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.

I'm
Resigned
To the twenty feet that
Surround me.

In here
In the sovereignty
Of my individual
Space,
I keep
You out.

You,
A burden,
An expectation,
Obligatory person.

But I owe
Nothing
To God,
Go be pro social
Somewhere else.

I wonder if it hurts more.
To other people.
That I'm not scared to open up.
I just don't want to.

Not with them.

Sorry.

Recurring themes.
Reappear

He said I was.
High tension.
It's not like he's wrong.
I do scream at cops.

And, find myself in institutions.
Involuntary circumstances.
Of a rotten mind left to gaze.

Into that dark nothingness.
That void of regret.

A black chasm.
I find myself falling into.

An infinite void.
Of negative emotions.

Anhedonia.
Got me down.

Ain't no one.
Not always no good.
Neither are the good ones.
I find.
But.
Doesn't really matter.
You heal or die.
It's it.

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.

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?

I endure for I am hard.
My will to power overcomes the death of God
Every let down sloughs off my persona.
Said the diamond to the coal.
In a simulacra.
Hyper real.
A simulated holographic principle.
More human, than human.

And here I am
Prescient in the noumea.
Of every perfect form.
I think, therefore I am
The ubermensch in recursion.
Self reflective particulars.
Like how I'm often an emanation of God
Without end.

Consistently
always
At
Rock bottom
And, I'm assured this is it.
The lowest I can get.

But friend,
I'm just a singularity.
So dense I fall through space time.
How far can we recede into first causes
If we don't infinitely regress.

You can trust that there will be a triumph of the will
Over the wretched of the Earth.
Unless all there is is the ego and its own.
Could potentially be a categorical imperative
To tell the truth.

But, then again
It's patently absurd.
Yet you insist on lining my epistemology
With your rancid ontology.
I'll have my own twilight of the idols
As I decline like the western empire.

Demonic despair.
Stoic loss.
Cynical.

No, I am that I am.
Tetragrammaton.

So many reassembled lifetimes.
I'm the Buddha of malcontents.
My realm is Dukkha.
My mantra, free me from Naraka.
And my upaya dissolved the mara
Preventing my realisation of Buddha nature.
But that doesn't mean anything.

Other than.

Irrational fear.

Isolation.

All the drawn out strained things.
I'm an avatara of falling apart.
A forgotten angel that never got to fly.
The gestalt of sloth.
Finding my meaning in many worlds.
And, as prime Nolan goes into seclusion.
The quantum immortality implied by my quantum suicide.
Drips off me like water off leviathan.
I don't holistically absorb reality.
I ignore it with logical positivism.
Collect some real world data.
A kinda empiricism.

But that's just the real.
Not me.
Everything begins and ends with me.

The historical imperative
That.
I'm the poltergeist
zeitgeist.
Of poverty stricken.
Paranoid prophet philosophers.
Making sense of the none sense.
In anyway I can.

Validate my existence.
By nursing my insecurities.
In your empathetic salvation.
Your divine concern.
A noble neuroses.
Fancy fallacy of form.
Your ideals.
Sacred sentiment.

Yet I'm but a stone.
Cold, distant, and alien.
Only moved.
With.
Force.

Her love
Was conditional.
That the false self she created
Become my true self
And depended on me never straying
From the beautiful nothings
and my place
In the universe
I wrote in a feverish vision quest
Of a
Telegram from points of no return.
The authentic updates on the general state
Of Nolan's psyche mid collapse.

And even I can't keep up
With the fiction I write,
Even though it was genuine,
At the time.

I kept those voluminous emails
Where I spilt my heart out
To another person,|
Shared all those soft bits wolves can enter the
Carcass through.

But, I won't read them.

We mediate the self
With who we think we need to be
To avoid the embarrassment
Of being real
And misunderstood.

Your real weakness isn't who you aren't
But who you can't help but be.

She let that me,
That truthful barren
Naked prostrate me,
Edify
Into a God and she wrote the scripture
With everything we said we'd do.

Everything I forgot.

She spins lies
Tho,
Told me she always loved me
And it was obvious.

That she couldn't handle another
Five years of silence.

Then she left one day
With no warning,
Saying I was different.

I never changed,
I just don't get my hopes up
And understand no one really
Loves me.

They love who they
Want me to be.

I am the untranslatability
Of my mind to
Form.

The veil
Is drawn in the
Inbetween
Spaces.

Where spirits dance
With the schizophrenic
In an apophenia,
Meaning
Becomes subjective,
When you see signs
In everything.

So cast the bones
Draw the blood
And make for
Yourself
A sin offering.

The goat
Is often not from
Mendes.

But I crave the darkness
And din
Of dusk,
Perpetually without,
Dawn.

Return to the frigid cold
Of shadows.

Never said
I was
A good person.

Never said
I was
Anything.

I just shrug
It
Off.

Wake up
Tomorrow
Make it,
Today.

Try not to
Get too
Carried away,
In fantasies.

Accept
Reality,
Defy expectations
And ***
To wherever
It is I'm
Goin.

Which is gone.

Why bother.
Waking up tomorrow.
When it's the same thing.
Same dysfunction.

Always unwell.

All the junkies knew each other.
In my hometown.
There weren't many of us.
I should probably be dead.
By now.

If.
I've.
Ever.

Written.
Anything beautiful.

I absolve myself.

Of.
It.

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.

I used.
To love.

Things.
And.
People.

But.

I found out.
I didn't need them.

For anything.

I couldn't.

Do.
Myself.

I can't get up the energy.
To be interested in your lack.
Of a personality.

No.
I don't ****.
I just drift into rhythm.
And melody.

Wait to die.

Sleeping til six.

Optimism doesn't suit me.
As I exist.
As a mote of dust.
In some rundown.
Abandoned.
House.
The low glow of lamplight.
And classic rock.
Stuck in my personal.
Let down.

Sometimes you end up driving for hours.
Down grid roads.
Thinking about working away.
The problems.
Or maybe another hit of.
Speed.

I'm always depressed.
I'm always down.
And I get up.
Oh so very slowly.
On days like this.
When nothing is left over.
But hating myself

I want to sleep.
Through my.
Tomorrows.

Waking up in a yesterday.
That was never there.
Some kinda nostalgia.
I have.
With drug addiction.
And violence.

I can't seem to manage.
The basics.
Of life.

I just wake up.
Collect my body parts.
And, lurch.
Forward.
To do nothing.
All day.

And, it's boring.
But, I don't know how to live.
Just.
Exist.

Everything.
Collides.
Together.

In a kaleidoscopic.
View.

Then.
Dissipates.

Back.

Into.
Nothing.

Every new beginning.
Exists more poignantly.
In my fantasy.
Than in reality.
And the grandiose delusions.
Are finally wrong.

I'm simply.
Mundane.

Important to no ones.
Story.

I have no deus ex machina.
Just personal private moments.

And poorly worded.
Psychosis 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.