It had to super secede conscious thought.
To be biologically absolute.

Overthinking is a non conundrum.
Fight or flight, that’s all that’s left.

Removing choice, perhaps the key,
Though it’s no clear cut sanity.

Precision is swift, through non mortal blows,
Just within the fringes of lethality.

On the edge of life or the brink of death.
Let the flesh decide for itself.

The Patient, with one name after another branded, like a hot iron on the roof of his mind, roams around a lonely populus; continuously giving but being capable of receiving that which he gives.

It smites like a snout in the fog.

Difficult to make out but impossible to deny its existence. The snout becomes clearer as the mist fades away, the grey fur glows, and then, with one single ****** of motion the whole wolf appears itself with the dynamism of a lightning bolt striking violently. It refuses to remove itself from the Patient's view as it stands there stubbornly.

The Patient gestures, nudges, speaks and screams yet the Wolf's head can never, will never and, finally, should never, ever truly turn.

And so from the first chemical secreted in his brain till the last the Patient lives.

Scared.
Confused.
Unloved.
Unknown.

Alone.

Peel back the layers
of my rural purgatory.

Figure out
the critical junctures
of where I once stood,
with this one,
now on TV, and this one,
surfing in Hawaii.

I was a **** girl, spreading
my legs for sailors, and
getting crucified for it.

I am guilty
of still imagining
our beautiful possibilities.

Death may yet
claim him, and my ****
are still round
and firm.

Is this real,
or is this fake?
Is this a dream,
where I cannot wake?

Am I doomed to eternity,
of repeating sin?
A purgatory of do-overs,
again and again.

Purge it once,
rinse and repeat.
Tie up the strings,
and make it neat.

Reality,
is not what it seems,
but which side’s the waking,
and which side’s the dream.

I guess it don’t matter,
if you can’t tell.
Cause neither side’s good,
they’re double sided hell.

I’ll keep moving,
and try not to see,
the fluctuations,
surrounding me.

So if this is real,
then I’m sorry Dear,
but I doubt it is,
cause nothing is clear.

Either way I’m doomed,
to an eternity,
of repeating days,
and insanity.

The sun sempiternal shepherds its flock life-longly. Repetition be its brother, night be its foe. As regurgitation fumes, funneling heinous broth of decay and hostility, the tedium drips ashore, clenching its claws, raising the congregation of lunatics hellwards and in a moment of inseparable divisionism, bursts out loud, hardening the ground with desecration. Outbegotten and throughbrought, the once ****** ******* feral sons to the demented deity all above and none below, in turning, swirling and the ever-prying agony, facilitate themselves a house atop a hill. After the cacophony concludes, The Fool finds himself standing, thrice woven, wolfmeadow thrown, fistlike tenacity hit, once beholden to each beast of coppered glow. Up he reaches, but finding nought and disillusioned with disinterest he breaks down in acid tears and horrid shrieks for mercy. The inward calibre reciprocates and bursts out a tubular noise of contradiction. In all still-standing, the Queen, she of the all-overseeing, turns to The Fool and parlours him a wisdom: "I am unto you as a universe is unto itself. I am within you as this earth is within me. I am you and you I shall stay. And when you at once turn dust-wards, I shall, bereft but forthlooking, beget you again." Aghast with sudden agonising fragility and from the cosmic incantation a ghost arisen, The Fool in all his momentarily found glory and happiness conjectures himself a vessel to venture upon. What he once missed he now resides in. He found it and now he rejoices. To Youth, at long once and at once forever.

I spotted a fortune teller at an old county fair
while knowing the answers I still looked for some there.
There was no love line or fate line she could’ve read,
I told her I bet there’s no sun line, life line or trace of a head.
She met my eyes with sadness written all over her face,
and told me out of all people that I was her worst case.
She traced the inside of my hand intently trying to see
then she asked me had I recently been burned severely.

In my death bed I’ve been waiting patiently for sleep
sadly I’m not the one it wishes to greet.
With past scars and present fresh wounds tunnelling down so deep,
loss of blood and mind so I’m left as just a sack of meat.

A loving caress to each feature
but succeed in only poking the bone,
and every single living creature
dies completely alone.
She was a rainbow and I; charcoal grey,
they all choose to go but claim they wish to stay.

The beeping bouncing off the wall
steady like sirens or alarms,
and at the end of it all
we all die in our own arms.
She was a rainbow and I; charcoal grey,
I still catch her glow but it’s fading away,
I know it could never last, but I still have to pray,
‘cause I am the past and she’s only in today.

I’ve acted strong and kept up this ruse,
atleast I can say I’ve always been brave,
but when I’m not digging up the past, ghosts or clues,
I’ve steadily been digging my own grave.

No lines, no ties, not a single strand.
I’ve got the palmist right in the palm of my hand.

there are days
gray monotone days
when i feel nothing
i want nothing
i love nothing
i hate nothing
i am nothing
my mind floats
between dream and reality
a foggy purgatory
of nothingness
this scares me
more than suffering

purgatory
is sick in sweetness,
a cannibal and a chewed up girl

there is no place for us except these stairs
you are a meadow and i am the sea;
purgatory
a hidden space, the outcast place

did i tell you that i love to go where they cannot find me?
did i tell you i have a habit of running, without my feet?
did i tell you about the holy events in my recurring dream?
that i am invisible, and you're looking at me?

a pirate of less wicked ways,
a sunrise on my darkest day
and if we should die, here we will lay
for with me, in purgatory
you might choose to stay