wanted to hear his voice.
I prayed for annihilation and dissolving into death.
Not some mission reflected in the actions
And words
Of other people.

Nolan writ large with his own enormous opinions,
My disproportionate influence
Encoded in the words of other people
Eerily exactly, what I elucidate.

God, stop thinking that if I see
The effect I had on other people
I'd be ok with being and time.

I'm not.
Ok.
With existing.

I want to disappear and live in the utopia
Of never have begun
And nothing will change my mind.

Such a waste of time.

Being anointed.
Being a prophet.
Being alive.

Being in general.

qq

Nolan Bucsis May 11

A Persistent Cough

I wake up
Like
I go to sleep.
Scraping musty cigarette ash
Off my vocal chords.
A coal mine in my black lungs.

An ever present aftertaste
Of mould
Infects me, and I smell

****.

But that's just anxiety.
A schizophrenic smell.
Disassociated in my forgetfulness
I think, I remember
Rarely ******* in the sink.
But, I'm not paying attention,
Caught up in somehwere else.

Violently throwing up a cough
I purge the phlegm.
From out of my lungs-
And.
It's been really thick lately.
Oozing out my viscous soul.
Vomiting tar.
And smearing it all over myself.

With these dark tobacco stains
Pulsating formaldehyde through my veins.

And I'm
Baffled.
By my health.

It's good.

Just a little cancerous grime
Entrenched in my crevices.

Nolan Bucsis May 11

Fraudulent

I don't have any
Love left over.
From the last time.
I hardened my heart.

Saying
I love you
Impulsively,
And that's just
Idle bedroom talk
I say sometimes
As meaningfully
As.
What's for lunch.

Nolan Bucsis May 10

Hitchhiking

The hole inside me metastasises into an abyss.
Depression, pulling me in like a gravitational wave.
I am fractal self symmetry
In liminal time.
Crystalline structural regret.
A lattice net of nihilism.
My empty empathy.

I am the metaphysics of melancholy.
The sacred geometry of sad.

That constant self doubt
Burying itself into my fermented mind.
Embarrasses me with reflections of my true self.
The colour spectrum of listlessness
Depression in poly-chrome
Anxious in stereo.

I want to leave wherever I am
In right now.
I want to run until my feet are ground into ****** deformed stubs
As one more blood sacrifice of self inflicted wounds.
I want to flee from the routine of this place into
Another lonely run down town,
Covered in dismal dust.
An oddly familiar place
I hope I get used to.
Before I leave again.

If I run from my memory
With tickets made of drugs.
I won't have to face another disappointment.
Another bad choice.
If I perpetually construct my life
With new place names
New hidden places
And new roads signs.
All leading to maladaptive coping mechanisms.

The paths always lead nowhere
Paved with the regret of missed opportunity.
I hear that faint spectral call of the horizon
And I cry about the setting of the sun
From the perspective of, another, brighter place.

As for promises
To say goodbye.
I make none
And just fade away into the ambience in the background
White noise of passing cars on the highway.
Another couple feet treading a path
Through temporary homes.

Nolan Bucsis May 10

Etymology of Confusion

I've lost all the eloquence
I had in my youth.
No more soliloquies to sing to Shakespeare.
No pretty polished words
Rolling out of my mouth in verbose patterns.
Permutated with proper punctuation.
Enunciated ecstasy, syntactically strewn all around.
A cluster **** of cleverly constructed.
Sentences.

Philologically
These Latin rites and roots sound so.
Pompous.
Derivative.

What's my politics of the English language?
No,
Not me.
I prefer new slang written on old scripts.

And.

I always thought French etymology
Was exquisite.
Until I got lost in the suffixes piling up
Ontop of the prefixes.

I suppose it's
Better, than the parochial slang

That
Recently I've been saying
Dim rugged dull and dreary
Stodgy, little words.

I blurt out my base roots of Saxons.
I speak of earth and dirt and yeomen
In my lowly German.

My

Monosyllabic mutterings of a ***** making it up.
In grunts and moans
And ugly things
Glottal stops.

One axiom.
One goal.
Barking out a reduction.
Me, and,
Brevity's sake.

So let's be blunt.
I'm too old for tomorrows.
Hard to have a midlife crises
When the first half was already spent
On tempting an overdose.
To spite the drugs.
Sung in an apropos song.

And it's kinda late for teenage angst.
When I grow up
Has been happening for two
Decades

So
Why do I still feel this way?
So strange and unusual
Fumbling through my words
Like an incompetent juggler
A lexical masterpiece
Clogged in Glossolia.

Now,
Don't worry, friend.
I don't even understand what I'm
trying to say.
Whether profound
Or pathetic.

Certainly
I don't take it back.