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.

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

Sing.
Me.
A melody.

And make it.
Out of tune.

Off.

Key.

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.

I holistically.
Preclude your.
Mindfulness.

For the upaya.

Of a burnt.
Old.
Cigarette.

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.
*****.

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.

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.

In these dying nights of summer.
Where the chill rises up on these kaleidoscope sunsets.
I can feel the sun bleeding into the horizon.
Tortured.
Haemorrhaging all over the sky.

I try to reflect on something.
Better than just being in the.
Moment.

But, alas.
I'm at a loss for words.

And,

I'm not very eloquent anymore.

The.
Sun.
Has.
Burnt.
My.
Hangover.
Into.
My.
Soul

I'm.
Gasping.­
For.
Air.

With.

Leather.
Backed.
Lungs.

And.
Baby.

Maybe.
Yo­u.
Got.
Me.
All.
Wrong.

As.
I.
Lurch.
Forward.

Or.
Lay.
Down.
A­nd.

Fade.

Into.
The.
Bleeding.
Days.

Where.

Yesterday.
Became­.

Today.

In.
The.
Sunset.

With.
Nausea.

The sun impresses fire into my being.
And.
I want to steal it.
And bury it deep.
In Tyrannus' depth.

I walked among the funeral pyres.
Caked in the dust of so many dead.
Things.
And.
On the horizon is coming autumn.
In the air is stinging winter.

How many cycles left?
How many austerities.
Til I break through.

To the Gods and spirits.
And, offer my taboo trickster spirit.

Some blood.

From a sacrificial offering.

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.

Everything.
Collides.
Together.

In a kaleidoscopic.
View.

Then.
Dissipates.

Back.

Into.
Nothing.

I crytpically write my fate.
With each cigarette.
Dying of pulmonary oedema.
An abstract aneurysm.

Some kinda blood clot.
And.
My pressure is high.

My lungs.
Black.

But God.
Won't let me.
Die.

So I hack up until I get the feeling.
Of vomiting in my lungs.
A torch song.
Dry hacking until.

It dislodges.
From these maladaptive.
Coping mechanisms.

Life in a nutshell.

Neurotically wistful about neotonous memories.
While your bad behaviour.
Takes its silver farthing from you.

A mockery of your former self.

I awake to light.
Boring itself through my skull.
And,
Baby,
There ain't no us.

There's just me

With a headache.

Reevaluating my life.
Choices.

We used to dance.
With each other.
When there was noone there.

Singing nothings to each other.
In whispered jokes.
And, know me nots.

You told me it.
Didnt matter.
How I looked.
Just had to.
Move  to the beat.
Comes up sometimes when.
I'm lonely.
Mom.

Like some old Motown Song.
Dull hum on a record player.
The tube television.
Static and syndication

And I don't wanna know.
If it was a dream.
Or not.

Cause, I"m still there I hope.
Dancing til I'm dead.

Coulda been something beautiful.
And,
It sure is nostalgic

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.

We went.
Somewhere.

Vague.

According to.
The.

Directions.

This.

Is a.
Letting
Go.

Of something.
I.
Never.
Had

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.

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.

Everything falls
Apart.

And, I'm at a loss.
As to how,
To fix it.

Not that it matters.

My delusions of control,
Fell through my hands,
Like sand through a sieve
On a beach.

I am a nothing,
From nowhere,
With **** all
To show for my time,
But,
These calloused hands from typing
Desperately,
Into the void.

Why can't we just not be involved?

My life is up for interpretation.
Discussion, I never wanted it to be.
As though there was a right way.
To live.
Or be.
Living.

As though my lived experiences.
Were just mirages.
Mistakes and maladaptive memories.
Maybe.
It was all a bad.
Dream.

Even as moments reside deep in my subconscious.
And, how I felt.
Which isn't much.  These days.
Cause why feel bad.
When you.
Can just.
Not feel at all.

Lost in that stoic impulse.
To  endure.  Every.
Loss.  As a passing of leaves in autumn.
The heat of summer and i's dissipation.
Something.
To be uninvested in.

Resilient.
Yolked to the failures.
Of a wasted life.

Punctuated.

With some decent days.

I used.
To love.

Things.
And.
People.

But.

I found out.
I didn't need them.

For anything.

I couldn't.

Do.
Myself.

I used.
To get.
Lonely.

Until.

I got used.
To being.
Alone.

I remember.
When God told me.
'Is this the best you can do?  Life in a room?'

And from my heart I said.

In here.
I can forget I exist.

Exist.

Only as a stray thought.
It's not my prison.
It's the twenty feet I can control.

When everything is so.

Fragile.

The snow carpets everything.

And I can't see.
It's so bright.

The white permeates existence and shines oh so brilliantly.
Blotched here and there with the thrown up refuse of passing cars.
***** grey stains on the blinding incandescent light.

My eyes hurt.

As I see the silhouette of a magpie.
Chasing away a mangy old fox who won't survive the winter.
And  I'm always tired.
Walking on.
This slippery ice.

I always catch myself.

Before I fall.

But,
My scarf is falling down.
The wind bites my legs.
I am unfortunately always unorganized and unprepared.

But.
In my mind.

I'm striking a pose with an idealized fantasy image of myself 23 years ago.
So I look in the mirror

and slip.

Still an old man.
Still walking.
Still broke.

And still unable to see.
Directly into the sun.

Everyone is either dead.
Or I got lost a long time ago and they just couldn't
locate me.

And, we don't speak anymore.
So there's always just me to pick up these ashes.
Of my social scene.

And, these habits.
Get repetitive.

A recurring nightmare of banal idle boredom.
The chore of exercise for your basic transportation.
Pacing the halls in pensive angst.
Trying to fight the motorists.
As they pass by.

They don't know I'm king ****.
Of my own.
**** island.

Even if I walk the Earth in exile.

Tomorrow.
Coulda been something.
If I wanted to be
there.

Seems like I'm.
Just waiting
for the
world to end.

The horizons are
on fire.
Death coming from
above.
On wings of whispered.
Annihilation.

I'd rather be travelling.
But.
Thinkin of running away somewhere.
Else.
Somwehere safe.
Though,
I never do.

And, I can't escape the.
Shock.
Wave.

I'm just running on empty.
Hopped up on adrenaline.

Avoiding flashes in the distance.
Suns being born.

Me

Though.

I've got
cobwebs in my
mind.
Forgetting how to think.
When wit is all I need.
To sleep.
Or dream.

May this
Terror flee me.
As I'm.
Occupying my time.
With a poor
short term memory.

With
denial.

Punishment for something.
I
never
did.

And I hear the air raid siren.
Bleating in my mind.

Is this love.
In the age of information.

Losing everything
with no power to.
Stop it.

I sighed my last sigh.
With nothing to show.
For all this wasted time.

The still buzz on the screen.

Electricity.

And a passion.
I could never find.

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.

Tyler says.
My problem has always.
Been my paranoia.

But he neglects the self doubt.
The self hatred.
Or the hallucinations.

And, every day I struggle.
With the will to live.
Especially when it turns out.
I'm not really that unique.

Id hate to be the person.
Who admires.
My imperfections.

Today.
I feel.
Like.
I don't.
Wanna
See.

Tomorrow.

With.
Cognizant eyes.

My utopia.
Of.
Endless release.

The.
Hope.
For.
Annihilation.

Just one day.
Of.
Non.
Existence.

Forever.

I scream.
And no one hears me.
So I cut the perormative ****.
Hurl about my verbal diahrrea.
***** it to the lights on the screen.
Safe in the liminal state.
Of I'm not really here.
I'm just wasting time

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.