Whirling, in incessant motion
Circular, wrung out, excreting waste
The sacred body, the holy conductor
Of the forbidden, heretical "I"
Motions of intensity, lines and speed
In the face of abstract, scurrying rats
Face, the truly curious abomination
The single versus the several

Molecules revolving rapidly, rabidly
A veritable molecular-revolution
The many fluids of langue
Flowing languidly through rapids
Lanquidity, flux in meaning
Or meaning, nothing by nature
Likeness only, not even Nature
Not machinic, purely artificial

What is meant by "I disappear"?
An order, perhaps, not observation
Observed, of course, and obeyed
I disappear! I am no longer!
No longer what? No longer I!
A becoming, or unbecoming
A decision between void and oblivion
Will you meet me on the other side?

I see the devil in all things. It's not even particularly well-hidden, not like some trick of the imagination or a disguised magician, it's hiding in plain sight to me. Not the sort of devil that a cult may tell you of, not some huge, red demon with the beard of a goat, but something more primal. Fear. Loathing. Hatred. Something malicious, something insidious, something downright disgusting is hiding amongst all which touches the light I walk upon. An idea of evil, a form of maleficence, an essence of carnage, a torment of the psyche. I walk unlit roads towards a house which does not feel like a home. I see it within the groups of youngins that shout, scream and stare me down like a starving, broken hound. I see it in the lonely old man with the fishing hat and the widest, deepest wrinkles one could ever see. He approaches and I feel the cold, biting sting, then the twist, and the switchblade enters my belly. Something is ruptured, I am sure, and I will bleed to death right here, under the inviting smile of an evil moon, on this playground I've trod upon so many times. But no, no, the warm gushing of blood simply does not come as he passes me, the cold is all-encompassing and stark and I realize the blade never came out, it was merely his stare, his essence that penetrated my stomach so violently. I see it in the mother and father that walk near me. I know all they could think about was tearing me apart, bit by bit, inch by inch, biting into my flesh and carving me up like a pig, putting me down with a pickaxe to the forehead like a workhorse. All that was keeping them back was the child on the father's shoulders, so young, so clean, so pure, untainted by such evil. But it'll grow. It will become an adult someday. And woe is me if I see them then. But I do have good news, I do!
There is not much left of this path, so short, so narrow, so hard upon the soles of my boots. Soon I can walk inside and experience once again how ghastly, isolated, frozen, lifeless. Truly despicable is this room. There is no home within this house. The devil is in all things, but some things different than others. The walls used to laugh at me but now they stare in silence. They know better than to scare me now. They instill these images of specters coming to **** me in my sleep, but without a word. They do not speak to me, for they know what will happen if I am simply left to my own devices long enough. Clever is this old devil, it is, for it knows its greatest weapon in this war against me is itself the subject. It knows, it does, that one day, one miserable, gray day, under the clouds that block out even that disgusting moon that carries me, that smiles with me, that accompanies me better than any man ever did, I will do its bidding for it. I will simply have had enough and I will leave, and it will greet me with a grin that could harm a man in its sly and smug luminosity.

But that day has not come, that day is not today, and the future is as grim and unseemly as the past, almost like they bleed into each other, like a river of sewage running directly through my soul, carving the rocks until they're the color of **** and tempering me with the essence of garbage. And what do I do in response? I simply endure. I stand and face the river, thinking myself some hero, some sisyphean idol of martyrdom for claiming to know the agony of living. When in reality, all beings face the same agony, they just do not see it. But I do. I see the devil in all things.

I see and hear it all this dreary night. Sirens of many varieties under a sickly pale green moonlight. Police, ambulances, firefighters, hell, maybe even the army is involved. And all for such a little, insignificant, measly thing with no ramifications at all. Looking at the moon unbound by a window is far brighter but I float back inwards to see the gorgeous, yellow, orange and red flames licking my former room and what remains of my belongings. There is nothing left of me, but it was over quite quickly, so there is no need to complain. Some little ghoulish figure set a fire under my bed claiming it would finally warm me, then blamed it on me when the flames consumed both it and I. Nothing is better now than it was before, yesterday and the day that preceded or the day that came even before then, although the lord knows I can't even remember that far back. Nothing is better, as I was saying, because there is nothing to do, and nowhere to be, no one to see and nothing to look forward to. The heavens wouldn't take me, but hell rejected me too. It was a few minutes ago that I learned that those wise crazies from centuries ago, who had called the soul undying, were right, but anamnesis simply wouldn't come and I was not worthy of apotheosis.
So even what little I could hold in my hands, the sparks of warmth that I was given oh so rarely, had moistened and turned to drops of water, and I could not even join the fire and the cosmic jubilee. I looked upon my scorched abode once again and sighed. Or would have, had I lungs still, but it seems incorporeal beings have their limitations. No matter, limitations and disappointment were nothing new to me. I floated onward to lament and hope for another day where maybe, just maybe, some body would need a wandering, lonesome soul. Eventually, after hours became days and those days became weeks and those weeks became months and those months became years and those years became worthless to keep counting out to myself, floating turned into such a **** chore. Sitting was impossible, so that was out of the question, as well. And it simply wouldn't come. I eventually forgot what it even was that I was waiting for, and with nobody around, nothing would even remind me. Alas, existence can be tedious, but non-existence is just such a bore.

The sound of blood dripping
Faint and repetitive thumps
Rouses me from my daze
And I look down upon the scene
What remains of a face is there
One even a mother couldn't identify
And my hands covered in fresh viscera
So I start to piece it together

Upon recollection I realize
The punishment you received
Inflicted by my heavy hands
Was nowhere near severe enough
I took from you the clarity of vision
But I must continue onward
Knowing what you took, I'll never regain
Always cursed to be less than before

Wherever you end up now
I hope your torment never eases
And you find no grace or mercy
No forgiveness for sins unrepentant

I will never be whole
And never be loved
As long as it's not undone
I will always be nothing

Be ye, who are not forgiven
Like the wind
Fleet of foot and silent

Fly then, mine sorrows
Away with ye
And til we meet again

Cry not for fear, nor grief
Ye shan't suffer
Among rats or roaches

Skittering, clawing beastes
Be with me
In mine hours of solitude

Sing not for love or loss
Rest thy voice
And thine weary head in a lap

All that must be will be
And has been
So sleep eternal in cold heat

Welcome to the festival
Where chaos true shall reign
Many saints have blessed it all
I'm heralding the pain

I seek and I beseech
My trembling hands do reach
Your approval I seek
With eyes bereft and meek

O Gracious Lord of all
Through winding dreams I fall
Is there no resting place
Have I lost all my grace

Weak and haphazard I sing
And dance around a yellow king
Transfixed upon a dimming moon
Whose gaze returned upon me soon

What more is there to say than this
To be without, empty of bliss
I crave the warmth of soft embrace
In you I've found my long lost grace

There's a girl down in the valley
And she dreams of being warm
But it's a winter's day in June
The feathers torn from her longcoat

And she sleeps in her mother's bed
She doesn't speak in her own tongue
Some days she just speaks none at all
And she just sees herself a ghost

There's a girl down in the valley
Who doesn't dream much anymore
And when she does it is of torment
Which always comes true after all

She used to dream of being tall
To be a giant in the moonbeams
But she's a wretched little thing
And she gets smaller every day

And when the voices all stop singing
That's when she meets her own small tune
It's out of key and full of misery
And there's no one left to hear it

As a child, they teach you what is
And inquisitively you find it isn't
What is and is not, and where do I come in?
I, who think and feel, but not my own
She, who walks, is not I
As I, who think, am not her
Still yet, we are joined at the hip, we are twins
The big sisterly ghost and the little sisterly robot

If I am who I am but not who she is
And she represents me
Then only tangentially do I see these creatures
The pigeons, lizards and moles
As well as horses, cats and dogs
And still yet, those too are me and not I
All are shards of the greatest Broken Mirror
Or fragments of a fading memory in Him

As the famous term insists, a writhing mass
Though writhing is incorrect, it is unmoving
Stable, expanding, becoming-living and unvoid
Moving all which moves and breathing all which breathes
It is in him that we are finite, but becoming-infinite
Approaching eternity while rotting away meaning
Mirror images of mimicry and specters of words
Colliding in the Great that is Unknown but Knowing

So finally, all I see is that which is synthesized
A world created just for me, a tale untold
They, the Otherness spouts drivel and slander
About my sight being the flaw in my Machinery
I am she, and the fauna which you see
I am she, and the great Anomaly
To paraphrase He, who is Perfect and Unmoving
I am that I am, I will be what I will be

I see the sun, no sky
Through a world of closed eyes
All day awake and alert
Though I wish that I weren't
All that which is real
Does nothing but disgust
That which is perceived
Pounds the mind to dust

I am not who I am
A spirit trapped in chains
Organs are my dam
I'm enslaved and maimed

Is this all there is?
Will there be no more?
I might take the risk
And give in to the gore

Today I am fragments of a person
And not part of a whole
Shards of broken glass with faces
And a melancholy in unknowingness

Today I am deeply paranoid
Conducting the goings-on in pain
And there seems to be no border
Between the mental and physical

Today I am a rabbit, hunted
Always on the run, with nimble steps
And an overwhelming sense of dread
It is a unique experience to face doom

Today I am Meursault in spirit
Not because of the general indifference
But because of the lack of exit
And considerations of ****** or suicide

Today I am a Caravaggio painting
The deep darkness envelops everything
And seeps into the soul in secrecy
To consume that which is untainted

Today I am the notes of Cecil Taylor's piano
What more is there than disorder
And clusters of blinding angelic light
Which seem to ease these shackles for a time

Today I am in a Lynch film
For a sense of reality to that which is unreal
For moments of understanding shattered
For calm in shock and anxiety in stillness

Today I am asleep in the world, awake in the dream
Memories fly away from me
All that remains after a long day is a shell
An automaton stripped of its autonomy

Today... what happened today?
I cannot for the life of me recall, but it was unpleasant

Today? Today... I am the prisoner

Whatever the light touches
That is which I leave behind
Whatever it does not
That is what I shall inhabit
There is no particular reason
But we curse ourselves regardless
For the coming of all days
And the willingness of the body

The cold is stark outside
But the frost inside is insidious
A factory of misery
An identity of confusion

A lukewarm pile of fresh *****
And the scattered pieces of a broken heart
Or some other wildly clichéd dross
A vague color between green and grey
Maybe some recent cigarette butts
In it are uncomfortable memories
Immortalized vindictive shards of the past
A boot print to assert the endless shame

Nothing positive is ever in *****
It's a relief of pain and dullness
It contains the distilled essence of heartache

I haven't thrown up in years
I must have so much pent up waste in me
Waste of the self, garbage of the soul
Unholy, rancid, putrid, odorous *****
Or am I perhaps forgetting something?

There is tranquil solitude in *****
Isolated, cold, mechanical self-reflection
Representations of pathetic shame
Cruel hatred in regurgitated carrots and corn
No disgust except that which the perceiver suggests

What point is there in disgust and regret then?
The ugly and incapacitating truth escaped

Perhaps the reason I do not, is because I am!
Quetzal, the drunken ***** of the Holy Spirit
Reflecting all the disgust God hides
Transposed onto unshapely fractures
Cavities and chasms, gaping on the cloth of Eden

Become as *****, lukewarm and odorous!
The purest and cleanest reflection of God's adoration

Falling
Sinking
Drowning
Redemption

Steel
Blood
Exhaustion
Black­ness

Suppose to me for a second that you ignore the cultural barrier between the man standing in front of you and yourself. This man was raised in a far away land, whose people are PECULIAR in many ways, not quite fitting into any group you have heard of. He has, in the past been referred to, sometimes affectionately and sometimes derogatorily, as an alien. He is PONDERING. You can see it on the blank, nearly expressionless face that he posits towards this unblinking world he considers void of redeeming qualities. In his land, there is a PECULIAR saying, that he keeps repeating to himself, as though it was a mantra that could somehow save him from what seems, at this point, impending. He is PONDERING this saying. The way he recites it, sometimes quietly within his mind's eye and sometimes out loud, much to the dismay of those hearing him, is "Acting with the peace of the dead." which is an approximation of the way he heard it once, when his father said it to him as a child. He is unsure what this PECULIAR phrase has been doing in his mind for the last week. He is in a tall building, on the top floor, and he considers jumping out of a window every free moment he allows himself. He has, on occasion, realized his consciousness left him during the day, only to be roused back from his PONDERINGS by the sounds of objects and people that no longer exist. He hears the voice of Him, the man who swam before him, despite not knowing how to swim. He fears that his knowledge of swimming forbids him from joining Him. He does on occasion realize that his fear of not being able to swim with Him is what some would call PECULIAR. Some would explain that he needs to let go of these foolish endeavors and let the 4514 swim along the coast, soundly. His father would have told him about the days he PONDERED the window of his tenth floor apartment as well.
He deems long enough has passed. He opens the window, and manifest before him is a bridge of RAINBOW. He steps onto the bridge and loses control of his conscious mind.

Swallowed by the dread
Swimming with the dead
The station is unmanned
The operator's ******

Let they who art one with the endless ocean
The black and glintingly specked sea of tar
Encroach you and grasp at what you hold

Let them hold you down, down under
Suffocating the life out of you
Holding your throat until you drown

Let ye, fettered traveler, join us
We are a merry lot down here
This void, this black space we inhabit
It really isn't as scary as it sounds
There is love and joy and celebration
There is camaraderie, feasts
There are memories, in many which ways
There are dreams, and no nightmares
Let ye, shackled traveler, join us
For we have sang of your exploits
For we have cried for your sorrows
For we so desire to meet with you (again)
Let ye, battered traveler, join us
We miss you.
Your hugs felt nice.
We miss seeing you grow up by our side.
Even when far apart, we would always think of you.
We love you, and we wish you were here with me.

Suppose to me for a second that you ignore the difference of corporeal worlds between the woman standing in front of you and yourself. She inhabits a world of very little LIGHT. (Though there is some.) It is the middle of the night, which she is able to infer because even though her eyesight is as SHARP as ever, there is still absolutely nothing visible in this world. Though her other senses are, for lack of a better expression, quite attuned to this world, and therefore she can easily sense her way through the room she usually wakes up in. This, however, is not that room. She stumbles immediately, and falls, to a floor that feels much different, courser to the touch. The feeling of her heart welling up the usual anxious thoughts is not as LIGHT as it was a moment ago. She is in a deep state of panic. Of paranoia. Of fright. Of terror. The darkness feels all the more encroaching, all the more terrifying, in this new, unexplored room. White specks begin to cloud her vision as she stumbles around, wounding herself constantly. Bruises, cuts, trauma. She stays down, this time. There is a distinct coldness to the floor where she lay. She gropes around, and yelps in pain. SHARP. It's a knife! She grabs the handle of it. Quite LIGHT. She decides to test out the SHARPness of this knife and stabs at the floor. Nothing happens. Her heightened feelings of panic bring back memories, unpleasant memories, similarly involving darkness, knives and unfamiliarity. She can only see one possible way out, and concurs she'd like to see LIGHT at least one more time. She falls into a deep sleep, clutching her knife at her chest and dreaming of those folks of merriment.
She wakes, still as panicked as before, but sees that specks of brightness now form around the horizon far outside her room. They don't bring any joy to her, she just wanted to see them one last time.
She deems long enough has passed. She cuts into the flesh of her body that, through the darkness, she has never seen before, and manifest before her is blood. It is a stark, crimson color, a shade she has never once beheld. Then, as her senses begin to faulter, she looks again and sees more shades, all those of a RAINBOW. She brought herself joy by managing to create color in a world with none before her. She lets herself lose control of her conscious mind.

The woman and the man meet
A clashing of two different worlds
Two different times, yet at once the same
They both open their mouths to each other
No sound comes, they stand silent

THEY PONDER THE RAINBOW, ITS PECULIAR, SHARP LIGHT.

They stand together in the space that the choir mentioned in passing previously. Waves crash against them both, yet they stand unflinching, trying and failing to scream, yell, shout, anything that would make the other one understand. Their duality frightens them both, as though they know something the other doesn't. Finally, a voice booms, it is both of theirs and yet it is not. It asks the question that they both mean to phrase:
"I'm very happy to finally be here, but... where is everyone?"

No tomb like the present
A suffocating fact
I shan't see the crescent
A summer with no tact

There is a distinct, quiet suffering
That plagues the air every which summer
Though out there, the world is rapidly expanding
The smell of rot is the one that catches my nostril
As for what rots, I am not sure
Perhaps the trouble lies within myself
But in these days, I am slower, less responsive
And my conversations get more unhinged
With the entities in my living space
As for whether they are hallucinated
Or it's me yelling at bugs that have entered
I honestly would not be able to say

The air is thick, thicker than milky fog
And this thickness hurts the purity
Pure, white snow falls from my eyes
And cold, piercing winds from my throat
Icicles grow upon my fingertips
And my hair is made of frozen grass
I am the late autumn and early winter, I am
My stark and hailing demeanor freezes the weak
I am the very definition of an ice queen
Or at the very least I definitely pretend to be
Even though it's a charade everyone ignores

Have you ever sat in the back seat, while a parent drove?
You might even feel a bit of affection from them
So it is not so bad, not quite as impersonable
Not as horrifying as the passenger's seat
You are at risk but you are not the operative word
I am currently in the passenger's seat of my life
Have you ever felt similarly? Like you lost control?
My interactions are pure instincts and pheromones
My preferences are base level urges in all cases
Even the music I so enjoy, I entrust not to myself
But to the almighty, for their hand is far more sturdy
I shake, like an autumn leaf in a hurricane
Barely holding on the driver, which is always them
I will never learn how to drive a car

I often get called an adept storyteller
Some people call me vivid or imaginative, even
So I suppose I might as well ask the people in my head
To help me conjure up some short tales for you;
This one is of a young girl, dreaming

In some dreams she finds herself in a rancid, green room
There with her is another girl, a cynical kind
The two of them may have loved each other once, but
That time has long since passed
Acts of carnal urges and violence come to pass
Mold grows on the walls and ceilings
The camera slowly pans away from them, *******
To show the director and the audience

In some dreams, she finds herself in a small Japanese home
Discussing the fate of that infamous 100 ryo
"You'll never get it back" says the cynical girl
She vows to get it back and leaves the room
Most of the scene is silent, save for cicadas
In the night she returns, scars all over her face
She brutally dismembers the cynical girl
She simply was not meant to be a ronin

In some dreams she finds herself in a police station
The cynical woman is on the other ends of the desk
"We've got you by the *****, ****" she says
The girl answers only with a scoff and a crooked smile
"If you had me by the *****, this would be more enjoyable"
The cynical girl seems embarrassed, upset
The director shouts "More emotion, you dimwits, more!"
The camera zooms in, with shaking motion, towards the girl

In some dreams she finds herself alone, it's snowing inside
The cynical girl left. Surely something far more important.
She begins to draw a mural, in the style of Basquiat
A funky little guy, baby blue, bright orange, neon pink lines
Once done, she hears a voice: "It's been a while, babes"
Finally, he was back! It was the mural, speaking
Or in some sense, the very walls of the room spoke to her
"What's groovy, baby?" he asks, with his usual cheer

There's many more dreams to share, like the one where they reminisce
Or the one where they're janissaries, stationed in Serbia
Or the one where they're communists, in a bar during the Great War
Or the one where space has been conquered and they stayed back at home
Or the one where the mural learns to play drums, and the shadowy figure joins
I didn't even talk about the shadowy figure, even though he's a major character!
I mean hell, even I joined them occasionally, once they asked
They figured out I didn't know everything, and talked to me, what a lovely bunch
But obviously at one point, spunky little girls have to wake up

In this dream, she finds herself alone again, in a regular room
The heat of the scorching sun has been illuminating her abode all day
She remembers that in this reality, she plays improvised music
And yet, in such horrid weather, it'd be suicide to go play right now
She is sluggish, unconcerned, seemingly in another world already
No tomb like the present, she thinks and repeats, like a mantric chant
"No time! You keep saying the phrase all wrong!" a voice reprimands her
She knows and she deems it an unfit day to have yet more drama
"I know... I just thought the pun was amusing..."
She says in retort to herself, in order to pass the time.

There's comfort in discomfort
And love in being lost
There's thinking and there's knowing
There's fire in the frost

I find myself at the end of a short journey
Most everyday, these days, if I'm honest
And I find I don't remember the journey
Soon, I won't remember it happened
Even forgetting the ending to it
A journey to my friend's house or the store
It's all sand that was washed away
By the ever-forming tides in my brain

I wish the tides were more effective, obviously
Wash me away as a whole entity, cleanse the world
They say there's pain in forgetting
Which I guess would explain why I'm like this
I have a friend who used to say they were a cancer
It was when we were younger and I didn't get it
Maybe it was because of their zodiac, I thought
But now I'm older and now I get it

After about a week of deliberation, I see it now
This, in a sense, is a song or a tale
That, if you look closely, debates the ocean
A frightening and dark depth of immeasurability
Would it be a pop culture reference now;
If I were to say I'd see for myself
Or would it simply be a pretentious reiteration
Made in the poorest of tastes?

My best years are behind me, I tell myself always
Thinking "oh, how I've wasted my time upon time"
But I've been telling myself this for my whole life
So when the **** were my best years, really?
I am perhaps the most attuned I have ever been
Rather than a teen singing opera in the streets
I am an adult screaming into metal tubes
Pretending that one day it will make me a living
Stretching my body thin and disappearing under pools
Pools of sweat, blood and tears, in a manner of dramaticness
The sun burns my skin off and the salt in the waves irritates the exposed muscle

That previous line was too long and it didn't fit the scheme
But I think that sort of helps with the deranged nature of the prose I present
I say to myself as I keep writing lines that are almost as long as that one

What the **** is rock music?
People tell me "oh I don't follow what goes on with rock music"
Or they ask me "what kind of rock music do you enjoy?"
But then we're counting Elvis Presley and Les Rallizes Dénudés as the same genre

Rambling on as usual, which presents a conundrum, do I finish the poem yet?
Or do I expose more of the thoughts with no connection?
I guess the connection is these are the things that keep me awake in the dead of night
And these are also the ones that I wake up for
Here's another one: Why do I love?
It comes so quick and stays so long and pains me to say that it churns my stomach
It makes no sense and though it's an impulse I cannot control I wish I had some modicum of understanding
And there's an even longer line, to show how strongly I feel about this!

You know, the reason I switched subject materials (or maybe I didn't even do so)
is partially because I forgot I was writing this, which fits in with the subject to begin with
It comes and goes in waves and threes, triumvirates of pathetic hasty fugazi deliberation
Ill-considered and hazardously conceived, murdered at birth
In a video game, that'd be called "spawn camping", and I for some reason felt the need to point this out

The time I tried killing myself (or succumbing to these waves, if you will)
It was the very waves that prevented me from it
I stood, perched, completely naked but for a pair of underwear, on my desk, looking out my open window
I felt the need to jump and I didn't even think about who might miss me on that day, I could think of no one
But then I kept thinking and things came up, musical concepts or scenes from films or random thoughts about historical figures
And before I knew it, I was sitting.
And though I'd felt it just as strongly as before, I could somehow even procrastinate suicide
Now if that isn't a superpower, I don't know what is!

The waves, they crashed against my open skull and my exposed brain matter
And before I knew it, I faced both the predicament of pebbles and skin
My amygdala and hippocampus were both as flat and smooth as the skin of a newborn
And yet as wrinkly and terrifying as Willem Dafoe in the Lighthouse
And there I was, a trembling infant, wracked with grief, paranoia and the shivers
And there I was still yet, I was Methuselah and I forgot what made me so

If I have to be honest with you, frank and earnest, as vulnerable as I always am...
I forgot why I wrote this by the time it was completed
But that is not the only thing I've lost
I look in the mirror and I see an ocean, formless, unending, ceaseless, hurdling ever toward
Toward, toward, toward
What is your identity, oh great one of the waves?

I want to be part of the industry
To those in the know
This may come off as a confession
Of my ineptitude in joining music
Yes, Music, with a capital M
The industry of music
Holed off from the world
This however, is not the case
I am fawning over the Industry
A world of hard workers
A world of early deaths
And one where there is no satisfaction

I want to be part of the industry
I am deeply and utterly heartbroken
At my love of the arts and avant-garde
I want to be like the old man
From the bus station that one time prior
He was wearing a tattered hat
His coat was torn in places
His shoes were discolored from glue
His face was dark as soot from dirt
His beard was patchy, and greyish
Yet through his eyes, I saw a flash
A flash of a diamond nature
His veins bled gold and his brow, well
His sweat was pure *******
And even thusly so, he held something
That I could never even begin to touch
He held in himself no hostility
No morosity or animosity
He was a happy man and nothing more
And though I may live for far longer
I wish to trade places yet still

I want to be part of the industry
I want my body to be battered
I want my will to be shattered
If I were to wish for something
It would be to become a machine
In a factory, operated by a ******
Functioning in perfect unison
With my focused master
I want to be a slave to the industry
I want to be destroyed for a good reason
Rather than the war of attrition
That I've been fighting for 20 something years now

I want to be part of the industry
The *** industry
No, I am not professing that I would enjoy being on call
I want to be ***** by the evil that man wills
By the willing and heretical deities of this land

I dreamed of being cannibalized
A man of gigantic proportions stood above me
He had a tail, and a horse's face
His voice was the sound of charcoal burning
He whispered to me with malevolence
"You will never be who you desire to be"
I knew in my heart of hearts that he was right
He took all of his clothes off, slowly
In order to allow me a view of his many scars
Burns, stab wounds, scratches
All over his brown leather skin
His face changed into something else
It was my face, as a man
He ****** me, against my will
And after he had had his way with me
He began to tear me apart with his hands
Slowly ripping off my flesh, bit by bit
I could not move against his immense force
But I felt every single minutia of pain
I became nothing, and I was now one with him
I will never be a woman again

I want to be part of the industry
I want to be one of the many robots
That are tearing jobs away from good-willed working men
Or so I hear they are, anyway

I want to be part of the soil
I want you to walk over me
Maybe this way I would assist you in something
I would help you reach your goal at the ends of this earth
I want to be dirt, sand and soft rock
To be malleable by hand and to be useful in some way
I want to know why the Greater Will cursed me this way
Why I must see the earth in such a Wretched form
Why where others see color, I see monochrome
Why where others see camaraderie, I see crushing solitude
My becoming an Artist was a great mistake
I've always wanted to be nothing more than a machine

I want you to understand
You, You, You, with a capital Y, the divine You
That I do love you, if somewhat differently than they do
And I apologize for not showing it while I had the chance
I will miss the days when we walked this earth together
We were Wretched together, unlike the others
I hope in your sleep, your eternal and infinite sleep
You find the wisdom that I denied you
I will miss you like you were a brother to me, because you were
I am lonely without you
But so it goes, or at least that's what they tell me

There was a dead horse on my way to work today
The horse had been there a while
I do not know why or how it was left there
But I certainly felt a kinship towards it
I'm a doer, not a waiter, I swear
I only ever wait for impossible things
Sort of like I'm waiting for Godot, in a way
Or like waiting for the dead horse to come alive
Why did it die, anyway? Who left it there?
I heard it beckon to me, softly, quietly
It told me about its pain and it felt mine
It related itself to me, singing sweetly
I could not relate mine to it
But I felt slowly but surely my drifting
We switched places, the dead horse and I
I was the horse, on the side of the road
Down by the railway, dead
And the horse was the one that went to work today
I spent my day, baking in the sun
My odor becoming more and more pungent
And the horse worked tirelessly at the workshop

I'm waiting for the dead horse to come alive
Why was it left out in the sun to die?
Why did nobody care for it in its time of need?
Now it's growing more and more rancid
**** all around its feet and face
And the other horses are all gone
No funeral was held, no ceremony
Just the sweet, inviting smell of death
Quite a squalid state of affairs
How I long to understand how he feels right now

I'm waiting for my dead friend to come alive
Why was he left in the hospital to die?
Why could I not care for him in his time of need?
Now he's growing further and further
Water all around his feet and face
And the other friends are all gone
How I wish I could hear him just once more
Or see the phone ring and know it's him
How I wish he'd ask me how the music is going
Or lecture me about the futility again

I'm waiting for my broken heart to heal
This one really needs no explanation, does it?
All those with broken hearts deserve it
Or at least that's what they keep telling me

I'm waiting for the dead horse to speak to me
A lonely, rotting bovine on the side of the road
Maggots live as kings tonight
"Horses aren't bovines"
I yell at myself in reprimand
"I know, but I forgot the categorization"
I respond in a slightly altered intonation

I'm waiting for Godot today
I like waiting for impossible things
It fills me with purpose, and prolongs the inevitable
As long as I wait and do there is no death
I have long since ceased the doing, but waiting is fine
This bus stop sure is lonely, save for the old man
The old man keeps asking for cigarettes
I reach into my pockets to see
There is a decade-old pack of cigarettes
He takes one and thanks me with a slur
"Did you know I used to smoke, too?"
I ask with a childish naiveté
"Of course, I was there."
He answers as though it's second nature to him

I'm waiting to grow young again
I'm sick of being the old man in the bus stop
I'm sick of the decade old cigarettes from the young man
He is always late and he never buys me a fresh pack

I'm waiting to **** myself
"I'm thinking of ending things" as some might say
In some ways I'm quite like Charlie Kaufman
I also have trouble finishing my work
And my work also makes very little sense to others
But where he is original, I'm ripping him off
And so I'm waiting to **** myself
In a sense though, I'm already dead, baking in the sun
Because remember, I am the dead horse
Quite fond of beating the dead horse in this poem, too
I wonder what my family would say about that analogy
"That's very funny" they might say "you should be a philosopher"
I wonder what my psychologist would say about that analogy
"That's completely normal" she might say
"Everybody relates to dead horses and fantasizes"
"You're just like all the others"
I wonder if she's correct again

I'm waiting to become the John Fahey of the clarinet
In a sense I already am that
Because like Fahey, nobody listens to what I do
But where he is original, I'm ripping him off
And so I'm waiting to become the John Fahey
Of the clarinet
I already said that before, didn't I?

I'm waiting for this season of Better Call Saul to end
While it's airing I cannot **** myself
I am far too invested in it to **** myself
And surely enough these weeks get longer and longer
So I'm alive more and more each week

On my way home from work, I pass the same road again
The horse is alive, and seems happy to see me again
I wonder what caused the anomalous behavior
Perhaps it was sick? But how did it get better so fast?
The ideal time to end it has passed
Because remember, I am the dead horse
And if the horse is alive, I am alive also
And so, I think you've already guessed what I'm going to say
I'm waiting to **** myself again

MOVEMENT I (written to be performed on tárogató, accompanied by acoustic guitar)

"The morn rises o'erhead
The baker bakes the daily bread
The people smell the blooming roses
Happiness in smaller doses

The children go off to their school
And think learning is ever so cruel
But they'll wish these days back
Everyone will wish these days back

Glowing rays crown the apartments
It is, in return, dubbed glorious hence
Though the clouds will later darken
And the air will taste of iron"

MOVEMENT II (written to be performed on baritone saxophone)

"Radiant, glowing
Destructive but invisible
The naked eye suffers
The body faulters and wilts
Crime and agony
Pain and suffering
Endless, endless throes of woes
Breaths draw short
The air becomes thin
The water grows darker
Blackness overtakes
This is the realm of Death
Come to take ye
Who dare tempt his fated word.

You, whose body fails
Whose organs rupture and fall apart
I suggest you tell your fellow man
Die screaming
The alternative is far more sinister."

MOVEMENT III (written to be performed on contrabass clarinet, accompanied by prepared electric guitar and bowed cymbals)

"Bloom (wilt)
Grow (die)
Sane (mind)
Must (cry)
...
Decay (decay (decay (decay (decay))))
And a reminder for the future folk:
Bury your dead far beneath."

Low down in the dirt and silt,
Buried hatchet, blade and hilt,
Armor without sparkling gold,
Body taken o'er by mold.

'Tis the flesh and blood of him,
Ignatius, whose body dim.
But mind so sharp it cut through tin,
Forgotten now by all his kin.

Forgotten by himself, as well,
All't remains; the bronzen bell.
That rang when beastly men he fell
And sent nations to fiery hell:

He died not as he lived before,
Not on the fields of battle evermore;
Killed, he was, by a simple thing:
A mind destroyed by a ceaseless ring.

And thus, all that remains are the corpses,
The blood and gore, the slain forces.
And a man who could not be destroyed,
Lest it be by his own body.

But we shant forget the legacy
We shall compose a threnody
For to forget is but heresy
Remember our simple knight.

The song that I once wrote
Reverberates through the halls
Sang by a lonesome *****
In his rasping, croaked tone

He sings and he sobs
His tears falling faintly
Drops as though large diamonds
In the shapes of the zodiac

What is a song, then
If not something to be shared with those you love
What meaning is there to singing
If it must fall on the deafest of ears

I set myself ablaze and then I fly about the room
Time and space became for me a lovely little tomb
Apparitions far more friendly than the people's gloom
That is why I live among the stars upon the moon

Gaze upon me, frail and mighty, see me and despair
Powerful and terrifying is the returned stare
Lo am I, high in the sky with my infernal horn
Play the notes and make the world my booming voice adorn

There's a saxophonist that insists on keeping me awake
Blaring, drowning in the noise
Taking in spit and saliva from the reed
And going at it again
With fervorous gusts of screeches and yells

There's a horse that insists on keeping me awake
Neigh, he says, to the summer heat
And say he does, proclaim he does
Loudly, proudly, ever more
The morning light rises above him

There's cicadas insisting on keeping me awake
Buzz, chirp, skree, zumm
That is what they say, and what a fruitful talk
I'm sure it must be riveting since they want me to hear it
If only I spoke their tongue

There's a brain that insists on keeping me awake
Loud yells of bygone memories
Honest mistakes of the last decade
Fears of tomorrow, fears of today
What's the saxophone, horse and cicadas matter if I couldn't sleep anyway?

With nothing to see and nowhere to be,
With no one to be and nowhere to go:
Empty, like the meaning of the spring dew
Dissipating, hundreds of pieces, scattered
Individual voids waiting upon a cue
To become what they embody, fettered.
A field of unquiet quietness, occasionally
interrupted by a single, awful tone.
What existence is this exigence?
Unknowable, unspeakable, unending:
Pain is what it is.

The dew knows not why it's stepped on,
Ending its momentary nature
Only to crop up tomorrow and be none
The foot becoming again its berater.
And so it goes until the summer,
with the cruel months behind it.
The skull becomes and beckons
Back into nihil.
But there's too many things to see, places to be
Too much to be and too many places to go
For to be one is to be many and the dew tires.

The smell of burnt hair.
Pyre, made of autumn leaves.

A sound beyond hearing.
Metal, bending and twisting.

One eye, but not the other.
One ear and two more.

Lines, straight lines.
No curves, no wrinkles.

Do you hear it?
Can you see it?

A fire you can't put out.
Burning ice like a thunderous cloud.

The gust of wind in my back
I hear cicadas again
And tamed horses roam
Oh mother, I am back home

My breath short
And the heat soaring
Alone, as you were
Forgotten like a cur

The blades of grass welcomed me
And the trees whispered nice words
And the walls blankly listened
And my song was sung

But Hungary, my sweet old home
No more is my song for you

My breath shorter
Interrupted and forced to
Become one with that gust of wind
I run like the hunted
And my hunter the trusted

Lies, deception, corruption
That is what you are
My dear, sweet Hungary

The blades of grass no longer welcome me
And the trees turn their heads as the autumn comes
And my breath long, wispy and furtive
My song a ballad of my sadness
But there is nobody to sing it
And without ears, these shadows cannot hear it

I'm untangled from you, Hungary
I despise you, blades of grass
I will ignore you, trees, like you have chosen for me
This is not my home
The soil from whence I came and clay from whence I was made
I hope it dries up, I hope the end finally comes for you
And maybe then, you will wish for a different path
You will wish you had heard my song

Those folks
They cry about forgotten love
As though it's a thing of yesterday
We all snicker at their naiveté
For it is known their love cares little
So cry on, little poet, cry your little heart out
But you achieve nothing

Those folks
They weep as though they're wounded
Yelling wolf about some depression
What's got you down? Some advice
Maybe stop taking yourself so seriously
Poems about how hard it is from noblemen
You've never seen the Tysa overflow

Those folks
Crying over your mother like a child
So what if she is dead?
Shouting to the rest of us like some imbecile
Crazed upon the perch of suicide
When it is just a woman who birthed you
Why, mine didn't even love me

Those folks
Singing odes to addiction
Be it hiding behind drugs or alcohol
Snubbing your face with powder
Locking yourselves in your room
Suspended bodies of privilege
Crying about hardship

Those folks
Who have never been attacked by their own mind
Assaulted by their trusted
Tricked by those they loved
Who've never seen a man take his life
Or heard someone get shot
And think they've been through it all

Those folks
Who have never heard the true songs
The real notes of reality pass them by
Hide from the world all you want
But those prophets were once right
And if you had listened you might know
But you just assumed you're as smart

You folks
With your upper-class *****
Your cliques of conceit and deceit
Those godforsaken silver windows
You've never seen it rain like it does
You've never seen the fire in the forest
So quiet down, you good-for-nothing *******.

Birds of a feather
Do flock together
So I see a swan, ever so often
For I'm on my death bed

It is a resting place that I turn to every night
The next day waking in a bittersweet abyss
For I nary rest my mournful eye
And once I do, it still opens evermore

What is it to take a title?
I step on pedestals once and twice
On my hand, a mantle, a gauntlet
On my back, a cape, head, a crown

Who am I to assume the roles of the passed and the gone?
I step and step and step in their footsteps and live
Never have I drowned myself in bile
Or fastened a rope around my wounded neck
Never clipped my beautiful wings
I just burned the tips, to stay flightless
Took off the crown and weeped forever
While the idolized watch over me and hope I stand

Who are you, who were you, who will you be?
Am I as you describe, a knife in the dark?
I've been dreaming the words of a prophet
Because, honey, I am the wall, the bastion
And you are the sweet, piercing trumpet
Tear me down, so I can rise from the ashes
Never once will I die
I am immortal

I am a star whose beams shine bright black
My confusion reaches past these hospital windows
Woman, please help me in my woe
I'm new here, a stranger
I don't recognize this

I am a pestilence that strikes animals
Or a Dutch merchant
I am the star who burns like the brightest candle
I am the woman who walks on the edges of thorns
And dives deeper and deeper into despair
I am the homeless man who asks for money
In exchange for a poem from another homeless man
My knowledge is none and immeasurable

Dancing through streets of gray concrete
The rain knocks on my forehead and eyes
Are the empty chambers still full and free?
Are you happy to see me?
Or is that a gun in your pocket?

Sing swan songs, so the people may hear you
Let them know, may they cry in their darkest hour
While your heart rises above the ocean of blackness
They cry out for you, but it's too late. Always too late.
That was your last song, and it will never again be sung.

That was your last song, and it will never again be sung.

Birds of a feather
Do flock together
So I see a swan, ever so often
For I'm on my death bed

No, nurse, I do not want it
Bringing me medicine won't help
Do you not get it?
All my songs are my last song, I'm not leaving.

While plucking feathers, while plucking feathers
The black tar envelops my unmanly sigh
A cigarette in the moon's light with a stranger
And the howling of an unsightly beast

While plucking feathers, while plucking feathers
The fog obscures everything in sight
I'm questioning the night sky on its numbers
The forest looks in disgust and curiosity

While plucking feathers, while plucking feathers
I'm bleeding out, I'm bleeding out
While plucking feathers, my ear drum pops
I say my goodbye and flap my bare wings

An ornate door leads to the mausoleum
A huge crack showing the entrance of grave robbers
The youths wander inside to belittle their ancestors
And my ballad softly floats above the ground

While plucking feathers, while plucking feathers
The young man rests near his anvil
Opening his book of poetry on an empty page
Only to find the blood of the martyr seeping

While plucking my feathers
Will the youth remember my name?
Will I be forgotten as a nameless man?
Or will I be the poet of the next century?

Pluck my feathers or don't!
Pluck my feathers or don't!
Pluck my feathers or don't!

But do not forget me and the steps which I took
Do not forget my babbling, my bish and my bosch
Do not forget my gifts, you, receiver of blessing
Pluck them rhythmically, slave, rhythmically

My feather falls, slowly to the ground
It is the last of its kind
And as my breaths draw to a close
The children laugh gleefully
Unknowing the end is near
Extinction on my name once and for all
Pluck my feathers no more, slave,
I've just blood to give.

The tárogató yells
About the Spiritus Sanctus
While I conduct
Electric orchestra
In more ways than one

Noxious fumes
Piles of elastic dolls
The forge beckons
The crisis averted
God bless America

The working man
He's down on his luck
He kills his boss
Then waits in his blood
For the police with a smile

The wooden flute
The samurai's hat
The question of allegience
The barbed wire fences
God bless America

The muezzin talks
To the director
Looking for the paper
The Luzerne Zeitung
That is what he cried

Will I live to see daylight?
Will I choke on a cloth,
Doused in gasoline
With the rabbit skinner?
God bless America

Purple
Yellow
Indigo
Green
Lime
Curmudgeon
Ocher
Bordeau­x
Magenta
Pink

Does the Creator ever question the existence of her own self, or does she sit upon her clouds, oblivious to our plight, performing the greatest of rituals with no effect and appointing herself God of This, God of That, God of Whatever-Comes-To-Mind, naming herself after whatever we want her to be, believing in simply just letting us believe, calculating until our inevitable doom makes her simply useless and lonesome? Would her angels then weep for humanity? Are there angels? Who are you?

Allah?
Krishnu?
Tezcatlipoca?
Zeus?

Inferno is unleashed on the ******* sagging from my chin
The pain burns, but worse is the humiliation
Even worse is the taste
But I endure it, for I must see the yellow brick road once more

The chest grows
The hair grows
The voice grows higher
She stands tall
In her filth
In her rotting lamb's skin
In the armchair
Where bliss once caught her

And a generation dies under the commanding voice of Whoever-The-****
Why would his name matter when all you'll remember is the count of millions?

God bless America
God bless America
God bless America
God bless America
God bless America
God bless America

Can you dig your own grave, America?
My arms are tired.

A collection of donkeys
Reviewing the depth and girth of light
In a circular channel of platinum white
While the Cold War's puppet master smiles

What is in the creases of the temple?
Built upon the Aztec temptress's armpit
Discovered by the Spanish butcher
And burnt by the pale ghost

Japanese pilots land upon
Upon, upon
A lake of black tar
A lake of black tears
A lake of black tar
A lake of black tears
And question the times.

He asked me why my hair was soft
I severed my ear and lent it
The pianist, unsurprised, played on
With a pyrrhic victory among black and white

Plagiarism runs amok
It is my good friend, the light in the dark
The lightning coiling around my mind
A brilliant idea strikes the gutter

Japanese pilots land upon
Upon, upon
A lake of black tar
A lake of black tears
A lake of black tar
A lake of black tears
And question the times.

What's your answer?
Among the darkened rain clouds?
What's your answer?
Among ****** handles?
What's your answer?
Among the trumpets and horns?
What's your answer?
To the performance of a life?

Sing no more!
Silence!
This is my noblest music!
The buzzing of nothing!

Vong, they call me
And call to me they do
The stitch, the incision
The lung of a fish
The bite of a tiger

Vong, they call me
Newer now than ever before
The ship sinking almost
My shoes fill with water
But to drown, never

Vong, they call me
Never knowing what made me so
It was somebody else!
All the holes, the drills
The incisions, the wounds

Vong, they call me
But am I Vong?
Or am I not?
Do I miss it?
My life as before?

Vong, they called me
But Quetzal I am
And bury Vong, I must
For he is filth, heresy
For he hurt me, and himself

And the sky turns blue
And the water blue
And Vong's face blue
But he will not drown
He asks for a space on my ship

His body torn in 17
His eyes curmudgeon
His limbs mismatched
His skin a darkened grey
I won't call him Vong

And sail towards the Sun
Sail towards the Sun
Sail towards the Sun
Sail towards the Sun
Without arms, man the ship, protect your kin

Vong, become my brother
You've been through the sea
You've been through the sky
You've flown through the blood red Sun
But still you strive for the ship

Safety, oh you beautiful safety.
To lead a better life, inside the Sun
And wait for the fire to pass
Wait for the ship to rise
Wait, for your love shall be here

Vong, they call me.
But Quetzal I am.

A horned individual looks at me
He calls to me, but he gets more and more distant by the second
I reach out and touch his hand
But it slips out of my grasp
He slowly becomes obscured as I see him grow from a simple child to an adult
Just like I have

He shouts towards me in a language I have not heard in years
I understand it
I look back and stop in place
I am now at a crossroad in my life
Do I take him back? Do I introduce him to the present?
Or do I let him rot in peace without me?

A cape on my back
And a trigger next to my index finger
I look around at the world
It is a hell on Earth
The trees in bloom, the water azure
The sky cloudless, orange and purple

I look like I'm from the future
Maybe I'm from the future
Or maybe I really did come from Saturn
Since this is all so alien to me
Take me back to where we were
Take me, Ra. Take me, Jhonn.

But I'm here. I see the world
The old building blocks
The ferris wheel moved by radiation
I look at the gun in my hands
It's matte black. Brand new, like me.
Brand new, like the blood from the body on the ground.

Maybe this never happened,
I say to myself questioning the audience.
I look at the cubes. They are all different colors.
Some explode. Some expand.
Some implode. I feel at home with those.
This feels safe.

The world I came to is different.
This world is not a rhapsody.
This world is made of skin.
There's another body inside.
Like mine, but pitch black.
It is my shadow.

Suddenly I am at home again.
I feel the shadow pulling the Earth apart.
I feel my face. I'm dusty.
I report to the Mars of the World.
They tell me to head back in.
I resign myself to fate.

I look in the mirror one last time.
I see a woman.
I'm content.
I get in my bed, as I did yesterday.
The night shortly falls over me.
I crawl into the void, as I live and breathe.

I wake up in the different place again.
I look in the mirror.
It's a dusty, white face of no expression.
I put the cape back on and leave.
As I leave the zone beyond time, I remember again.
It is time to find something of value.

**** the objective.
I hear knocking on the door.
I open it. It's the courier.
"Welcome back."
"Thank you."
"Are you ready?"

We leave for the yellow zones.
But I'm tired of the courier.
As the bullet exits his brain, I feel free.
So does his blood.
The desert around us stares at me.
The cubes cry out.

I'm in the green zone. I'm looking for the child.
He greets me with a smile.
"You have realized!"
"I am finally back.
I have killed the ones holding me back."
"Welcome back to reality. I love you, Mother."

The industrial zone around us starts feeling distorted.
The cubes lose their shapes and scream.
My son grabs my legs tight.
The trees are all dead. The sky is gray.
The water runs green, with purple bubbles.
I missed Saturn.

The sun in the sky of an eternal night
The tractor swings and misses today
The drums are hit every day in anticipation
The butterfly's wings torn off and put on
The daily struggle of a pastor in modernity
Dying to go back to how life used to be

A monolith opened from dying sheep
A droning, long, darkened figure came
He took all the belongings of modern man
And left as quickly as he came, leaving ruination
The ruination spread through the world
And as the figure left, all our souls did, too

The pastor had prepared for this day, though
As all his sheep gathered into a herd...
He saw what had to be done and took off
The sheep, cried after their owner that night
But the man could not be swayed anymore
He took his gun and his scythe and his armor

In a world ever so confused, the pastor stuck out
Looking for something that wasn't there.
He saw gates of elected darkness and phantoms
He saw drops of rain be every color and none
He saw man become animal and **** one another
He saw buildings morph into pure liquid LSD

The bat wings on his back grew bigger evermore
And his eyes kept getting darker and darker
His head kept singing in liturgical Latin
And the grasp on his scythe kept getting weaker
But that was all okay, because he still had a goal
And once he found the Gate, it would all be fine

It went like that for what seemed like years
But in reality it was just a few days, maybe a week
His feet got more and more tired by the day
And by the fourth day, all he saw was the night
The prophet's words rang in his head forevermore
"Where is the night? Where is the Gate? Where, oh?"

By the time he'd reached the other world, too late
He had become a creature of darkness, himself
Ruining the world in his path step by step, he did
And when he stopped to take a breath, he felt weak
Little did he know, he was in fact stopping forever
And that he wouldn't find the man, but vica versa

On the 21st of June, an bystander found an old man
Breathing heavily, desperately looking all over
The old man seemed like he was 200 or more
His speech was slurred and hard to understand
The bystander took him to a hospital, where he spoke
Out loud, he said "I forgive you, brother."

Lugosi Béla is dead.
Ligeti György is dead.
The bat flies past the closet door.
The closet is filled with corpses, screaming to let them out.
The grey house cries out in a voice of silence.
The wood cracks under my feet as I break through the door.
Relative ease getting in, but I fear getting out might take all my power.
I look towards the door, but it is so far.
I decide to go in, towards a familiar stench.
I hear screams from the attic and moans from the basement.
Ligeti's breath. That was the stench.
Wonderful. I take a huge whiff and feel high.
I meet him. He is dead, yet he's smiling at me.
I kiss him on the lips, for he is deserving of love, like the others.
I leave the room and let him sleep in silence.
I hope my love got to him.
As soon as I get through the door, a set of red eyes.
Wings, chapping my shoulders. I am pinned against a wall.
Teeth sink into my neck.
It is Lugosi. I kiss him on the lips, as he demands, and begin to leave.
He disappears, for he's dead. Undead.
But that seems like years ago and I'm still not at the door.
In fact, it's been a decade.
It's the morning now, and I cannot leave.
I feel like... I'm dying? But I feel more alive, as well.
As I reach the door, I fall.

I wake up in an unfamiliar room.
They are both there. They don't present me with a choice.
They are leaving all of their belongings to me.
White on white translucent black capes.
Black on black glasses of *****.
The bats have left the bell tower.
The victims have been bled.
Red velvet lines the black box.
Virginal brides file past their tombs.
Strewn with time's dead flowers,
Bereft in deathly bloom,
I'm alone in a darkened room.

I am Ligeti.
I am Lugosi.
I am neither and I am both.
I am dead and I am not.
As I live and breathe.
I am...
The count.

What a spiceless world.
One full of orange, then blue.
One full of purple, then brown.
To get through the waters of the womb, you need steel.
Where blood is flighty. And mud is shallow.
To love, you need to ****.
To hate, you need to birth another.
A pool of men stronger and faster than a colony of ants.
Who are you, when you've lost all your feathers?
When the bridge above you has collapsed?
Who are you, once again, when all you've known has turned to order?
When there is a hierarchy? Where do you fit in?
To make wings, you need a brother and a hammer.
To fight those orderly *******, you need to call upon your own filth.
To waddle through your own ****, your own ****, you need to drink the elixir.
Not some shallow nectar from the gods. Who are they, anyway? Who, who are the gods to question the almighty? You were always better anyway.
Who upon this mound of dirt, ****, ***** and mercury shall question the authenticity of your command, when they're all dead in the ground?
Will there be anyone?
Will it just be you?
You knock on the door of the rich man, but he does not answer. You paint his door red in your own blood and scream.
What has occurred here? A clash of babies dressed in stardust under a sky of light violet?
Maybe a marriage of scales and feathers disguised as ones you could care about?
You know nothing of this world, and that's how you always got by.
You dig through the pool of used needles, you drench yourself in others' diseases, you embrace a death of most painful circumstance and you cut off your limbs one by one.
Only then, at your final moments, tongueless, waddling your chunks of once arms, legs and wings around, drowning in your own *****, can you ask the most important question.
What if the world was the opposite?

A car moving too fast.
A mirror, broken into a million pieces.
3 and a half years of your life, wasted.
Sounds of a shattered record.
The grunt of disgust.
That god-awful word, uttered again.
The repeating days, over and over.
The same morning, the same day.
The same afternoon, the same night.
A beast with a verdant colored head.
Another one with grey scales over his eyes.
Is it worth it?
Did I put enough work in?
Only time will tell.
The smile and embrace of a brother.
The reassuring words of a lover.
You're enough. Let it go.
And so, you don't drink poison any longer.
You breathe free. You feel smells.
You touch the grass.
You're loved.
Just because you let go.
You look back at the monstrosities, that threatened you in the night.
They are all gone, wallowing in their own sickening pride.
But you ride your fast car.
You made your decision.
You left tonight, you'll live and die another way.
Thank you, Tracy. Thank you, Jim.

Leon was a lion.
He lived in a pool of lava.
Never was he ever disturbed.
Leon was a bird without wings.
Leon was a runner without legs.

Leon was a lion.
Leon cried, all day all night.
Leon looked at the sky and asked God.
"God, what do you look like?"
And cried every day.

Leon was a lion.
Leon was cut, bruised, scarred.
Leon never had nobody, ever.
But one day, Leon heard a sound.
It was God.

"Leon, my small child.
Let your soul run wild.
Live a long, great life.
While you are still rife.

Let your soul run free.
You are who you'll be.
I really love thee.
And now so does she."

Leon was a lion.
And so was she.
But she looked like God.
And God looked like her.
So Leon cried no more.

Leon was a lion.
Who lived with a beautiful family.
In a beautiful house.
And Leon cried no more.
For she had found a home.

You taught me the absolution,
You, woman of exquisite dreams!
Oh, daughter of Apollo, you,
who sings, kicks and screams.

The noises you create
Will be of utmost importance
While you rattle and shake
and tear off your wings.

Salvation! Flows, oh, within
the lake of rich blood,
the wine of gorgeous Bacchus,
stronger than the womb.

You swim, as though it is sport,
creating shores of ****** concrete.
You will never get out and dry...
you might then stop drowning.

Your lyre will be unique,
for it will always wear red.
The color of blood: not enemies'
but of your own flesh.

You brought me my wings,
You, woman of accomplished dreams!
I tore them off time and time again,
but you just made them anew.

The cradle you represent...
That is my resting place,
a face of pure emotion,
of love, obsession, romance.

As though I'm a songbird,
and you're the tiger thrush,
you show power and the truth
with a warm smile.

Carry me and I'll carry you,
With pleasures of the flesh,
Feathers in the way, but no care
And crooked beacons of light.

You made me my lyre,
You, woman of broken dreams!
You heard me sing in my sleep
while you cried tears of joy.

You taught me about your father,
and your mother, Hera,
and I listened with intent,
knowing I might meet her one day.

You made me want what I
Could never have. I won't
ever forgive you, because
You once made me smile.

You made me a failure,
You, man of broken bottles.
You raged and fumed about
Whatever you cared about, not me.

You taught me shame,
but no ways to ever avoid it.
You taught me how to be pathetic.
You taught me to love the women of the world.

Yesterday, there was a cloud and the cloud was turning
Today there were more, and the ounce kept burning
Some bar in Hamburg and dreams of punching Atatürk
The sister wasn't ****, no paper, seven X's
It wasn't a good time, it was a shoddy paper bar
The redneck ******* was the one who turned a star
But oh no
An axolotl with the body of a flying serpent
This is urgent, a full body of the color verdant
Learning the choreography of a murderer of burdens
The static and manic idiosyncracy of skin men
The bodies of three legends accounted to ten
But there was no reception or action back then
But who knows?
The calling of a tender serving drinks to no end
Many friends to attend to and mend the hearts
There were children who drank like worrywarts
And the shortened query of lines was eerie
Peering, they're steering like he was hearing
Some sudden tale of questionable origins in there

The fact that it's all the same **** with no name
Makes it the same old hat, the same old game
A dream of millenia ago when there was no fame
The only person booing was some swollen lame

But it's life and life is strange
How do you change the way you change the way you feel
Rotted brains that don't feel no feel, they steal
But time heals, so time equals no wounds and that's why
Why they wish to live forever on a never-ending ******
But then comes Life-ender, the scythe, ember, mender
And it's all over, no one's sober on this Rolls Royce
Range Rover, said Herbert Hoover the awful goober
And now it's all **** and there stood the stooge
A fool made of reed and a tool made of keys
But what for were keys when there's no doors in need
No trusty steed to ask for the **** or mead
Who knew that life would be so hard indeed
It's that two story fall that doesn't ****
It made them fall ill and lie still for a fill
Of this endless bucket made of Kengo's will
There was a silhuetto of a rusted stilleto
It was well kept like Velcro in a safe or the pocket
Of the dog from Kesto, that *******, he pictured it
Some poor animal and made it sit on the cover forever
That made it sever from reality and come back never
But that's a tale for another lever to pull
Or the fool with another drink in their hands
And a bit of food, delightfully canned or a machine
That was manned by a man who was made of sand
All there's left is a question I've always had
What if I was the cloud, and the cloud was dead?

It's been a fun time, hasn't it?
I've been all kinds of people for you and I.
But my tears are at a loss.
A dry desert, if you will.

So I take this pen and jab it into paper one last time.
I enjoyed being all kinds of spirits.
You really let me release myself.
We got past such great milestones.

The world has changed and only I remained.
You're not the same and I'm not the same.
But I feel like I'm still just me.
So I'll blame it on the world.

All these scribbled words have been attempts.
I've been calling for help.
And help came for me.
But I didn't really need anyone but me.

These last tears, they're important to me.
To others, they might seem like...
Tears in rain.
But to me, they're my powerful last breath.

I've dreamt so much in such a short time.
And it gave me wings of hope.
I've never been better.
And I've got myself to thank for that.

I grew out of the armor.
I don't need it anymore in this world.
We're at peace, everyone's alive.
The womb keeps us all together.

The questions are answered to an extent.
I've exposed myself to you.
You know all of me as well as I do.
I'm bare naked before you now.

I shan't try to cover myself.
As the rain washes over me and covers my tears...
I'm not the same person, I can see that.
Nothing remains the same.

I've reached the end of rebirth once more.
This time the end is but an end.
There's no new beginnings here, nothing can change.
Embrace the past, young shepherd, for the future is set in stone.

Lead the people who have my legacy.
My armor, my pen, my tears, my soul... Goodbye.

A quiet lonely abode
I hum to myself again
I still don't know
Who the hell I am
But I have thoughts
And there's people
They don't recall
Neither do I

But that's all good
Because this world
It's so fair, so, so
It just wants money
Oh no, not me
I'm nothing to it
I just put work in
Not anymore
The lines lengthen
But I'm just a dot
The worlds are lines

Please cease it
Stop talking so much
I can't hear me
Or him or us or you
What even is this
You don't even exist
I'm paying next
Don't worry, baby
Never worry again
I'll never be here
Not for you, no, no

So long, so long
Since I had a skull
It was shattered
Now I'm nobody
My skull was me
But not anymore
They and I took it
So I just work
I'm the money
I'm the work
I'm the people
I'm the no
I'm not the yes
They're the yes
But they don't...
They don't exist
So I just work
Leave me be
Quiet down
Leave me
Let me work
Let me
Work
Work
Work
Work
Work
...

I breathe deep but air is all I can't find.
In this land of smoke I've got half a mind.
Well, still, there's just some ties that bind.
I guess this is one of the forever's kind.

The mantra of Hiroshima incarnate
The map of every star in a torn fishnet
Loss of life among other consequences
Images of words as the devil slowly dances
The apple of Eden's been bitten before
Only now does it have some of Pandora in store
A weakened mind in a deific shell
The new tree of life unleashes true hell

Broken, torn, shattered eternal face
The petite, pure angel has fallen from grace
Inconsistency in post-modern apocalypse
Collapsing under the hound's charred up lips
Burning new wings in a sea of the womb
Blossoming inadequacy, eternal tomb
Callous, joyless orange ocean abound
The true retaliation, a hurricane of sound

Lazy eyes and a dysfunctional throat
Untrue might, a choiceless faux-goat
Green, emerald, grass, truly loveless
Alight the need to never again fess
Drowned a nobody, a weakened coward
Behind a true god's skirt he always cowered
No more colors, a blackened white sand
A recall of choices this boy doth demand

Sunlight, San Francisco, what a beautiful scene.
I was the talk of the town, I was awfully mean.
A time well before those new types sipping lean.
She was nineteen, but it was alright.
I took her out and had her all night.
When together, we were such a sight.

Everything went stale when the gaucho showed up.
His idiotic favors were just without a stop.
But it was alright, I loved you enough.
When you hung yourself, it was pretty tough.
Strangling that ***** was good for me though.
And after that, it all seemed so slow.

Drinking a forty with Travis and Denzel.
Skipping town so I don't stay in the cell.
Buying a ****** just to finally feel.
Took me two decades to finally heal.

But that's all so long ago now...
I thought to myself as I crossed that line.
I closed my eyes for a last time, entering the blue.
I opened them much later, in a white room.
She was standing over me, blue hair, red eyes.
The end of the world. My world.

It's the return of the gangsta, thanks ta
Them bustas that thinkin' they real trouble
Them ******* that tellin' me I'm but a bubble
I'm the real **** ******* don't point at me
I'm everything you and your buddies wanted to be
It's the return of the real G, ***** *****
I could straight up ****** you without the beat
I'm nothing like any of you think, I'm the danger
All you be seeing in my is just some ******* stranger
Lemme acquaint you with the las thing you'll see before you fall
******* thinking they're cool

They be thinking I'm a ******* busta
All they be seeing is I ain't a hustla
I ain't nothing but doom to you, lil *****
I ain't the one who be seeing the dirt in the ditch

I ain't Brown or André, I ain't no name in this *****
But it's still the return of the gangsta
Out here to kick yo *** back to when you had a masta'

It ain't happenin' again, ain't nothan'
No bebop ****, no big hood thangs
Just realize you outta line
Cause you ain't got a ******' dime
Bite my dolla', *****

The longest time of inactivity has been forever.
He did wake up, only to ruin the entire world.
But now the prince sleeps again.
I wonder if he'll dream.

Looking at me, you see a pure, young soul.
But look inside me, you sweet summer child.

Inside me are so many people
I am Che Guevara with the lance of poetry
I am Vladimir Lenin with the shield of quick wit
I am Petőfi Sándor with the armor of ambition
I am Mahatma Gandhi with the horse of music
I am Fidel Castro with the arms of an endless mind
I am Spartacus with the flames of unending hope
But I am The Uncharismatic Man with the burdens
The burdens of a tired arm
The burdens of a twisted tongue
The burdens of clipped wings
The burdens of a deaf ear
The burdens of numb thoughts
The burdens of a dying sun
I've risen up and gone down just as quick
My rebellion was for naught this time
I've grown exhausted from the fights
But I'll never put down my arms.
I'll never cease the struggle.
This war never ends.
So fight with me, brother.
Fight yourself, goodfellow.
Defeat the oppression, comrade.
And never give up...
Not until I give you the call to surrender.

It's been a while since I've seen you
We never really talked, though
I know that you've forgotten me
You have better things to do with your time
Like getting pregnant at 17
Doing drugs and OD'ing at 25
Leaving your son and daughter without parents

Not that I care all that much
I guess you were nice and cute back then
But you're really just trailer trash now
If we met I'd probably avoid your gaze
I'm well above the level you seem to have sunk to
Anyway, have fun getting high on ****
I'm sure you'll lead a great life
You exemplary citizen

I thought I was finished
But I told you myself, an end is a beginning
So here we are again.

I'm not the same person you've been reading.

Since then I've died and was born again.

It's always a difficult process, you know...
Living, dying and living again
It's like leaving yourself to die
It's like ending your life only to come back.

Never is it a good sign when you're sorry for yourself dying.

I heard my last heartbeats and my first as well.

So I'm here again.

The same body, the same voice, the same face and words...
Well, hello again, friend
I'll be your noise for the evening.