Steam rises from the blocks of industry
beyond the immediate trees;
a thin white veil
cloaking the city like a bedsheet.
And you waking, displacing
your head about apathetically
trying to light a smoke
with sunlight -

this linear love on a tangent,
golden, some ornament.

Everything up then falling
each morning, with light
tethered to the ceiling
while you lay still
dazed from dreaming,
the day breaks unassuming.

He was definitely dead.  That much could be gathered.  He was standing over his own body, sixty feet away from the car.  fifty-nine feet away from  the telephone pole.  The pool of blood on the blacktop was rippling from the sheets of rain that were piercing it.  The rain bounced off of his lifeless eyes, staring on into the cloudy sky.   His shocked expression was forever frozen on his face.  He walked around the corpse, both fearful and excited.  He was dead....He was DEAD!  He was on the other side!  He looked around, searching for the 'white light',  but all he found  was a man dressed in a ratty  trench coat staring directly at him.  Rotting teeth smiled at him under a grungy  Fedora in a way that reminded him of a jack-o-lantern carved into the likeness of Indiana Jones that had been left out past Thanksgiving.  A withered hand beckoned him.

He was not hesitant.  He was not fearful.  

Those were emotions controlled by a brain that was currently about as useful as a bag full of gelatin.  He strode forward and took the man's hand.  It was neither hot nor cold.  They were no longer in the rain.  They were in a room with a large monitor
sitting in front of a station of various knobs, buttons, and switches.  A large leather chair apathetically awaited use .  He was aware that none of these objects  actually existed, because they were in the place where things don't exist.  Still, he sat down
and turned on the monitor.  He looked at the labels.  Some were obvious, such as P L A Y,  P A U S E, and S T O P.  Others were strange, like the ones labeled F I R S T S and L A S T S.  He pressed the former.  A list appeared with items as simple as "Kiss" to ones as specific as "Sprained Left Ankle in November".

He chose the former.

The screen went blank, then a video appeared.  It was a boy and a girl lying on a hill on a blanket at the onset of dusk.  The boy he instantly recognized as himself. The boy brushed his hand against hers.  She let him.  Fingers now entwined as they stared at each other.  At the time it had felt like hours, but it was less than a
minute before lips pushed apart to make way for tongues.  His first kiss.  It didn't take him long to figure out how the machine worked from that point on.  

He spent years going through every second of his life and reliving it from a new perspective. It didn't matter, he had all the time that never was and never would be.  He saw his mistakes and his triumphs, his loves and his heartbreaks.  Finally, he decided he was
finished.  It was time to go.  The man in the Fedora smiled.  Smiled that Cheshire smile

They were in a hallway.  It seemed to stretch for miles.  Every twenty paces or so, there was a person, standing on a platform, obscured in darkness.  He walked to the first one.
A light flickered on.  It was his mother.  She looked like she did when he was a boy, vibrant and full of life.  She never lost that, even as her body aged and her health declined, she always had something to smile about.  He talked to this apparition of his mother.   They talked for hours about his life, of random topics.  Things they had never had time to talk about when they were both alive.  After some time, she gave him one of her wry
smiles.  He nodded and made his way to the next person.  His father.  

He continued this for quite some time.  He talked to everyone from his brother to a guy he used to get high with in college.  Years passed as he said his final goodbyes to all the people in his life
that he had ever known.  All of them were happy for him.  All of them had something to tell him that he had never known about them in life.  None of them were real.  When he was done, he turned to the man in the fedora.  A smile.  A smile that had a personality all its own, a smile that simultaneously showed compassion and seething hatred.

The last room.  No one said it was the last room, but it had that feeling of finality to it. It was spartan, nothing in it except a marble floor that seemed to stretch for eternity in every direction.  It probably did.  In front of him were two pedestals.  On each of those
pedestals was himself.  The one on the left was wearing a fine tailored suit, had radiating skin and a smile that cameras feasted on.  The one on the right was a stark contrast.  The teeth he had left were hanging lazily from the roots.  His hair that he had left was thin, oily, and ridden with lice.  His mouth turned upwards in an insane grin that was only
matched by his thirsty, bloodshot eyes that seemed to bulge from his pockmarked skin

                                          They both spoke at once.

You were born on                                           You were born on
July 3, 1985.  Your                                           July 3, 1985.  Your
parents fed your                                         mother died when you
curiosity at a young                                     were 4.  Your father
age.  Your passion                                   turned to alcohol.  He
was art.  You painted                                 took his pain out on you.
your first work when                                     You dropped out of    
you were nine.  By the                                high school and moved
time you were 16, you                             as far away from this
were renowned as a                             life as you could.  You
artistic prodigy.  You                      quickly discovered a bad crowd.
attended the Art                                     You met a girl, Cindy.
Institute of Chicago                                       You got her pregnant.
on a full scholarship.                                   You started selling drugs
It was there that you                                     to make ends meet
would meet Claire,                                       for your accidental family
your future wife. By                                       It wasn't long before
the time you completed                                     You made a mistake
your school, every                                             and ended up in jail.
museum wanted a                                        years later, when you
piece of your work                                       were released
hanging in their gallery                               you found that Cindy      
Your work would be                                       had killed herself
remembered for                                                   and your son.
hundreds of years after                                       You had no job          
your death.  You had                                                 no skills
a wonderful family,                                        You spent your days
fame, fortune, and                                          doing odd jobs for
everything that came                                   money.  Money that
with it.  You lived                                           You spent on drugs
until 89, where you                                        Until the age of 45
died peacefully in                                       Where you froze on a
your bed, surrounded                           street corner, surrounded
by loved ones.  This                        by human excrement.  This
is your life's best                                           is your life's worst
possible outcome                                         possible outcome



He nodded, then looked at the man in the fedora.  That smile crept up.  A smile like a hyena. He snapped his fingers.  Two doors appeared.  One was Oaken and battered.  The grains of wood barely visible over years of neglect.  The other door was new and had just been  painted with a fresh coat of sky blue paint.  

The man spoke for the first time.

This is the last decision you shall ever make.  The door on your left will lead you to the  afterlife, and the judgement that awaits you.  Whatever is decided, that is where you will spend eternity.  The door on the right will allow you to be reborn as a new soul.  This one will no longer exist.

He gave it a good long ponder.  Had he been good enough in life to pass the judgement?  What if he ended up in a hellish nightmare for the rest of eternity?  Could he do better
if he started fresh?  The thoughts swirled about him like a whirlwind until finally.

Years later

He chose.

The man in the fedora smiled.

The mirror stained with our memories, pictures
I am not in many of them
I count;
four pictures, we look happy
The bleeding sky was the only thing that gave  us release
Like the winter would fill our bones
and cigarette smoke would ignite the fire in our eyes
that had long since burned out
we lay on that floor on the balcony till dawn
talking about how
we will never be good enough and
life is pointless
I show her my scars apathetically
nothing effects
me anymore
My bubble cant be burst
surrounded by static
scream
want to scream

There's a sickness in me, something I hide
At night I log on and search my inside demons
Low grade image on HD monitors
Guts and glory

I watch the videos, and smile, post a comment
Boy's body torn to shreds, eighteen wheeler destruction
I see you in Mexico, gangland violence
Remove three heads in a four minute clip, machete madness

Lean back in a leather chair, comfort in freedom
Adolescent boy, hung by the ankles
"Allah Hu Akbar", whip his *** ******
Family takes turns, mother holds a bedpan

Black man beats white woman, dominant dictator
***** shouldn't have kissed another man
Beat sense past the bleach on her scalp
Sister apathetically asks him to stop
Weak willed humanity

Who were you, before your face was gone?
Fighting this war, none shall win
Cannot see your brothers
One steals your wedding ring

There is a sickness in me
I derive pleasure from these pictures
"Zlo'radstvo", the sick man vomits

What jail cell is this
That one shoots up so freely
Gambling ***** cash
Am I, a free man, allowed to do the same?

Poor boy, cut the noose from round your neck
The poor girls are fighting in the streets
Childhoods are lost
It's hot out here, getting hotter still

Police brutality, gas station punch-up
Families fight, prostitutes steal
Streetlights are gallows
and the town burns to ashes,
with a skeletal man stumbling through the smog

Incestuous family, filming sick fantasy
Little sister scorned, crying to sleep
Bleeding orifice of a broken *****
Bleed for daddy, bleed, bleed

There is a sickness inside of me

Terrorist, hooded infidel, story to tell
Death to the west and other such messages
Bomb your city
Bomb your school
Upload it all to YouTube

A couple thousand hits of a girl beneath a truck
Dead-eyed cameraman zooms into a strewn liver
Back to her once pretty mouth
Anonymous comments, ****** deviants

There is a sickness in me and I want it gone

Secret currency, pays for a secret vice
I enjoy watching violence erupt,
Warring girls in the schoolyard
Cuts her hair, kicks to the face
I *******, feeling disgraced

Grainy suicide, bounce from the ground
Racist attack on a bus, perpetrator not found
Baby ***** in a crib, video with no sound
TheYNC profits from this,
The human condition keeps me coming around

There is a sickness in me
I call it humanity

Hours whiled away, begrudgingly sordid pixels
Opening new links, delving into insanity
Curiosity got the better of me
Tonight I probably won't sleep

My heart flat-lined yesterday
At approximately 5:28 in the afternoon
The time doesn’t really matter
Nor, I suppose
Does the fact that I flat-lined yesterday
(For; I’m still alive, though not living)
But I thought it was an interesting fact
And wondered if you, too, would be interested in knowing
That I hit ground-level apathy
For everything
And for reasons beyond my control

Before you go thinking I’m depressed over you
Or over something you did
Be assured that my heart flat-lined for reasons beyond anyone’s control
Except my own
But it had to be done, I suppose
In order to feel again

The funny thing is knowing
That I could curl up on my bed and eat my favorite things
While reading the letter you wrote to me a few years ago
And fall in love with you again
With the wonderful twists my stomach makes
When you look at me a certain way
Or when I think of your lips meeting mine

But the thing that scares me the most to think about
Is that perhaps it wouldn’t be me falling in love with you again
If I have to eat my favorite things to be feel a certain way

The thing about today is that I know God is up there somewhere
But I can’t find it in me to care
I’m neither sinning nor making good
Not being tempted, not being persuaded
I simply exist
With no plans or future or decisions to make
I suppose my struggle with my favorite foods is the one exception to what I’ve described

See,
I know that God is up there somewhere
But today it’s that I just cannot force myself to care
There’s a wall between He and I somewhere in the lining of my stomach
(And though I never meant for it to be there)
It keeps Him from touching my soul
18 years of bad habits built up in my arteries
Clogging my heart from anything but apathy
But somewhere I found it in me to cry yesterday
As it flat-lined at 5:28
God made me human
With all these emotions
That I have a natural right to feel

(I know now
Why our Mother ate that which was forbidden)

So this apathy
Is a test trial of us
And though I still love you
Today
I don’t feel for you
Or for anything
Until tomorrow
(I hope)

Apathetically
Beautifully Callous
Distant
Elegy Frees Gradual Hesitation
Insecurity Justifiably Killing Love
Momentum Nullifying Optimistic Peacefulness
Quietly Relinquishing Shared Togetherness
Unhappiness Virtually Wills
Xeroxing Yourself Zymotically

© Christopher Chronister. All rights reserved

delicately, our dragonfly conversations
dance in Japanese gardens,
where jewelled concrete pagoda’s
stand stilted, like
timeless geometries, in greening water

then wind rustles timidly through
creek beds and pebbled leaves;
bells ring like wine glasses at a dinner table
and we feel our arm hairs stand on tiptoes,
pricked up to weary voices

(chanting monks, those that sit in circles
monkishly chant, in unison
“there are three meanings of loneliness”)
here, chanting also, we
find ourselves again not alone
enchanted in the fragmented daylight.

but then again, I turn, apathetically, and declare
“let us rest
in the immense imagery of our imagination

for it is easier to sleep,
as rain creeps closer to our doorstep,
than to ***** barricades, levies
and trenches around our house”

Oh, but the way the light reflects upon the Japanese trees
is so splendidly delicate,
and our delicate conversations
feel all so perfect…

so now please, time, lose me
in your whisper.

Some days, I wake up flighty and itchy.

Crawling out of my skin and jumping at every last inhale and exhale. 

Crying at every last brush of my fingers on my scars.

Whimpering at having to be surrounded by a writhing mass of people.



These are the days when I’m most reminded of you.

Reminded of how you used to love me.

Reminded of how you used to hold me.

Reminded that you don’t care about me anymore.



These are the days when I wish I could still talk to you.

That you would still care about what I had to say.

I would probably ask you to hand me a scalpel and some scissors and the rubbing alcohol,
 because I need to cut you and your scar tissue permanently away from my heart. 

And even on these days I remember that you would have looked at me in anger and pity for saying such things (i.e. self-harm)



But these are also the days when I want to cut all of my emotions out.

Slice them away from my veins word by word.

Watch apathetically as I bleed the letters out.

All of these words and letters we have assigned to emotions, to try to describe the uncontrollable reactions we have in life.

Anger, Betrayal, Compassion, Exhaustion, Frustration, Guilt, Happiness, Indifference, Jealousy, Kindness, Love, Morbidity, Nervousness, Oppression, Peace, Remorse, Spite, Tranquility, Uncertainty, Vexation, and Yearning.
For, surely, it would be easier to be numb, than to go through all of these and many, many more?



To go through the long, unending cycles of good weeks, good months, and then bad days.

Sure, they’re less frequent than they used to be.
Sure, they’re few and far between.
Sure, it’s only 24 to 48 hours.

Sure, the medication quells the panic attacks and violent mood swings and poisonous thoughts.


But that just makes them worse when they surface.

Makes the paranoia worse.

Makes the anxiety worse.

Makes the self-abuse worse.

Makes me worse. 



On these days I remember,
That you ran away from me because I’m broken
,
and you aren’t a handy man capable of fixing me.

I can spend all of my time loving you, 
fixing you,
singing to you, worshiping you,
And in the end you cannot give these things back.


You aren’t perfect.
You aren’t chained to me.
You didn’t even want to claim me.
And after all, on these days,
Everything is my fault anyways.



Some days, 

The days when I wake up,
Begging to be locked in a sanitarium,
Sobbing and biting and kicking and screaming,
I’m reminded that you,
And no one else,
Will ever love me.

These thoughts and feelings
flowing through me
affecting
every aspect of my being.
My brain  
receives and processes
the information
and then
reacts

No thought is needed

A highly functional automated algorithm
abiding by the learned lessons of interaction
and conditioning burnt into the once easily malleable
network of neurons that defines my personality

The heavy mask of logic and pride
so tightly wrapped
over the fabric of my true being
keeping me in this game

Yet

I chose to play
To identify
with this silly and burdensome sobriquet
To one day break free from the automated voice-mail
that responds apathetically to the glorified
archetypes, thought-forms, information
that originates from
God
creator of
signal and receiver
thought and mind
emotion and body

Once the original signal is found
a needle in a haystack
the mystery is opened
the opening of a book yet written

A beginning to all beginnings
An ending to all endings

this is you, here, now.

LIVE.  BE.

I just realized no one is listening. They never were . Why do i believe?  
I know. I only need to realize. Or at least be true. This is all i have left.
Nothing.
**** you. For all your your wind wasted on hope. Did you realize there could become hurricanes? Do you even feel them now? As if. This is your creation. And you are the eye.
Believe, in your twisted logic. Begin. But...can you Spell justification. As long as you're happy. Right? Could anything be more important.
Can you say sacred? Could you even remember that word?
Has anyone a grip! Or does this all slide so easily from your hands...Unwittingly or apathetically? You all die. Crumble into dust, right before my eyes. Blow you away...
I thought you understood. I thought you would be more. You told me to have hope. You promised.
It was all a lie.
To you so white. Something thin enough to disappear. Or never have existed?! Do you say translucent? No....no. You never drew it to begin with. It was mine.
But...I just do not understand. How? How could so much effort go into, a forgotten dream? Because I guess that's all I am.
Forgotten.
Was...if ever appeared. No, my mistake here.
For defining myself in the part of you...that never was.
I am nothing, and I have never existed.

You all must be evil. I cannot conceive of an alternate. Why was it so important, for me to believe? You still insist, behind your empty eyes; you assure. That there is truth. And light. And hope and horizons.
You cannot hear these words. Or they are just shapes in air. But then why speak? I think maybe you will come up dead. For ever and always. Never another.
Here is one. Last. Thought. Before you devour. What is left. Whatever ever was, of this...me. This lie. Come to life.
Why do zombies eat the brains?
Do you think inside a corner of a fold, in a dark space, underneath many layers; they feel regret? Over what is, what they are. That maybe some microscopic flutter of muscle is conscious? Self aware. And realizes, this should not be. This is wrong.
Here lies everything I ever held dear.
Yes, they may want it undone. Unwound. Yet; how weak they all are; unable.
So you just...give up? Accept death in a moment. And move on.
Does that really excuse you? I am incapable.  Yes, stamp your clear with that. How easy.
Nothing for more for you to do. Just ****. Or shut it up. Lash out. Clear away any reminders.
The idea that more could exist...is poison.
Maybe...it is only a matter if will. I insist? So it becomes.
Eat the brains. And no one will tell you otherwise.

Little sparrows show off their agility,
dancing up and down violin necks.
Pecking staccato notes out of the air.
Making tea and dropping ceramics
behaving clumsily and babbling nonsense
even after they've been told
sit down and be quiet.

Imitation ducks sit squat,
quiet, muddy, decoying
singing water stains,
spitting curses from their bills.
Pulling bed sheets up to their chins,
nesting between the covers.
Very anonymous in their colours,
not a deviation among them.

Cold wax and dry glue
flake off creases and folds.
These lovely imitations,
cuckoo plaster cast knuckles
snowflaking to the ground,
useless with fine motor skills.
Peeling off like dead leaves,
parasitic nest components.

All my fingernails are different lengths,
evolving finches’ beaks
on isolated islands
With scratches on the vinyl of my thumb,
sand beneath my cuticles,
scrapbooks between my fingerprints.
Piano keys team up in groups of two,
sharing sharps and flats.


Filed and polished,
pink budgies dispose of portfolios apathetically,
slamming filing cabinets shut.
Cuttle bones rattling,
mirrors cracking.
Irritable thighs complaining,
they hunker with bad posture,
frowning on their perch.
Squat salient warbles
clamoring sharply down corridors
over whistling loudspeakers.

Poster orioles elbow aside crowds,
bright bones flashing
neon signs
keratin streaked or spotted
for biological attention.
Weaponry painted exciting colours,
friendly hues and enthusiastic tints.
Lies dressed in curiosity,
attracting intrigue.

My heron neck in the air
searches for information,
explanation, observation.
Greedy for projections,
living in the tree tops,
reflected in shop windows,
my skinny anisodactyl talons
for walking on mud,
wading through marsh,
boggy water.

My hands are geese
jabbering back and forth
across my chest.
its very distracting
to have these conversations
going on between palms,
arguing the best way to fold paper cranes,
whether chocolate pudding
should be stirred clockwise or counter.

Take a gander at the world you don't touch because your fingers are too flightly

A broken past molds us into what we call our present mask
and all that lingers and basks,
either feeding positive tasks or manifesting a present past
(It makes no sense, don't ask)

Attraction is distraction
Unsolvable fractions
Needing emotional extraction

Mind dribble dance
Lost in a trance, never had a chance
So used to subliminally bursting
Not used to someone witnessing me recoloring

I curl inside
I wish to hide
I crave apathy
I refuse apathy
I boycott spoon-fed darkness
But sometimes it swallows you whole
I understand the anger of an earth angel
I understand the haunting isolation when you realize you're the last of your kind

When life meets despair, inhale that coastline air
It's better to painfully breathe than apathetically impair

~ the calm after a heart wave crashes ~

After an accident, people always talk about how they are “lucky to be alive.” I’ve always felt the opposite. If I were lucky I would have been stuck down by some Godly force years ago, not missed death by mere inches. So I guess I’m praying for a new kind of miracle. A cancerous, twisted metal, kind of miracle.

As much as it seems like I want to die, I’m not completely suicidal. I’ve just embraced the reality of death much too soon. And I’d rather be a free soul than trapped in some rib cage. There’s a difference between wanting to die and living apathetically.

I’m impatiently awaiting my expiration date. As it inches closer and closer I begin to lose my grip on my surroundings. I’m starting to worry that one day I’ll wake up and life will be indistinguishable from the dreams in which I fly. Fearing I may vault from the rooftops, only to come hurling downward. To become nothing more than another statistic.

I wake up and face the harsh reality that I am still living in a world without purpose and it hurts. It ******* hurts. I’m so tired of merely existing. If I can’t live to the fullest, give me death.

Unexpectedly,
With the arrival of summer,
A gentle breeze caressed
Her cheeks as she breathed in
The scent of him as he stood
At the edge of her doorstep.
She laughed and smiled, unbelievingly waiting for him to disappear;
And instead, he beckoned her closer.
With temptation pounding in her person,
She cautiously stepped away from her boundaries,
And for the first time,
She left her safety after years of wariness.
It was an unforgettable summer
Starting with the first night she took
His hand underneath a blanket of shimmering stars.
And she listened as the ocean ebbed
With the sound of his heartbeats.
For she was
Swept up entirely in his summer wave.

Time wore on.
She smiled as these summer leaves turned from the
Pleasant bright green to a
Beautiful golden maple.
She was discovering something new,
Stunned at the vivacity of the autumn
But unknowingly,
Unappreciative of the true value of what
She currently possessed.
She silently followed his feet as he took the lead through this forest,
With faith that their tempos would continue to align after
This autumn season—
She would never tell him,
Of the fear she secretly masked beneath her front
For many have said nothing
Lasts forever.
As these thoughts became more frequent,
The daily smile she would give him would continue to persist.

But she discovered it was true, for
Through her attempts of positivity,
She eventually lost sight of their pleasure
As he remained completely unaware.
In the end,
Believing in her façade,
Transformed her facade
Into a reality.
Summer’s blessing became winter’s burden.
And while the harsh weather waned on,
The leaves, which had defined their beginning,
Now were dead with the flutter of bleak snow—
Obscured in the rush of the current season,
With the sight of color was lost.
She still remained outside with him, unfeelingly holding his hand,
Away from her boundaries,
But in all honesty, she felt
Detached,
Distant,
Cold.
She longed to retreat—to seek shelter within her haven
She had left during those summer months,
And return to a place where she no longer had to pretend.
Eventually,
It was in this dark time, in the absence of him
That she departed,
As she only thought of herself,
Not yet understanding the depth of his love;
The depth that would soon be lost
The depth she would soon realize existed.
For although she had retreated, she too soon regretted her rash decisions
For underneath her shallow despair,
In her lonely and closed off safety,
She discovered
What she had not seen before.

She sprinted outside into the melting cold,
And called out his name as patches of green formed around her haven.
She hiked to the edge of the forest,
And climbed several mountains before finding him.
Out of breath, she screamed to grab his attention.
In response, he apathetically turned around, slowly recognizing
That she was present;
Unthinking and anxious,
She looked into his eyes for one last time,
Foolishly searching for their depth
And the beauty of color he presented her last summer.
Instead of emitting a sheltering, gentle breeze
He looked upon her coldly.
And instead of beckoning her closer
He told her to leave from his sight.
As the impact of his voice resounded within her,
She felt something deep within her break.
As she hurriedly returned to her shelter, slamming the door shut,
She shattered into unrecognizable glass splinters
That splayed among the wood of her room,
Encasing her pain inside of her walls for months.

She no longer noticed the shift of the seasons.
Her blinds stayed closed and door shut, as she
Continued to drown in the reality of his words.
She pathetically remained within her enclosure
As strangers knocked on her door with heartfelt concern;
She told them to leave, like he told her. And yet,
They still earnestly pounded on the barrier, persisting. Out of a whim,
She decided to open up—hoping his eyes would greet her.

Instead,
Light pierced her vision as her door swung open
And for a moment, the colors were hard to make out
As the blaze settled, the roots of summer took its place.
And she realized, it was the
Rebirth and Renew
Of Summer.
In that instant,
She was no longer a slave to the past,
For now she realized
The independence she had shunned was actually
A chance to explore this unknown present.
She broke free from her monotonous state and
Bolted from the door,
Enthusiastic to experience something new.
But in reality,
Once again,
Locked into the seasons’ continuous cycle.

You understand what suits you,
Choosing from tailors present or past,
Preferring not the uniform.
Whose robes to **** this trip?
Adding their layers to the shadow below.

Fashion a style, accordingly-
Another fearless, determined Oxford man
In a pink suit.

Style a fashion, apathetically-
A filthy, disheveled codger, trudging
From one unmanageable apartment to another,
Writing music in his mind, never hearing it,
Changing the world forever.

Or,
Owning only a pair of each-
Black shoes, tights, and tops,
And seventeen brightly colored scarves,
Wear your heart on your sleeve.
The most priceless accessory for spending
Retirement in Somalia with the children.

Being choosy in dress and shadows,
Remember seasons None too original,
Choose fear or love.
Suit yourself.

Not too long ago but the wisdom still alluded me
And not be Frank, I was never one for the Ocean and sand.
So the salt in my lungs, your gaze into my eyes was new to me.
Scared but not enough to tell you, I took your hand.

(The waves felt good on my coarse skin.)

No TVs there, it was Remote.
The locals wagered on a pair of dice.
Coladas with two cubes a pair of ice.
I was living in, and you are my Paradise.
Everything I wanted and more, but still not willing to sacrifice

(I rebel, I rebel)

All that was asked was reciprocation.
She said” Boy just say my name, that’s all I want”
“ Show me joules. Life, Love, and Dedication.”
Told her “ stop trippin” She said ”why you front?”

(Time Passed)

All that was asked was reciprocation.
But society’s serpent wouldn’t let me. ( Boys aren’t supposed to feel)
Eve’s whisper led me to condemnation. ( No room for my pride)
Wiped the Salt water from my eyes “Just don’t forget me.” ( she apathetically pointed at the door)

The rain fell

… I’ll never forget raindrops I felt, that night I plead with you
Same raindrops I felt that first night that I kissed you.
And I cannot lie and say that I don’t miss you.
…That I don’t miss my paradise.

But – sometimes stories don’t end the way you want’m to right?

(Lost Happiness, Lingering Pain)

I miss you

Right hand to god, Left hand holding the remains of my heart.

There is something
about your
fleeting fingertips
and the way
your mouth curls
resembling
how i
curl myself around
you

and your hands that
Are full
of doubt and
apathetically
****** dreams

There's something
about the way
Your smile
makes me feel

And the
way you hold
your cigarettes
to your lips
that reminds me
of how
you
sometimes
hold
    me.

in my once apathetically empty chest, i now hold her broken heart, and as all concerns for the phobia of psychiatry, the one phobia psychiatrists have with regards to their patients is when a patient expresses empathy for others; ‘discharged!’ and they do so with a fidgety eye.

in the windy roads of rise park, an affluent scrape of
essex grime, a man alone, walked
impromptu bob dylan command to use the ballerina
footprint for a bit,
well, so he walked and thought about throwing pepper
at his shadow in anticipation of jungian shadow concept
detachment from orthodox cognition down the road
from descartes... oddly enough the ‘throw pepper at your
shadow and see shadow detachment in a convulsion of a sneeze’
didn’t happen... happy me... happy shadow...
so you see where this is going, it’s going by way of -
            *what is lucifer
            an emperor with no clothes
            no skin, no flesh, no heart
            an emperor!
                                   (jack spicer, my vocabulary did this to me).
well not really, it’s going into psychiatric theory,
esp. after the ending of this zombie princess in a psychiatric
hospital with arabic music snipping off further director’s cut
assertion for revision in the film: side effects.
got me peeling an apple that film did, better than gone girl
i thought, but enough of that:
isn’t this oddity welcome to be written?
if i use a blank page as a metaphor of an attentive “soul doctor”
in secular society, i.e. a psychiatrist / not a shaman e.g.
no woo woo ha bah ha bah ha bah take this naturally growing plant
and dance naked around a fire... i’m using it not as that
but as a patient, because upon return i’m looking at a blank page...
and i use that as me, who’s listening to the reverse of mirror realities
is impregnated with by an almost anonymous voice within
the framework of patient-doctor confidentiality...
but like i said, i had a theory on top of this... no i didn’t...
oh yes, i had: so in the talk of spectrums,
with dementia being as much deconstructive as constructive,
what about the spectrum of depression?
‘well, you’re right to point that out,
deconstructive dementia is a condition that affects older people,
they have a well known and established self,
so when dementia takes to the elders
the self is deconstructed and people stop
recognising a familiar face,
but the thing about dementia praecox
is that it’s not deconstructive but constructive,
it’s not really about dogma of the anti-psychiatry movement
envisioned about whether this self is true or false,
the optimism is that it’s constructive, and that’s positive,
because deconstruction is negatively attributed in
casual vocabulary.’
so what about depression, and how it’s akin to that, as i was saying?
‘ let’s say modern society is filled with professions that are
all about pencil pushing and photocopying the amazon
to assure the antarctic it will be filled with 2-d trees,
what sort of physical exertion is there in those professions
of skyscrapers and cubicles?
very little... depression in older people who have already
established themselves in these professions have very little
physical strain, not like the roofer or all builders in general,
there has to be compensation, an obstruction,
depression is like the strained muscles of carrying a gas bottle
that weighs 25kg... or rolling it across the roof slanted
weighing in at 75kg... or carrying a heavy roll of felt or
one of those tar doughnuts (permaquic / hydrotech),
so imagine if there was no depression, would these featherweight
commuters to the office spontaneously turn to aether,
loose limbs and turn into soul matter, moving through walls?
they have less physically straining professions,
and because of this there is the phenomenon of depression,
it affects a lot of people because a lot of people have never
used the scythe in a field of wheat, so they use antiperspirant
to loose the armpit blotches in air-conditioned rooms,
it had to come, this en masse depression...
but you know what i despair about? the spectrum of depression praecox,
it’s not a phenomenon in children, it’s a noumenon study
that requires a kantian investigation, it’s totally bewildering...
i can understand depression in older people
who do not have strenuous physical jobs...
but what if some of these kids only have a project of being plumbers
and not office workers?! what then,
they won’t be allowed the luxury of depressive obstruction
while fixing plughole wormholes of ****,
they won’t have the luxury of a desk job feeling “low”
but actually having felt too much ease before the low, which
inevitably came because of the ease.’

you see it...
the Cartesian pH scale...

i think
             the acidic               concerning
       evil thoughts

and

i am
         the alkaline                 concerning
evil action...
                          sketching mezzo in Spain...

but still so much resides in people
expressing da- -denken,
no fallacy with that,
to express thinking you're there
is no fallacy, there's no wrong with that,
being there is a fake,
Heidegger spoke of plagiarism,
rightly he's a magician, a quick hand,
a droplet of Mercury -

sometimes music overpowers,
there's no music, only meaning, after all,
aren't we to decipher our encoding?

philosophy has no access to music,
it can't enter the realm of syllables, or alphabetical
units, its limit is reasoning and meaning,
it cannot perform autopsy on words,
for philosophy words are cursors, vectors,
it cannot dissect words toward syllables
and units of sound, it relies on compounds
ending with a -logy-, pristine ~arithmetic ...

the therefore sequencing
akin to 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 = 4 can be discarded,
acceptable the Newtonian causality
and the mishmash loss of vector, of Einstein's paralleling
for the parabola, or vacuum dipping...

we are concerned with therefore acting as
a multi-facet mathematical function,
with two algebraic modes of expression -
as much bewilderment entombs Newton's theories
as much bewilderment entombs a serial killer's actions...
acidic or alkali are expressions of pigmentation
or activity, yet when encompassed within
pH scaling, non-differential...

in that so many concerns enter the verb thought
(verb - activity of expressing it) that thought per se
excludes nouns to revel in pristine form...
what basis is there for nouns if not automation
rubrics that are settled for a rekindled encounter?
if thinking is an activity, it turns the animate thing
into an inanimate thing, a philosopher's stone
away from peculiar assortment -
and when god seized walking freely,
he turned into a stone, apathetically accepting
monotheistic prayers - once an animate thing,
chained into inanimate enthroning.

what is the prime category of words utilised
in thinking, should no narrative schematic be utilised?
we all know the cognitive schematic narrative,
in fear of linguistic bombardment
that provides puzzles from syllables and
eyed-encoding shapes such as mm or dentistry's
A having cut out the tongue.

but the Cartesian balance - being does not
prove thinking, and thinking does not prove being -
better that unsolved than perpetually
exhausting the argument of being via beings sacrificed
to enshrine a memory - lesser concern
for the thought that spurned others to think
a similar complication, via allowance of the leisurely
timing worth consuming -
with the former a gas chamber, with the latter
a library - there is still a scaling,
not necessarily attributing acidity or alkaline superstition...
_______________­____________________­________
                                     ­  Δ
on topic of pivots and Archimedes.

Elevated position
strategically sitting
following a script
she says apathetically
three words
An audience a witness
Differently they speak
a language of friendliness
and graciousness
Lying on the innocent
she spreads confusion and doubt
Around the corner
a ray of goodness manifests
She averts her head
the mirror to a heart in crystal white
and guilty
is the Satan in her eyes

tv shows on mute,
mouths moving but making no assertions.
a silence that doesn’t satisfy
slipping over the air like margarine.
loneliness in stillness
The feeling before you cry
but no tears are produced,
like a dial tone
with no intention of an outgoing call.
serenity’s evil twin,
a vibrant color muted with white.
no longer deep or dark,
just with the volume turned down,
apathetically pastel.

My insides are on fire
For two reasons
I'm trying so hard to hold back the words I love you
But they keep coming back up
So I wash them back down with liquor and bleach
It eats my gut feeling that I should try again

Nothing helps anymore
I watch myself bleed apathetically
I tear an opening in my skin
And invite you back inside my heart
Instead you fight your way out
Destroying every wall I put up
I'm broken without you
Why can't you see that?
Why did I have to lose you?

I feel the second burn
As I swallow my pride
And a handful of pills
I write your name on every wall
So there is no question as to who has killed me

Disinterested time
ticks apathetically
in the negativity of silence.

Cocooned inside rooms
on elongated days
without vanity or aspirations.

Momentary moods
meander
between boredom
and the futility of hoping
for anything
other than storms
and anonymity in the darkness.

and through the pane of glass,
beyond this musky scent developed from
my living secretions of skin and blood and *****;
is the pinnacle of a human condition lacking in my placid genes.
rusted fingers on clone-like machines, screens,
that scream into the ears of jaded men.
A new day!
it rings out through my entire street,
but they all drudge through grey hallways,
for cheap coffee and soggy flakes of flavourless cereal.
curtains closed to the sun.

the lines on their faces,
corrugated to match  the lines on their garage doors.
and with a well-worn-in suit
their car door and shed door open simultaneously.
"no time to breathe in the spring air filling their diesel-filled shed"
I thought.
And with the roaring of the engine,
and the car-port opening wider and wider to the world,
the rusted husks of decaying metal
recoiled into their greater-shells with dissonant creaks.
and it was then I noticed this scraping of steel
had become an orchestra,
or a dreary opera, so apathetically choreographed
for all the sagged faces and fatigued hearts
in the entire drone-army of identical town-houses.
all around me, like bees burdened with their bodies worth of pollen,
one by one, their diesel-pods and people movers
left their hives.
and one by one the rusted-razor blade howling of garage doors
ceased, and the engines had pursued the black tar-road
off further into the distance.
and though the sun shined with such benevolence,
one by one, each car's sun-roof closed,
shades pulled down, blinded willingly to the light.

Snowed in, and towed out.
Pitter patter of the all about.
I'm about to burst;
the seams told me first.

But I won't hesitate,
I won't take no for an answer.
If they freeze me in and tear me up,
I'll just write about her.

You must realize that your place
is wherever exists your pace.
There's a hope
wherever I do find this scope
that I'll be able to understand.
And when the thought of rebuilding
forces me into the cold,
just give me your hand.

For me to look apathetically
toward the cracks in your skin
would be nothing less than a sin.
Your bruises outweigh
the most benevolent aspects
of any sunny day.

Because you have to be;
What problems do you have anyway?
You're doing just fine, you know
No one wants to hear you complain.

You're doing just fine;
You're rotting more every day.
You're doing just fine,
No one cares what you have to say.

You're doing just fine;
There are people who have it worse.
You're doing just fine,
As long as you're outside of a hearse.

You're doing just fine;
You're brain is clawing it's way to your heart.
You're doing just fine,
As long as no one sees it rip you apart.

You're doing just fine;
You're not in pain, you've no problems.
You're doing just fine,
You're terrifyingly, apathetically numb.

You're doing just fine;
You'll last another day, another year.
You're doing just fine,
Just the same as every one else here.

Lying motionless on the sofa,
eyes fixated on the gray and purple cat clock perched on the mantle,
watching apathetically as the second hand
click click clicks,
stuck in place as the hour and the minute hands
sit sit sit,
as if intentionally to keep time from passing;
sit sit sitting
lie lie lying
stuck in place,
disappointment
click click clicking
in my mind,
so debilitated that
I can't even feel the passage of time,
the clock intentionally refraining from counting minutes so are empty.

Gas tank never completely full
Dishes unwashed
Time and its manifestations
Is the affliction that plagues any millennial
She is present, and waiting
Ready to peel her skin at a moments notice
Rhythmic finger tapping on a diner table
Sipping iced tea and always looking out the window
Neither down nor forward, just up
While uncooked ham
In the form of a human sat opposite her
“I wish others cared” she sighed apathetically
“I wish other scared?” he inquired. He knew that he heard wrong.
“No, I can make that happen already.”
A pause swallowed them both
“I’m leaving”
“Why?”
She answered, her countenance
An opened Venus fly trap
“I’m hungry”

He's running
a circus
casino.

Open to the ages,
smoke at your leisure.

"You can't have a circus without a tent!"
Watch him,
he got high without dope.
He killed god without faith,
and did apathetically,
because his mom wouldn't have liked it.

He throws up in the sink
because his girl is throwing up
in the toilet.

He knows he shouldn't be here long,
but *******, the dope is strong
and *******, he has nowhere else to go.

I wretch
My chest in my hands
So precious with its soft blue glow
The helpless weakened flickering

I reach out to the blur
Desperation overtaking
Each spinning around and onward
A cacophony of faces each more terrifying than the last
Laughing with their empty eyes
Each smile a twisted tear on the opaque visage
The cracked and blooded lips spit

Crawling, I offer my light

Fix it

Fix it


Please fix it

A swirling white cloak overtakes me
It’s gaping eyes and contorted smile
Staring through me apathetically like a worn mirror
It’s head snaps as it comes closer

I reach

The tangled tendrils twitch as they envelop my light
Empty holes looking at nothing
Growing darker
The tear twitches, bleeding
Turning downward

The hold loosens
My light discarded like the rest
The cloak dissipates back into the mass
Laughing again

The light flickers

I wretch

-[KW]

With a past of anger I long
to feel the passion rise up
inside me again
to feel enough,
enough to get angry

I sit here apathetically,
not caring, not feeling
and yet feeling so much

I can't put words to my emotions
and never seem to feel when I am
supposed to
I’m lost in these words I don't
know the meaning of
because for so long
I was told it
was wrong to feel

I pushed the emotions down
into the black oblivion of
my soul only
to be told later
that I was lied to

but I couldn’t feel
not even the familiar anger
that had kept me company
for years
and now I’m experiencing
this thing that
I don’t understand
and all I want to do
is know

to know if this is happiness
I'm feeling or something else
entirely
to know if its despair or
love. I never learned,
It was wrong

Your eyes were red, as if you had coloured them with a crayon,
And they gazed into mine with such intensity that 
I felt I couldn't look away.
Words spilled apathetically from your drowsy lips,
And they crept all around the room, filling my nose
With the smell of mischief, and my ears with the sound of defeat.
You were hallucinogenic, and morbid, and giddy, all at once.
And you leaned down towards my ear, laughing 
At your own clumsy delirium. Your lips tickled my skin as you spoke,
And your words filled my heart with an aching sensation of hysteria.
You leaned down and murmured,
"I hate when people whisper sweet nothings to me."

Don't tell me I'm better
Because my scars are healing
Or because my ribs no longer break skin
Don't tell me I seem fine
Because I look like a real girl now
You can't see the battle raging within

Don't tell me I'm better
When you see me eating pizza
Or taking morning pills to keep me quiet
Don't tell me I seem fine
Because I can sit and laugh out loud
And I can make jokes until the night

Don't tell me I'm better
I've been polluting my lungs
Until my insides are smoke and tar
Don't tell me I seem fine
I can't get out of bed every day
I cry apathetically to the stars

Don't tell me I'm better
You can't tell just by looking at me
Or believing the smile I paint on each day
Don't tell me I seem fine
How can you know my racing mind
You can never judge illness this way

Don't tell me I'm better
Because I no longer have the energy to cut
Or starve but that isn't alright
Don't tell me I seem fine
If I talk to you about normal things
Being able to pretend is not the same as fine.

What I want from you,
what I need to see and feel from you
at this moment,
isn't what you'd think.

I don't want to hold your hand, sharing a book in the other
while we read Frost or T. S. Elliot.
To be embraced, to breathe you in like the scent of home.
To **** all night long and not stop even after I can feel shivers wrack your body.  
Because none of it has ever been real.
Not for you.

You lied to me.
Not with words but with your expressions.
Your silent smiles,
your quiet support was a safety blanket,
ratty and warm with age.

Your eyes pooled with compassion,
you brushed my hair back held back the loneliness
when I lay on your bed shivering with fever.
But on another day, when I lay there resting and well,
you told me to get out.
To leave you alone and stay away.

You exiled yourself
and punished yourself.
Buried your body and mind in your work.
And when you ripped yourself from me
it looked effortless.

I want proof you aren't a robot.
I want to rip at your skin with my nails, really dig in,
to prove you can be hurt.
I want to pry that grin from your lips,
and wring blood from your lying mouth.
I want to press bruises into your skin,
But this time not with my kiss.

Now when we come and go
From each other's lives and from each other's beds
There is warmth, comfort,
But at the center of what is and what will be
nothing is there.
I'm reaching across a gaping void while you watch
and apathetically reach back
without really trying.