I am the blasphemy.
Of apathy.

And,
flat affect.

In this feminized.
Extroverted society.
Where you're expected.

To be nice.
To be friendly.
To be social.
To be emotional.
To be a woman.

I don't quite know what equality is.
When the deck is stacked against me.
Cause I'm quiet and unemotional.
I suppose buffoons who bluster are better.

Sorry I can't smile today.
That's part of the diagnosis.

Sorry, I can't chit chat about.
Literal nothing.
That's a personal vendetta.

Your tolerance is showing.

Living in a ******* preschool.

The sun out here is so bright.
Around the snaking slippery banks.
Of this creek.

It's still winter.
But the snow is melting into peculiar puddles.
That line the slushy snow.

There's always reserved ravens.
And a couple of crows.
Looming ominously over the skeletal remains of the glen by the creek.

Stillness.
Dried out carcasses.
Of recycled animals.
Brown and black with dirt.

It's quiet.
Out here.
In the boonies.

With the shrill cold wind blowing through leave-less trees.

Everything is left.
Empty.

This frustration.
Doesn't end.

It haunts me.

A peculiar poltergeist.

As all my ambition.
Coalesces into feeble.
Poetry.

My metaphoric mantra.
To keep.

An impulse to write.

Who were you that whisked yourself.
Away from my poor circumstances.
So you didn't have to watch me.
Fall apart.

At least.
I guess.  T
That's what.
You told yourself.

And,
me.

I don't mind.

Everyone is temporary.
A single serving something or other.
That I talked to a while.

But,
Got too involved in the fantasy.
Of what I could be.

I have nothing.
To prove to you.
Nothing to teach.

So waft away like a breeze.
Floatsam hovering in a cyclone.
Disappear into the horizon.
As the darkness envelops a kaleidoscopic sunset..

Sad I wouldn't do what you wanted me to do.

As precise as it was in your head.

This is my ode.
To my disposable.
Nature.

And the comfort.
In giving up.

I'm always on the verge of another.
Breakdown.
Feeling my soul extricate itself.
From the premises.

Absent mindedly.
I stare into the darkness.
The permutations of my hallucinations.
Swirl in the darkness.
Lights in the dark.

Or is it
the blood coursing through my eyes.
Fluctuating in spasmodic undulations.
Something moving in a shadow.
A face my brain places into the dark.
Patterns associated with mind states.
Anger, depression, empitness.

It's all just such.
A trick of the mind.
Counterfeit spirits.

And I am  
Feeling the buildup of repressed.
Emotions.
But I gird my *****.
Tolerate the bottleneck.
Stave off the breaking of the dam.
By receding into apathy.

I must stabilise my circumstance.

Til the dam breaks.
And my life is ruined.
In yet another catastrophic incident.
To add to the list.
Of reasons why.

I'm broken.

I journal all this.
Internet graffiti I spew.
In public.
For your conisderation.
Lest someone call me a coward.

Inauthentic.
Weak.
Pathetic.

But I'm not that.
I'm a pent up pipe bomb.
A shockwave.
I don't ever get better.
I get much much worse.

And these idyll iterations of words.
Imply.
I often write things I don't agree with.
Just.
Cause.
They say I can't.

But, I dunno that word.
Can't.
It's not a command.
It's a weak suggestion that I'm not inclined.
To consent to.

And I dress myself up so dramatically.
I add flair to the self destruction.
Of someone too smart for their own good.
A rebel without a cause.
Beaten down and **** on.
But, I get up if not only to spite.
The little **** who knocked me out.

I am divine in my filth.
I am a mendicant.
A Bhikku of Yama.
Lord of Death.

And, oh.
You say I can't say what I want?
Well, I never asked your opinion.
Please,
arrest me for all of these hate crimes.
These taboo pantomimes of a free speech activist.
Just make sure you find intent.

Life isn't worth living when all this 'art'.
Is the same fictional balderdash they've been.
Spewing for decades.
Nothing reflective of the human condition.
Nothing novel.
Just the same rehashed formula and historic art movements.
That died decades ago.

So in this collaborative fiction.
I write my mythology in my own personal.
Mystery cult.
Residing with God.
Compelled to castigate.
Rewarded for being anti social.
And, principled.

And, no.
You can't come along.
You weren't invited into my church.
I am the only congregant.
The only priest.
The only crusader.
Out here trying to burn down reality.

Endogenous
In group of one.

I'm amazed at how long.
I've managed to keep myself alive.
Without trying too.
Hard to keep living.
Mr Self Destruct.
Mr. Give Me Anything as Long as I'm baked.
Some life I sought, really.

In fact.
I tried not to live.
I sought death.
It seems like something or someone.
Is preventing me from dying.

And, I feel comforted in the comfortable annihilation.
I only feel in a deep sleep.
Or a concussive forcing me to wake up.
With rage and hate.
As my brain rockets off my skull

All this natural starvation.
This borderline anorexia.

And.

All these late nights.
With too much drugs.
Planning for nothing.
Building up a tolerance for all these overdoses.
Cause, tomorrow was always so far away.

And,
right now,
I feel like ****.
So, I recede into the nothingness.
Disconnect from reality.
Tune in,
drop out,
and get ******.

And, while you all sought to make it this far.
I tried collapsing before the race was over.
I stumbled on the blocks and got lost in the run.
My legs failing.
My heart racing.
An over compensated fear that I.
Might.
Find myself still going.
When my legs dont work.
When my head is throbbing with blood.
With no motivation.

Just the cold hard defeat.
That.

I made it,
As the shock sets in and I think.
I wasn't prepared for this.
What do I do now?

Confusion.
Listlessness.

She sells sea shells.
By the sea shore.
Cause.
I ain't taking her flights of fancy.
As some sacred script.

Change?
If you missed the forest for the trees.
Maybe you'd think that.
But, I'm consistently me.
I just stopped fantasizing about people.
Accepted them for how they were.

And, threw them away.
Like the refuse they are.

Everyone is a temporary light.
In a sea of engulfing darkness.
And I will shine brighter than the sun.
In the middle of night.

And now.
The depression sets in.
As the SSRI leaves my body.
And in this muck, this helpless mire.
I feel the constant sensation.
Of wanting to die.

Hoplessness.
Dichotomous thinking.
A general feeling of dis-ease.
Guilt and a desire to punish.
Myself.

Sober?
Why?
So I can sleep all day.
Starve myself.
Self crit with self abuse?
Another psychotic break with reality?

It's not like I painted it all black.
It's more despair.
At the incompetence of my life choices.
It's just a niggling suspicion.
That this too.
Is pointless.

So, I'll recede into my vivid dreams.
Off the pills.
The ones that mock me with all my.
Imperfections.

I've got a list of everything.
I hate about myself.
Maybe an addendum or two.
Of what I like.

Nothing causes this listless wandering in torpor.
It came from out of knowhere.
Left field.
Out of the blue.
When I was 12.
And, nothing.
Makes.
It.
Go.
Away.

I imagine torturing myself.
To express how much I hate myself.
So the outside matches the inside.

This temple so sacred.
I will desecrate it.
I will conform reality.
To how I feel.

Horrible.

Everyday I do austerities to the spirits.
I starve.
I don't drink water.
I bear pain I cause myself.
I don't feed my addictions
Self destructive spirituality.

I'm stuck in a mystical head space.
One foot here.
Another out there.
Where the Gods dance.
And I, an outsider there.
As I am here.
Hang out in burial grounds.
Starving like the mangy animal I am.

Embrace the change of death.
The shedding of skin of spring.
I am the wisdom of the trickster.
Always leave them guessing.
Never be the same.

And, my life is desperation.
My life is constant worry.
I'm eking out a meagre existence.
Cause when the hunger dies.
I am weak.

But,
With no church to bless me.
I'm just a hobo.

One thousand years ago.
They would have made me a shaman.
Now, I'm just.
A failure.

The poverty monk.
Of limited means.

And, no ambition.

He called me high tension.
As though the random violent outbursts.
Off my meds.
Weren't normal for me.

They say, get off em, you don't need them.
You're not crazy.
Then when I do the depression takes over.
And the delusions.
And the paranoia.
And the rage.

I impulsively lash out at everyone.
A danger to myself and other people.
A sheafed knife.
Tight water surface.
Chaotic and impulsive.
Reading the worst into what you're saying.
Any excuse for my euphoria.
When the hate takes over.

Baby.  
Maybe you get sad.
Cause your dog or mom died.
But me.
I get aggressively impulsive in these psychotic breaks.
I want to breathe in anger.
Give myself over to the obliteration of my ego.
In pure unrefined.
Adrenaline induced.
Trance states of fury.

And they always find out.
They point out the obvious.
Don't listen to me.
So I have to show them.

And, I never feel as happy as I do.
Straight and casing pain.

Once they come and see.
Then they get scared.
And, understand.

Why.

I told you I was a snake in the grass.
*****.

I live among the vile refuse of a left over life.
Everything out of place.
Everything chaotic.
Everything past its expiry date and broken.
A disassembled discordant choir that sings slurs to an angelic host.

The kipple keeps accumulating and I have become one.
With the cigarettes ash and my poorly done tattoos.
NIghts spent in intoxication rambling to myself.
Complex mythologies derived from symbolic associations.
This is reality.
This is divine.
This is the flayed lord, wearing the skin of a sacrifice.


I wallow in the fetid revolting mind that plagues me with.
Existence.
Change and transformation.
Is the ego death of the shaman.
Indoctrinated into taboo spirits.
And ghosts.
Demons.

And.
Are you beautiful?
Well collected and coherent?
Some sort of angel down here in the.
Slums?

Skid row ain't got nothing on me.
As I ferment in the juices of my overbearing ego.
One track mind.
One thought.
One last breath to curse in vain.

I will desecrate the temple.
God gave me.
And become a blasphemy.
Taboo cast out trickster God.
Of a forgotten time.
Rabid coyote.
Biting everything it can.
From an impulse I can't understand.

Spread the virus.
Burn the sacred grounds.
Cover yourself in ash.
And proudly wave the heresy.
In the face of the light.

I wanted perpetual darkness.
I wanted to be a sound in the night.
Fear.
Trembling.

Exegesis.

And if the beasts devour each other.
Who am I to stop them?
Tearing at the throat of a rival billionaire.
I revel in the blood.
The gurgling sound of all their immoral.
Decisions, spoken through broken voices.
To deaf ears.

I cheer on the cannibalism of the bear.
That threatens my life, my reason to be.
I glory in the suffering of the beast who had me by the neck.
I encourage the misery.
I flatter the thing which brings salvation.

And, I know deep in my traitors heart.
I will skin the beast that devours the bear.
Consume its children.
Eliminate its seed.
If even given a chance.

Submission comes with hidden knives.
Poisonous potions and other schemes.
I am no hero.
No honour to be found in me.
I've lived my life in desperation.
Fear and darkness.

But, if all the conditions are set.
I'll **** every beast in the valley.
Unfortunate enough to get too close.

I'm a snake in the grass.
You knew I was an adder *****.
Why did you let me in?
God won't stop me, so doesn't God consent?

You get what you deserve.
In the Kali Yuga.
And, me, I'm Amram.
******.

Mahakala will destroy in time.
Abaddon will be let loose and obliterate the wicked.
Samael will be crowned king of Satans and wreak havoc..

Until Azrael whispers the final word.
Death has come.

I met the girl of my dreams.
An existential compliment.
To everything I thought I wanted.

And,
We didn't really stay together.
At the end.
We just didn't care.

But, we were inseparable from the start.
A passion past by on lazy hazy grey days.
Where the sun hides behind dismal clouds.
Brooding in the sky.

She was my own personal manic pixie dream girl.
That I heard about in movies.
I never watch.

Yet,
I pushed her away.
I cheated,
I lied,
I took her for granted.
I acted contrary to how I thought I would.

I'm not a very mature person.
I'm not good.
I'm not boyfriend material.

I thought she deserved.
Someone successful.
And me,

I was born bad.
Kept chomping at the bit of the Devil's ways.
Immolating every night into a nightmare.
An intoxicated degenerate.
Grovelling in my filth.

And, when she left to become a librarian.
I distanced myself from her and worked through my.
Emotions.
Alone.

So when the inevitable goodbye came.
When my stable life imploded.
When my plan came to fruition.
When she left.

When everything fell apart
I was buffered against the pain.
But, not her.
She balled.
Like she still cared about me.

After all that time I pushed her away.
From her flirtations with other men.
To her forgiveness for my bad behaviour.
I consumed her.

So.
She cried.
Uncontrollably.

I was a stone.

And I remember youthful nights where we.
Would go look at the stars.
Just outside of town where they were crystal clear.
Laughing at the spontaneous romantic event.
That I used to get my hooks in.

I remember the playing.
Sitting around.
The shape of her ***.
The feeling of belonging.
And, the feeling of absence.

I used to lose sleep over her being gone.
She used to haunt my dreams.
A ghost in the machine.

Then one day.
In a distance past tomorrow.

I realized.

That I wasn't in love with her.
Just.  
The thought of her.

And,
My,
Nostalgia for youth.

She was the symbol.
For all my bad choices.
That I want other people to make.

I was born a violent man.
Even though I'm not good at it.
All of my vindictiveness.
All of my resentment.
All of my things which percolate and bubble up from my rotten core.
Consume me.

In the euphoria of rage.
I've bled buckets in the aftermath.
Broken ribs from kicks on the ground.
Broken fists on someone's face.

I might not be the flame that consumes your car.
But, I poured the gasoline.

I am divine.
I am holy.
In my furious furor.
I want to explode.
As my bones tear through flesh.
Amputate lest it gets infected.

A tribute to Cybele.
I want towers shot with RPGs.
Clothing racks on fire.
Trumpeting your broken body.
With concussive force.

Headless corpses lining the streets.
Awash in a thick puddle of fetid blood.
Coagulating in my compassion.
Lumps of human blood sausage.
Rotting in the sun.
The smell of iron and taste.
Of adrenaline

Life is never short enough.
And, I swear to cause as much damage.
As I can.

Hack the hands off the wicked.
For every thief that stole a part of me.
Never to give it back.
I want my.
Vengeance

I will become Abaddon.
The angle of destruction.
A stray bullet.

And I want anihilation..
I want it to all fall apart into rubble.
Reigning over my empire of broken dreams.
And broken bodies.

I will conquer the refuse left over.
With persistence.

And vile.

Putrid hate.

The wind blows through the emptiness.
Of this place.
Out here in nowhere.
The climate is harsh.

It.
Bites.
No matter the season.

In the cities.
The wind exhausts itself.
Without the vast brushstrokes of prairie indigo at sunrise.
And sunset.

And the wind is usually.
Tearing through the streets.
Accentuating the cold.
By twenty degrees.
Below zero.

Whether it's wheat or snow.
Something always envelops the horizon.
As I'm lost at the height.
Of the sky.

These cumulus nimbus clouds.
Pepper the sky with slight accents of pillowy soft white.
In the vast blue sky.

Everywhere is silence when the snow blankets the ground.
Cept in summer you can hear the dull humm of insects.
The yipping of coyotes baiting dogs to lunch.
Magpies eating pigeons.

And they say that hard climates make hard people.
At least I'm resilient.

Sing a song.
Make it sad.
Cause I'm crying without.
These meds.
It's too early to fantasize about.
Success.
But I welcome the return.
Of emotion.
Even though.
My past isn't something.
I can deal with.
Right now.

Without the chemical lobotomy.
I'm depressed.
Everything has a personal meaning.
That I remember.

So I just have to push past.
This.
Incoherent mass of.
Feelings.
That were muted and benign.
Before, but not now.

Now they're prescient.
My tears well up within me.
And my flat effect is replaced.

By a deep tragic sadness.

I desire a long.
Resfull sleep.
That I don't wake up from.

Some kinda self similar.
Fractal pattern.
That grows in one dimension.

Slumber until I'm consumed.
By moss and other.
Lichen.

Sleeping beauty found his rest.
And rots.
As all lovely things turn to dust.

Receding into darkness.
As somethings playing.
Theta wave thought contractions.

I slept through.
My reason to live.
Somehow ended up in.
Here.

Apparently I'm resilient.
Resistant to the drug induced coma.
I find myself in every night.
Vivid dreams I don't want to leave.

Did I see you in there?
In my kaleidoscope nightmare.
These ashen memories are indistinguishable.
From my dreams.

I may have known you.
In real life.
But I can't tell.
Cause the passing chaotic visions.

Rouse me from my.
Slumber.

The sun is up and it blinds my sight.
With
all this snow.

A flashbang grenade went off.
As my eyes water and recoil in pain.
At the brilliance of the light.

I am bathed in blindness.
Glaring on the horizon.
The oppressive omnipresent light.
That binds me to walk blindly.

I'm praying for dirt, something to break up the glare.
Of the sun reflected from the ground.
Directly into my eyes with a luminescent halo.

It's refracted.
Yet I don't see a rainbow.
I just lurch along the road.

What if all this misery.
Was as simple.
As getting the dose.
Right.

I'd be aghast at the stupidity of it.
If it were true that.
These doldrums.
I keep wallowing in.

Were just a balance of
Neurochemicals.
In my brain.
That I never got.
Quite right.

Maybe the despair was less poignant.
Less precise.
Than an equal measure.
Of a bitter pill.

Where does my inspiration go.
For these bleak little snapshots.
Of my private life.
These odes to anihilation?

I might have to start.
Writing vague love poems.
Again.
About some eponymous woman.
I've never met.

So, let this dopamine and norepinephrine.
Sing me to my sleep.
As I start to like.
Waking up.

It's all unfolding.
So catastrophically well.
That sometimes.
These warcrimes.
Seem justified.

But, that's just the rotting over.
Of my moral life.
Getting beyond good and evil.
Some Zen enlightenment.

And,
The acceptance.
Of life how it is.
What's possible.

And,
How you can.
Get it.

Gets muddied up in the graveyard.
Of ideology.
As my opportunistic spirit.
Keeps telling me.

Less is better.

If none can't be.
Achieved.

Down here in the coolies.
Right down by the slough.

I sit.

In the mud and ***** things.
Exasperated in my exhaustion.
Lying among dog tails and sweet grass.
Spear grass and hand picked sage.

And, let this smoke carry my sacrifice.
To the spirts.
And may they dim the sun.
So it doesn't beat down on me so.

As the sun turns orange.
Pink.
And red.
The sunset.

Announces the coming.
Of the cool night air.

And, I see Hugin and Munin.
Or, is it just raven.
In pairs.

And I know Odin.

Is watching.
But I always mix these mythologies up.
Even though they're so common.

Into the darkness.
Away from the light.
The ***** of creepy crawly things.
Rotten and impure.

One can't steal the sun.
One can't hide in noon day.
One can't run when the sun is on the horizon.
There's nowhere to abscond to, to be free from the.
Remand of life in the searing heat.
A jail of vile sweat.

I do not seek illumination Lucifer.
For in the shadows there lies me.
Mangy.
Rabid.
Starving.
Coyote the trickster stuck in desperation.
Nipping at the air.
Biting at the ghosts of dead men.
Dehydrated and delirious.

And if raven stole the sun.
Coyote ate your pets.
And barks at you.
So you think he's
A dog.

Ensconced in my own shadow.
Coyote.
Offers a panicked prayer.
To all the dim places.
Where in the din of silence.
I might lick.
My wounds.

I offer this, my life.
As a sacrifice.
To the restless dead.
To the hungry ghosts.
And all lines that end.

The fury of the tornado is fierce.

And, we have such little time.
Let me defy the fates.
May the Gods accept my offering.
Of blood.

As,
The shedding of blood.
Is sacred.

Death.
My friend.
Let us make amends.
Bury the hatchet.

For I smell war in the air.
I hear the cacophony of artillery.
Rumbling in the distance.

And, if you'll let me death.
I shall **** as many of the invader.
As you will let me.

Let me die in vain.
Unknown and unloved.
So my ancestors won't weep.

For my cowardice.
I shall bravely march off to my anihilation.
And I hope I go to Hell.
Ontop of a pile of corpses.
Of these savages.

And what is this life.
But the falling of sand.
Through fingers.

Please death.
May I take the enemy with me.
If he comes.

Let me send you lovers.
Into the afterlife.
Til you come yourself.

To get.
Me.

Every night.
I dream I die.
And,
I am reborn in the morning.

I have one foot in that far off place.
One foot in here.

I first went through the ego death.
Of a.
Shaman
At 18.

I channel spirits.
In charnel psychosis.
I am them.
When I act like them.

The mask I wear today.
Is never the mask I wore yesterday.
And, who am I?
Among all these ghosts.

Light breaks softly.
Through the cracks.
I was told was in everything.
But I run from it.

Because it ruins the dark.

I will be an addendum.
In the book of life.
A simple caveat.
That the light couldn't reach.

My own personal.
Perpetual.
Darkness.

And you.
Illuminating my disgust.

I think fondly.
About the end.
Of death.

No more depression.
No more thoughts.
No more failures to be ashamed of.

A still peaceful calm.
That I won't experience.

No loss.
No wants.
No screaming at the sun for everything to stop.
No fear.
No disappointment.
No wondering why.
No socialising.
No self doubt.
No never eating.

And all these addictions.
Will just end.

No one to let me down.
No more discomfort.
No wasting idle time.

I will be and recede.
Into the nothingness I crave.

An eternal dreamless sleep.

Its heaven really.

I am the epilogue.
Of Mr. Self Destruct.
The degenerate who somehow.
Pulled through all the overdoses.
To live unprepared.
Without a plan.

If living on borrowed time was a person.
It would be me.

Failure to die.
Has led to me becoming.
Incompatible with living.

So I eke out a life.
Of nothing.
A lobotomized.
Hikiko mori.

A world renouncer.
Waiting for the reaper.
Alone in my room.

No one will notice when I die.
Til the smell gets so bad.
That they'll know.

I left a putrid black stain.
On the floor.

I'm never up in the morning.
Unless I'm about to go to bed.
And, I prefer it at night.
My life.
In the calm.
Barren.
Streets.
I lay my claim to all the quiet places.
Where I can go alone.
To be by myself.

My depth is shallow.
My mind, fractured.

And, all these coudla beens.
Hit me too early.
In this afternoon wakefulness.

There's a pit in my gut.
But it dies once the speed kicks in.
I don't feel like eating anything other.
Than cirgarettes ash.

The general sense of being.
Unwell.
Is constant

I never know what I'm trying to say.
So I wing it.
And, try to write something.

Precise.

Cause,
English is not a good language for poetry.
It sounds so choppy.

So malformed.

Bereft of inspiration.

Borrowed words from passing cultures.

This is narration.
This is the tautology.
Of stating a fact.

Forcing myself to write.
So I don't forget the difference.
Between prose

And.

Poetry.

The drugs just get me by.
And they're so mundane.
Comforting me softly in.
I'm ok with right now.

It's never strong enough.
To knock me out.
To fill this boredom with alright.
Everything for a moment of levity.

I want my mind to break
I don't wanna think.
I want to be subsumed in some feeling I don't.
Have.

For just a moment.
One second.
Of comfort.

Every drug is a footnote of what I've done.
Catalogued among all these bad trips.

I would have an excuse.
But, it's all so innocuous now.
Relatively normal.
To be around hard drugs.

Dingy basements smelling of mould.
And four pounds of morphine.
Mean men with mean tattoos testing me.
As though I'm not a degenerate.

A counter indication or  two.
The benzos make me mad.
I sleep on speed.
As I always get uncomfortably high.

Always making bad decisions.
Always taking too much.
Always groveling in my filth.

And, I make it a badge of  honour.
That I persist.
To get high again.

Tomorrow.

I'm always *****.
But I think a little earth.
Is a good omen.
Ties me to the spirits.
Of the dirt.

All of these little nic naks.
I track around like muck.
Is just a talisman.
Where nature follows me everywhere I go.
As organic.
As my techno paleo paganism.

I count the rabbits I see.
I look for ravens.
I bless the magpies as they pass by.
I commune with the coyotes and yip at the moon.

Bark sometimes.
To scavenge a meal.

I'm a fox.
Curled up in my feet.
That the ****** eagle.
Ate.
One day when I couldn't help.

My fox friend.

It chases me.
Miles still in my memory.

***** ditches.
Thrown away trash.
All enmesh in my vagrant heart.

And,
I am offal.
Poorly spelled.
And half as well articulated.

But.
At least I can still.
Commune with a spirit or two.

I can't.
Co ordinate the.
Chaos anymore.

And, I feel like screaming.

I'm real.

Until my vocal chords break.
Bleeding out some cry.
To the heavens.

Existence is the torture.
Of banal nothing.
Coalescing into an.
Instant regret.
From an impulsive.
Rush.

But I've learned.
Each dramatic outburst.
Was a call for help.
A communication.
So I learned how to act.
Normal.
Keep it to.
Myself.

When.
In my mind.

Well,
I can't keep track now,
Can I.

I don't recognize myself.
Even after being so self centred.
So vainly obsessed.
With being so effortlessly classy in my thrift store clothes.
Yet, somehow.

I'm handsome.
I got style.

And,
I don't get it.
I see myself.
But don't recall there being a me.
That I could see.
Just some dysmorphic neuroses.
An anonymous face.

So, I'm gonna change on the regular babe.
Can't stand something static.
It doesn't still the noise.
Or chill my nerves.

I want to be anything but something.
Consistently.
The same.

I declare my quasi identity.
I emit an amorphous persona.

I am the flux state of Nolan.
Dynamic fashion.
All in ruddy shades of black.