I am not.
A.
Good man.
I'm a lukewarm lullaby,
To all my shattered
Dreams.
I never woke up
From.

If I wrote about you,
You'd be a corpse in
no time at all,
Haunting me with the lonely suicide
I always thought you were.

Punctuated with
My topical thematics,
Rot,
Depression,
Self hatred,
Reflections on the
morbid.

And,
You wouldn't wanna die,
This quickly in my story-
A short
one line
in my grandiose
Tragedy of a life.

This old undertaker,
Has buried so many people
In my mind,
That.

No ones left over,
To care enough about
like your
Youthful bravado,
Artificial passion-
Demands.

Silence.
And brevity.

Are lost on my ambiguity..

I don't think about the
Optics.
Of many situations,
But I have enough acumen,
To know who to support.

And,
who to make an enemy.

I am an existential resistance
To staid and typical
Meaning.

Metaphorically
Normal.

Symbolically
Mundane.

­I reject the common, easy,
Beauty
of lovely things.

I scrawl obscenity across a digital footprint,
Comparmentalizing my personality.

A time to be good.
A time to be bad.
A time to cause as much damage as I can.

With, my internet graffiti
In this large language collaborative fiction
I desecrate duty and obligation,
With the kamikaze song.

I want nothing but bad things
For you.

And erasure.
For me.

My urge to destroy.
Was quickly replaced.
By blasphemy.
As I crooked my head.
To sing.

I started my penance with slurs.
And a general distaste.
For other people.

As I am.

Eating the sin of everyone around me.
Saying what no one else will.
I am a taboo.
I straddle the line between acceptable and forbidden.
I do unclean things.
I perform austerities in drug use.
Holiness in starvation.

I'm a macabre oddity
Walking alone in a cemetary.
Making friends with the corvids.
Mumbling mad things.
About the sun I destroyed and the song of.
Erlik.

Spirit of transformation.
Rot.
The shaman disease.
A chanted contagion.

I am the epiphany.
That once you accomplish.
That impossible goal.
You always end up doing something.

Else.

Cause the ****** always leaves.
A hole that remains empty.
A desire to find something new to do.
Create another impossible goal.
I shouldn't be able to achieve.

I transcend through hunger.
Through trodding the Earth.
I overcome in pain.
I am copiously entwined in some concentration.
With tangential thoughts.
That merge with each other.
Into unusual associations.
I am novel.
Incomprehensible.

I may look like a curse.
And I am.
But I'm very specific.
And also rare.

Love?
No.

Silence
And
Avoidance.

Somewhere
Else-
Is always,
Better
Than where-
I am.

There's no one left.
To write love poems about.
So I bid adieu.
To other people.

There is only me in this house.
And the windows are barred.
The doors sealed shut.

No one gets in.
To my secret samadhi.

I have no need.
For any of.
You.

There is nothing
But the madness
Of constant isolation.

I would like to peel off my face
Pour on vinegar
A penance to the beauty of life.

And me,
So ugly,
So ******,
Bleeding regret onto a page.

I wish to be ground into a carnal paste,
Fed to the dogs,
Consumed,
Destroyed completely.

It was all so.
Romantic.
Back then.
We made a sacred song out of.

Refusing.
To be like you.

And,
our poetry was recited to each other.
After midnight, out in the streets.
And we were always drunk.
Or high.

But the sun never shone so bright.
And the drugs never wore off.
To get us away from this massive.
Peak.

Where all of our good intentions.
Wrote the cannon of lives.
We never expected to arrive at.

Drifting through the meaningless moments.
With mediocre moments.
And I took a moment to reflect.

Isolated in my room.

Coming down.
Off of some drugs.
And some well written prose.

I dunno what I became.

But I regret the loss.
Of my old life.

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.

I've never been very good
But, the good things I've done.

Disorients people
And, they'd prefer to believe
What they want.

So who am I to disrupt
A disingenuous delusion.

I am a gnat.

An insignificant nothing
So far below average
I'm in the catacombs.

No one asked me if I wanted to be saved.
I've done things that I'm ashamed of
Only one I regret.

Maybe that's good enough.
But I doubt it
Even though I confessed my sin
To God.

I am a beast.

I just want it all to end.
This self doubt.
This self hate.
This insubstantiation about who I
Really
Am.

I am the static on the radio
A drop in a vast ocean of mediocrity.

An obsolete technology.
Living on life support
Sighing through infinity.

I am.
Nothing.
Special.