When I am calm
I am a storm
When I am a storm
I am calm

The calm
Before the storm.

Do we ride the rolling crest of towering waves
Or do we save ourselves the tears?
I say: Give me a sturdy raft
And I will ride.
Give me an anchor
For the windstill days
In between.

For every second
Of every minute
Of every hour
Of every day
We are in a constant state of dying.
The same way
For every second the sun
Spends across the sky
It is setting.

Her face twisted into an implosion of shame and regret.
Her pain and pleasure at their most pure and most profound
Exploded in her eyes in perfect symbiotic disharmony.
She locked her thighs around his head.
She crouched into the fetal position, as if she was being kicked.
As if trying to defend herself. A few seconds of inaudible
breathing before her thighs lose grip.

Chew the water, and don't breathe the air
You weave Apocalypse in your loom
You paint Armageddon on your easel
Black watercolour
Made from human ash
Bombing in the microwave
The embers will die, and the winds will cease
Like the fingernails of a corpse
Trudge into malevolent oblivion
Convinced by the impotent fallacy of happiness;
Generation Nuclear Apathy
Generation Destiny Liquidation
...And the minute counter ticks away...
Tick
Tock
Tick
Tock

Eliot was wrong
This is how the world ends
This is how the world ends
This is how the world ends
Not with a whimper
But a bang.

There is a hit and run in my mind
And the police are too preoccupied with their phalluses
To even notice.

A lonely man, befuddled by the blunt object that hit him from behind, fades away into nothing while his crimson blood mixes with the juice of blueberries he had just bought. The pavement turns purple, and for just a split second the scene turns from tragic to comic.

The State of Mind is policed by the principles of democracy. The system is simple: The Cerebellum is the parliament, all my cognitive skills are the representatives, and the body of voters is constituted by whichever arbitrary thoughts that enter my head that day. But in reality my mind is goverened, only by the singularity of chaos. The voters don't know, but the Cerebellum knows. The representatives will never know for sure, but there is a slight tint of discontent, gnawing away, every day, at their thoughts, while they drink their coffee and type endlessly on typewriters, even though computers have been around for a quarter of a century.

You see, chaos is regressive and progressive simoultaneously. Chaos is when time unleashes logic. The future reprecussions of a chaotic event may be necessary, inevitable and perhaps even for the good of humakind and the larger universe, but the passage between vain violence, anarchy, destruction; and the ultimate moral redemption of the event; the moment where we comprehend the possible benevolence of past horrors. Chaos is logic when time is suspended.

Electric static buzzing in attentive ears, wondering how and why you ended up where you did. Stale smoke filling the air like the compressor in a carburetor.
Direct injection.
Vicious speeds.
Catatonic struggle.
The lisp of an old hippie, tracing his tracks in a wheel-legged fashion, up and down the streets of Seattle, looking for the kicks that previous nights were unable to provide. Supply and demand for bottom up approaches.
Roaches scattered in the living room. Some dead, some still glowing in the dimness. Empty cans of Campbell lint excessive consumption. The prevalent motif of the middle class. Stars and stripes hung in the window pain, above the static placidity.
Seattle stars
No such thing
I guess it must be raining there forever.

Set sail on the winds and whims of vindication
A clockwork orange of human nature
Algorithmic math may apply
Born from anger and rage
Vindicated by revenge
Burn and burn again.
Burn until there is nothing left but a speck of off-white wax in the night

What if the war machine
was a tarnished memory
and the void between
the pillars
Why there is not contentment for the content
but and endless series
of Roman pillars inside celibate convents.
The pillars of the Panthéon are bars in a demented prison
fermented with the stench of a rancid batch
of torrid dreams.

A palace of pain an pleasure,
a hotbox of sin for the devil's leisure.
Leapt to every level of Dante's hell
and up again

No knowledge have I aquired,
but confusion, a quiet
illusion, and I am tired,
oh, so witheringly
tired.

"We are drawn to the concept of escape"
Nietzsche said.

I long, like you long for a place to rest my head
You long, like I long for a warm silky bed
I long, like you long for the lights to finally dim
And you know, like I know I do not want to float
I would rather swim

And I know, like you know
I long, like you long

I am tired, like you are tired of the anomie
And I am scared, like you're scared
Of disenfranchise and insanity
I drown, like you drown in a hidden river in the woods
And I frown, like you frown
At how our methods have failed us

I wait, like you wait
And I hate, like you hate
And I regret, like you regret

Like a wildfire in dry hills
Like an animal scratching its cage
Like an exploding light bulb
I run, like you run.

He's a rat in a cage
Strolling down his lonesome trails
around the grounds.
His knees are shaky and he's working minimum wage.
He tries to unlock the door to the gymnasium,
but his fragile hands can't still the keys.
Every day he rode his bike to work
And his grey appearance would turn sour in the cold morning wind.

Every day at 9 am, he would take a deep breath, and upon exhaling, he would raise the flag on the grounds square.
It was a ragged, pale old flag stained with the tears of time and his years at the gates.

He would sit in the afternoon sun, after the sound of the bells and all the kids were gone. In his dark blue jumpsuit, unable to remember how he felt before. When he was the one on the grounds, climbing the pine trees.

All tools are ******* symbols in the eyes of the disillusioned.
The mountains are phalli, the valleys and coves, vulvae.
Cross country crotch rocket, crevasse stretching, rough landscape.
All interconnected, like the bluffs on the beaches, with holes right through.

Ismism
Feminism?
Masculinism?
*Equalism!

I am the lone insurgent
Walking through the streets
of my own mind.
My mind
Is a totalitarian state.

I am the lone assassin
Of the members of parliament,
Remember, in my own mind.

I am ratted out
By the shrill shrieks
Of an old lady on the tram.

I walk home from endless meetings
With myself, where him
And me plot our rebellion
Sparking the ember, remember;
In my own mind.

The Secret Police awaits
Probably in my living room
Waiting for me to turn on the lights
Revealing the glint of silver nozzles
Mere millimeters from my my head.

The warrant proclaims:
"Conspiracy and ******"
I may be lone, but my hand
Wields just vindication.

I may be lone,
But as I am executed
There is still me
And another will always
Follow

Striking the ember, remember;
In my own mind.

Still on the air, racing through hyperspace. Racing toward the ultimate, dashing for the übermensch within, the perfect human being, outliving the greasy machinery of our collective existential crises. Trudging down the proverbial road in swinish runs
back                                                          and                                                          forth
Collecting the critical fragments of out minds from the bowels of life's desert, only to find that they have gotten perverted with the rank rot of maggots, festering, crawling through the remains that were left from our conception and subsequent birth, poorly mummified.
But alas, too many millenniums have past.
Too many millenniums.
Too many.

As we search between the cacti, avoiding the venomous bite of the rattlesnake, battling the heat, our wristlet watches tick.
Tick, tick, tick away with the unfair certainty that the watch will keep ticking through the arbitration of time.
Through the arbitration of the flexible human condition, surrounded by the deafening stasis of the world.
The deafening tick, mocking our decay, celebrating its own infinity.

'                                                                
                                                                 We are the riders of high waves
                                                           ­               in the screaming storm.
                                                          ­                            Traveling
back                                                            ­                       and                                                              ­           forth
back                                                       ­                            and                                                              ­           forth
back                                                       ­                            and                                                              ­           forth
                                                           ­             until time suspends itself
                                                          ­                       and we lose grip.

Perpetual light from six magnificent suns
Orbiting in choreographed chariots across the sky
Stars were unheard of; a mere myth of cultist conception
The million mile glint was nothing but a two thousand year-old legend
Human minds, not accustomed to darkness,
Found the walls closing in on them.

As the last rays of sun were eclipsed
A crimson and black border closed in
The last laser ray was snuffed
By the turmoil of darkness
A slate freckled by heavenly deities
Covered the sky.

Mankind went mad at the incredible gaze
and civilization as they knew it crumbled.

Ten Koruna rooms,
****** doused in red light. Purple, then blue.
Sickness and health dancing
In the street to the thumping bebop of the night
Veins and heads filled to the brink with:
Crank,
smack,
****,
goofballs,
Neon lights.
The bad ***** is optional.
The city twists and bends in the chrysalis night, uncoiling.
Azure skies of deep summer, polluted
Only by the glare of candles
In living souls on slow pavement.
They burn, burn, burn, bury their heads
In thrills and friends.
They burn until there is nothing left,
But a white speck of off white wax sizzling
Away in the darkness.

Caravans carefully cross empty mesquite desert
between howls from creatures too small to produce them.
There is a slight bump and the convoy tips.
Tips, tips, tips, like snapping fingers, tipping over cauldrons filled with molten magma. They laugh a maniacal laughter as they slip through millenniums of sand, counter intuitively freezing.
Long gone Pharaohs, oil drums and abandoned spare tires.
Once was lost, but now I've found.

Convinced rationality keeps us secure
What we fail to realize
Is that not only is rationality subjective
But so is security.

Sister Rosetta Tharpe licks her wounds and oils her cords, a casual observation to start things off, to jump-start the mind with the cables that undoubtedly fuelled Ms. Tharpe's canon, or cannon if that works in context. Just something, anything, to jolt the good old stream-of-consciousness into action, for my mind to finally get the guts to 'inspect' that "empty" rathole where the guns of the 'enemy' are waiting in vain, my mind thinking (by itself) that if I wait long enough I can starve them out. But my mental adversaries are cunning and adept, able to go without food for days, weeks, months, eating moths, worms, rats, and slitting the snakes open to drain their juices. The snakes, the snakes, the snakes, my ultimate fear; the snake around my neck. Hung on the scaffold, standing ovation. Maybe I can burn them out..?

There we go, I writhed you loose, you ******.

I click a four-count in my silent mind, and I crawl in, like the good soldier I am, thinking all the time that I should have read Manual of the Warrior of Light by Paulo Coelho; without a doubt, judging by the title alone, it would have done me good. The last click of the four-count is the cocking of the hammer on my tool, be it a torch or a pistol; proxy war gunslinger, existential riot. Nothing to lose, and nothing to gain, ******* long nights in the hole, nothing to hope for once I escape, but another batch of darkness, and another painted face, asking "Are you okay?" ME answering in my male hangup "Why wouldn't I be?"

Now onto the metafiction cliché:
You can always escape, but you can never hide, like the cheddar cheese villain in just about every movie known. And never were it more true. Contemptuous nature can lie benign in the brain, prostate, or breast for a long time before it becomes malignant; and escape is always an option to prolong the inevitable. But I come from a people of brooders, an own ethnicity in its entirety devoted to judgement and yuppieism. There we go; another red-dot-underline to signify the royal introduction of another previously foreign '-ism.' Standing on the conveyor belt, side by side in a circle **** of prejudicial rhetoric: "Everyone are so unpleasant and gross," comic-book thought-bubbles in every direction, through every head, like malicious rays from the omnipotent sun of groundless hatred.

No sun for the land of the brooders.
No real sun.
But it will still fry your skin.
4th degree burns.

Return of a friend;
Return of a fiend.
Might be both, and it might be neither, but it doesn't matter, as all eyes are fixed on their feet, and the few inches of pavement in front to avoid any collision.

Saccharine kisses
The sweetest I had
Didn't even happen.

I want something to drown out the thoughts in my head
But I don't want to go back to bed

I'm falling out for hours at a time.
When will the sun shine?

And my thoughts drown in noise
but I still miss your voice.

Silence...







Silence...






There are no explosions in space.
There is only expenditure.

I chew my way through nickles I earn from angry tourists ambivalently tossing percentages into a jar. I've learned that some of the toughest people come from the proletariat. I fear the people that have worked at McDonalds for 20 years. I kneel before the Knights of Mediocrity.

I check my mail and I come back with a fist full of loonies and quarters. Payday. My great big nose reflects back in the copper before I put the coins into my mouth-recepticle. It is barely bearable. It tastes like blood, but is it from the metal or is it the coin cutting my gums? With the sheer yield of my fields was I able to get it down. I wash it down with some OJ.

Of the queerest men and women I have met, most of them were from the same world as I came from (and to which I will inevitably return). The world of the workforce. I am merely ailed by itchy feet and a severe fear of placidity. I work hard. But only if my work is paid in mileage. If every penny spent is a road to anywhere but here.  

A former colleague of mine developed prominent ****** ticks from working as a cashier at a market. The world falls harder on the content, because their yields shield most of the fall. People die both in front of  desks and between steel beams.

Two men sit in silence, playing chess. Suddenly, an argument arises and both parties toss theories of chivalry between one another before one of the men yell,
     "I don't think it's quite that black and white!"

Hello,
my name is so and so
Have you heard of such and such?
"No, not very much."
Well let me tell you...

The sledgehammer
catalyze the caterwaul of lies
Unhinge your mind,
grease it
and rehinge it,
Because; everything is out of balance
A pendulum disturbed by the devil's malice
while he dances
through our glances and drops the knowledge
of how the money you pledged is wedged
in between stacks of paper and salary checks
The blues in the night-light dance with the stamina
of broken dreams. Well, let me tell you of the suffrage
and my lack of knowledge or power–or both–to discern or summon
a strategy for navigating this slanting ship
capsizing with the weight of the world
in the Suez Canal.

The doctrine of a dead man's cackle
enforce the shackle
of the child's ankle
The unswerwing arrow of my intent,
Pegonia arrowhead
plunge into a heart of lead
to find the hidden treasure
x-marks-the-spot
of another bitter man

"For every pledge donor you get
5 children died
in Tibet."

And so will they continue to
What can I do?