I have
become
Something imploding.

Something pathetic,
Wrapped up in my
Personal
Iconoclasm of apophenia-
Seeing signs
That make no
Sense-
Except
In an ambiguous way,
With something you might.

Have.

Thought.

Just a passing figment,
Of my imagination.

Some kinda abstraction,
Rotating in
My.

Mind,
It's quite broken,
I assure you.

And,
You wouldn't be the first
To
Get
Confused.

She doesn't talk to me anymore.
No bated breath.
No smiles.
No glance.
No long conversations til dusk.

Just her absence.
I don't think she was ever there to begin with.
All I was was an afterthought.
Meandering distraction.

Cast off husks don't break any hearts.  
They rot.
Alone.

From the inside
Of the coma.
I breathe rhythmically.
Out of step
With
The outside world.

Until I wake up.
And,
Mourn the loss of dreams.

Synchronized with the depression
Of aware.

I
Despair.
At what's left.
Of my life.

Another couldn't get up.
Suicidal ideation.
Day.
Where I slept through a nine to five.

Another.
This too will pass into another.
Hopeless situation.
Stewing in my juices.

Lusting for that finale.
As long as I'm unconscious.

It's ok.

Now.
I disconnect myself.
From that synthetic reality.
The serendipitous escape.

Where for once.
I was part of a greater community.
Something different.
If only in my mind.

The fantasy.
Was always.
A change from the empty stillness.
The mute conversations I have with myself.
A distraction from unremitting failure.

Now.
I'm not so schizophrenically.
Detached.
Stuck in the minds of other people.

I think.
What exactly did I learn.
From that grandiose delusion of mine.
From that failure to connect.
From that fragile persona.
That was never me.
My never was.


Nothing.

I learned nothing.

I'm going back to all alone.
It's much more comfortable.
More, serene.

True to myself.

No one I know will even.
Find out when I.
Die.

They're just personas.
Avatars and text on.
Screens.

A figment of my imagination.
Projected out there on that impossible.
Perch.

That I can't land on.
Where telegrams can only reach.

No one will give them my obituary.
I'll just recede.
Into nothing.

Into sleep.
I recede.
Every day.
An opaque .
Nostalgia.
For depression.
And other.
Muddling things.
But I can't sleep.
The whole day.
Through.
Anymore.
Tiredly waking up.
In a tomorrow.
Too late to really.
Do anything

I'm symetrically out of place.
Every where I go.
Covered in the filth of a thousand chain smoked.
Cigarettes.
And, the offal.
Smelling foul.
Mould.
****.
Betraying the lie of potential.
In my face.

It feels like I'll never get out.
From under this rock.

It will just weigh me down.
In perpetual melancholy.

Irreverent nothingness.

How do I make this feel better.
How do I **** the memories.
That once I was a beautiful could have been.
But now.
I just whittle away the hours.
Enter anguish when there's no more ****
No more alcohol or hours of video games.
Just to.
Waste my
Time.

Here sitting in my self abnegation.
In my sacred antipathy

I'll wake up tomorrow and you'll be in my dreams.
Stuck.
A good memory gone bad.

And I'll see you in her face.

Hear your in her voice.

And I'll push her away.
Too.

These self reflections draw me open.

And my guts laid bare.
My life.
My intuition and my memory.

All fall apart and I'm left barren.
Gazing at nothing.
Coiled frustration.
Despair.
Inadequate.

I'm a waste of food.
A waste of time.
A wasted life.

The future is supposed to be bright.
But for me.
It's just there.
Waiting.
I'm stuck out here.
In these doldrums.
Staring at the horizon.
Wondering when I'll do more.
Than freeze in place.

I am inundated with the sacred script.
Of suffering.
The austerities of.
Starvation and self abnegation.
I am a blasphemy.
Darkness that never wanted.
The light.

And, who are you
to break.
My ritual of
self destruction.

If I wish to offer myself up as a sacrifice.
For the freedom to be an *******.
Then I will.
As I ignore your wisdom.
For the knowledge of the self.
I am I.
Bathed in night.

The drums beat.
The veil is lifted.
I sulk among the spirits.
Crawling in the cracks.
Of creation.
With the creeping things.

And none.
Will let Scorpion cross the river.
So, Scorpion stings.
Floats over on a corpse.
Of prettier spirits.
Triumphant and divine.
Scorpion is as Scorpion does.

And,
he asks no quarter.

Just as love never quits.
So does the dark wish to engulf.
The light in its megalithic.
Strength.

And,
dance.
Cause the venom.
Animates you.

Never listen to tricksters.
When they tell you they're good.

We're hungry.

Babbling Bible Babel babble.
I deign to write a prayer.
To confusion.

Alas,
I don't understand.
The words coming out of my mouth.
So I stay silent.
Dance.
Recede into the rhythm.
Of some hypnotic thing.
Ceremonialize my broken thought patterns.

Always finding personal references to myself.
In the words someone wrote for.
Someone else.
But, it always means me.
It's always poignant.
Profound to the demands of right now.

I laugh.
At the catastrophe.
That has become my life.
What holy men are not schiophrenic?
Who among you.
Takes vows of poverty?
Sings to magpies.
Blesses mangy foxes.

And lives.
As a beast.

I never learned.
How to get attached.
When all I do is run.
To somewhere else.
Otherwise.
These ghosts.
They still haunt me.

Every day is a
New catatonia
To meander through.

Sleeping too late,
In my own narcoleptic,
Night terror.

Maybe if I ignore
The outside world,
It will go away,
And I can die,
In peace.

Gone too late,
On borrowed time,
In my sleep.

Everything.
I.
Have.

It's not worth much anyway.

Another miserable day.
For me.
The odd offending out cast.
Ostracized imbecile.
Anti social apathetic apophenia.

Finding patterns in nothing.
Curt blasphemies.
Paranoid projections.

And, I'm frustrated.
With how incapable I am.
At intuiting.
Anything social.

And.

If this rage had a direction.
It would be inside.
Even though it's other people who make me mad.

Being strange is a sentence.
Assuming I'm a drug addict.
Cause I don't wear ugly jeans and terrible tshirts.

What did multiculturalism ever get me.
Besides being judged.

On how I look.
By musty smelling.
Strangers.

And, friend.
I don't look good.
To you.

Cause you have no taste or
spark of creativity.
Maybe try something sensible.
That everyone else does.
***** dismal polo shirts.
Tacky khakis.

I wouldn't care.
If I didn't have to.
Talk to you.

In your.
Broken English.

You mistake beautiful soliloquies to myself.
For stupidity.
Cause you ain't got a lexicon.
Enough to comprehend what I say.

And, your terrible mispronounced nonsense.
Is incomprehensible.

But, I guess.
I'm the strange one.

I'm the drug addict degenerate.
Who you won't hire.
Because of your cultural assumptions.
You imported.
Here.

My so called home.

Stranger in a strange land.
That used to be where I lived.

I have always.
Hated myself.

That's why I'm so surprised.
When other people like.
Me.

I feel better alone.
Unnoticed.

It's always away.
From an uncomfortable.
I'm here.

Somewhere across the
Noise.

Someone died
And I was glad-
it-
Wasn't
Me.

I have shallow
Empathy
And don't mourn
My losses.

They lived
Longer
Than I ever
Wanted
To.

Still. I
Persist
In this miserable
Monotony.

Lucky,
Epistemic luck,
I don't think
I know you?

We're dead already.
And we're just witnessing.
The story.
Of the process.

Of death.
And, we lament.
The dying of the light.
In the dark we cannot see.
Anything familiar.

And.
Things are moving.
Unknown.
And
Menacing.