Darwin fish
eats
the Jesus fish

Which is eaten
by
The truth fish

which is eaten
by
the fact fish

which is eaten
by man

We’ll play at being poets
You’ll be Dante and I’ll be Virgil
And I’ll guide you through hell and back.

lately, my answer to anything just seems to be

“i don’t know”

and when i reach out to the mirror,

my hands goes through and i can’t feel the person on the other side,

as if the twenty years or so that i survived

don’t mean anything to Reality.

and i want to fight back, you know

fight for my place, for my heartbeat

but how many battles can you wage,

and how many battles can you win

for a cause you no longer believe in?

i don’t know.

i think about bodies a lot,

and how clothes are so burdened with the task of

covering such substantial skeletons, such important skin,

as if they could ever veil

the blood that pulses in You.

Your body amongst orchids,

decomposing ever so slightly in the purple darkness of night:

a night that we do not possess

but it takes over us so completely in its solitude.

i hate that word.

i hate the entire farce of it all.

i’m not okay alone

you aren’t, either

and so isn’t anybody i’ve ever known,

but we keep dancing to this charade –

this pitiful masquerade

of independence and self-sustenance.

i don’t know.

i think what i’m trying to say is

you only know permanence when someone you love

becomes someone you used to love,

and the life that you’re breathing (but they aren’t),

the life that you’re breathing on borrowed time,

is suddenly so endless

so hollow

because it’s me without You:

echoes of a voice that always comes around somehow empty.

and i’m tired of opening at the close,

a futile juxtapose,

only because i won’t allow myself to admit

that nothingness exists when i’m without You.

The farce of
being
absolute
singular
dissolute

Let the film end before intermission
characters be underdeveloped
let the plot lie open like cut veins

and let the the background score
resonate in the hall at its shrill note

It's a broken piece of the heart
cracked into two:
two faces reside here now
on either sides of the chasm.

Make whatever you wish out of it
Sweet or bitter end,
tragedy, comedy or farce
or thriller or horror,
write your own story, make it up.

take any road up the hill
to eternity beyond.

They. Whomever They are have a weapon aimed at the back of my neck, its warm, unsettling even. Reminds me of when I, along with many others, witnessed the ****** of Dean Warwick when he was giving a presentation at a conspiracy conference back in 2006 (link will be included at the End of this Chapter).

Yes. The Narrator is here dear reader, just for you. My mother isn't here though. Or maybe she is. Could be she is everywhere and nowhere. Are we even here ? We believe we are here - but in the middle of belief is a LIE (a John Trudell observation). This. THIS. May be a ******* dream, OR should that read NIGHTMARE.

I spoke about my mother in the introduction. I still have issues. Guess you can tell huh !

I Am the Narrator. I narrate. NARRATE. YOU read and make of these words what you will. But choose very carefully what drawer you place these words in.

I hear music. Can you hear it dear reader ? A fusion of  jazz and metal. Nice. What ! You can't ! Are you ******* deaf ? Have you not attuned into our comfy little twilight zone with fluffy pink sheep ? Can you not see the pervy creepy priest nailed to his crucifix made from shrapnel ? And no ! I am not Jesus ******* Christ. Their never was a Jesus ******* Christ. And the same goes for GOD ! Its a mind **** - religion. It is a toxic disease with a twist and a tease. Heaven and hell, trick or treat. NEAT.

I Am. CONSCIOUSNESS.
I AM.
Consciousness.
To deny that I AM CONSCIOUSNESS I have to be HERE. THERE. EVERYWHERE. NOWHERE.

What a rambling rumble of trash, I the Narrator spews forth; and yet, yes and YET - if you are OPEN to what is being written you will remain none the wiser. Maybe these written words should carry a public health warning.

I, the Narrator do not bind myself up in what is labeled POLITICAL CORRECTNESS. NO ! Why should I ? I am the Narrator, and you - YES YOU - are the reader, my reader. Until you bail out. Bankers always get BAILED out because we - WE are too ******* timid to say NO !

The suits
preen themselves
climaxing in front of mirrors
on a daily basis
the suits
falsely crown themselves
and think they are so ******* cute

BUT. We let them. The politicians. The bankers. The priests. The MAFIA of our SOULS(credit to Osho for that one).

And so. Its TIME. No it isn't. Its a ******* DREAM, but sadly more of a NIGHTMARE. But WE can CHANGE this. THIS. Yes we can. Don't believe we can - DO WE CAN. No more whining, unlike The Shining with here's Johnny.

Once upon a time
a circle gave birth
to a line
and we all
rubbed it out.

Well folks I, the Narrator has decided to bring an end. END. To CHAPTER 1.

Thank you most sincerely for reading these words. Many more will follow, and there will be casualties. However, as this is a DREAM *** NIGHTMARE, its all MAKE beLIEve. Who ******* cares ?

I, the Narrator, is smoking a **** good cigar. Until CHAPTER 2, do sleep well.


Lenny Gazbowski(c)2015