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Sep 2019 · 318
// insubordination
Xallan Sep 2019
Your question has been heard. The wilderness answered.

The wilderness sipped at all exposed veins,
slapped every exposed limb,
kissed each individual cell even if concealed.
Nature is insidious.

The dawn descended from under the soles of the feet, up from inside the earth.
Gargoyles turned back to stone,
dinosaurs became plastic figures,
demons retreated into the shadows
and recesses of the mind.
The night brought the wonder of imagination
to all the suspicions of day.
Dawn restores humanity to ******* eyes.

Upon the collapse of day,
wildness reigned.
The wilderness surrounded every artificially lit step,
just beyond the brilliant ring of certainty.
Light is a barrier created by
the eyes for the world.

Emotions leave the body at night.
The earth leached them back into the bloodstream in fear of the sun,
restoring urgency and certainty and purpose.
Dusk chased dignity to tombstone mirrors.

When the last bright clouds disappeared like smoke from a dying ember,
from an ashy joint,
the night drew out every emotion
and gave it a form,
with wings. They grew teeth for biting,
tongues for swallowing,
throats for singing.
We were left here,
among branches and thorns,
toothless and boneless
and without wings.

We were made in defiance of nature.
We identify with the stars and use clouds to make cars. Our minds are quicksand and oobleck. Slip and solidify and astoud,
at once soft and hard.
We attempt to tame the wilderness within.

We were made with
the purpose of creating a world to our liking.
We must live, must do, must be.
We must create
more than thought,
think more. We must realize our dreams
in defiance of nature.

We dreamt ourselves machines.
Our machines will dream themselves human.
Nature does not dream, it does not ever sleep.
It cries and throws its fits of anger
with broken oceans
fluid mountains
shattered storms.
It demands we answer its question:
Will humanity stop dreaming?
Xallan Jul 2019
We like to credit the mothers and fathers
For a world full of broken children.

Volatile individuals who disappeared, vanished
Leaving more broken people behind to fill their holes
Leaving nonexistence.

They gave the world to their children
Like they gave the future of all the children into his palms
His palms are soft, defined by lack of wear, by absence of fear.

Palms that carry a psychological burden.
Defined by folds and wrinkles and lines which twist and deviate like choices he will make
Family heirlooms that have crashed to the floor with the swipe of a careless hand

So when he held the vase he felt the weight of the missing ceramic shards and learned
You can't fill broken things with more emptiness
Or define integrity by cracks which twist and deviate like the choices he made.

He doesn't want to have the hands that press the red button
He's thinking about the children, he's thinking
About being a child.
Jul 2019 · 305
// juvenescence
Xallan Jul 2019
You were never to be thought to exist
Wherever you start, having an end place in mind guarantees nothing
About whether that place is endless
Home is a vehicle and this is your wheel.

I wish I could say to you
You are of my creation,
You came to life from my fountain pen
You bear some derivation from me
I do not look with despair upon things beyond my touch.

The only thing for sure is that our atoms must have collided somewhere in the past
Before the thought of you, and of me
Until these words, which have no atoms
These words, which I built and shaped with my hands and my head
These ethereal, incorporeal words
Skimper over your heart built and shaped by a grander poetry.

Every fish will come back to their creek eventually
Not all of them stay.

You may never want to be where you are
In time and in place
There will always be a taller tree you could climb
It may not take your weight
It may bow you to the earth
It may break and slam you into the sky.

Hold on to the good in horizons
Those heartbeats of land you might put a record needle to, and hear music-
Hold on to what to people say
Those concrete memories which will crack and warp with the roots you grow-
Hold on to the sensations
Those drugs both sweet and savory messing with your imagination in unimaginable ways.

In all of this you will be collecting atoms for a robot
Which you must wash with humanity every night,
You must dunk it in, you must shower it, you must pour humanity all over
Until your wires and synapses fry on the energy of yesterday and buzz with the electricity of tomorrow.

There is no self to be, only one to become.
My child, my child. Hear my words.
You are not the child, of mine.
Jun 2019 · 457
// opulence
Xallan Jun 2019
They come in with the outside all over them
He's covered in soil, her nails are grimy.
The atmosphere around them is thick
with the scent of smoke, and ashes trail them.

The music doesn't stop, but the whole restaurant
Stops and silences to look at them
For a brief moment.
One shouldn't make assumptions, but everybody does.

They aren't out of place. This is their little empire,
Over which they rule.
With ***** nostrils sharp as a hound, they sniff out their rivals
Over there in the window seat.
With ***** knuckles encrusted in gold and opals,
They hand a soiled Franklin to the barkeep.
With ***** money they buy opulence.

Voices low, they share smalltalk. They discuss their imports of tomatoes and tea.
So good at exploitation, they exploit themselves
But, they have a rough dignity. It inspires a condescending awe.

Rough work, but they're rich.
She has a Mazzerati, with bulletproof tires, caked in mud.
He has a wardrobe full of shiny shoes, limited edition, coated in mud.
They're *****, and they know it. They love it.
They want you to know it, too.
The business of 420 is more than a business of numbers.
Jun 2019 · 1.2k
// unexpected
Xallan Jun 2019
My depression doesnt wait til midnight
To trap me in its arms of woe
It doesnt wait til I'm alone
Or in darkness
Or swimming in an ocean of emotions
It comes to me while I drink my morning tea
To interrogate me, to insult me
It's too early, and I have purpose,
I have peace inside, and things to do.
I shouldn't have to put up with this---
The moaning of a wise and gossamer beast
Showing me maps with obsidian fingertips
And telling me aphorisms about time.
Maybe it'd be good to have expectations.

My depression doesn't come to attach itself around my ankles
---dysphoria clings to my hips, and I smash it off with a banana---
But depression winds its way up my legs and I welcome my old friend
Even in the day, even
In the sun, it reminds me of the fog
That wraps daintily about my shoulders,
too light for me to grasp
with my hands, it wraps around the sun
and my heart.
It is too early for depression,
But it's here anyways.
Jun 2019 · 330
// vocal
Xallan Jun 2019
I talk about my perky *******
To the forks in the silverware drawer
And they look back at me metallicly
They want me to leave them alone.

A chest that curves out parabolically
Like a cat's cheeks
And some mouse has come along
And nibbled away at me, my leaves
Have been devoured by garden pests,
By nibbling slugs
I throw pennies at them.
But that does not replace what
Should have been, where the holes are,
Leaving me disproportionate.

I hold my tattered figure by its wounds
And we wail in pain
My ribcage, too small, contorts the howl
Into a soft, secret sob, a silent whimper.

The sound an animal when it knows
That nothing can de done
That its suffering will not be alleviated.
The pathetic sound of self-defeat.

A mourning of lost things I never had.
The lonely side of heaven, of freedom,
Of having nothing to lose,
Is seeing nothing worth gaining.

It's been 18 years
And I can finally move my toes
I move them independently,
In spite of the pain from muscle atrophy.
It's been 36 years, and I can finally free
My body, I can bare my chest,
I can move my arms.

I can open my jaw, loosened
From its tight and rusty position,
Locked in place to optimum howl.
All my arthritic hinges and joints swing
With an euphoric exhilaration.
I devour mice and slugs and garden snails
And sometimes me, too.

I count my ribs every morning,
To see if I've grown any more.
Under my limp and slimy skin, they shine
With a metallic luster.
I have found something new to talk about.
Please read the whole entire thing.
Jun 2019 · 605
// of rivers and reservoirs
Xallan Jun 2019
I look for family in everyone---
My blood banked me in brick buildings
And grumbled when I didn't smile.
My childhood was only legos,

Plastic strewn across the floor
That I step on if I dont watch when I'm going.
I'm growing, I grew up.
No milestones but the ones I set
And ones I'm told I passed 5 miles ago.

My home is a roof over my head
Without walls, without windows, without doors.
It is nothing more than a place to be,
Like any other place, and it is not my home,
Nor is any other place. I do not have a home,
I make my own.
In churches, in hearts, in moments

But not in a person, not in a bed, to call mine.
I plan to burn all my bridges eventually
I learned to swim.
Breaking knees, I break my knees
And I patch myself up with bandaid.

Every community a mourning
Of a family that might have been
Of a childhood that should have been
Of a person that would not have been.
A mourning rich with regrets that aren't mine to have.

I pretend the past doesn't exist
And sometimes I make-believe the future doesn't, either
I pick through the shame
For something worth keeping.

My only family is my tea
When I am gone, it will cool and settle
And someday it will join the rivers
And pass through the gills of a million fish
Returning to their hatching bed to spawn
And finding dam after dam.
I wanna real family.
Jun 2019 · 263
// discontent
Xallan Jun 2019
Too young to die, not enough
To gather up my experience
Like nets I have
Cast into the sea

To catch unicorns.
I am too young to have drawn in
My nets and found
No unicorns

Only fish
Gills clogged with plastic
Before each fluttering fin.
But I break
The bread and the fish
Into poetry
That will feed hundreds

Of empty souls and wanting minds
And no bellies.
This land of the free is full
And its people are full
And their souls and their minds

Are full so
No one wants these sick fish
These sick
Words this sick poetry this
Sick poet.

Wisdom is not something
Anyone wants
To find in their nets.
Inspired by the incredible poetry of Wil Gibson
May 2019 · 284
// perhaps
Xallan May 2019
Perhaps I am nervous about the future,
growing up and leaving home
and ascending into the unknown.

Perhaps I am self concious
and have low self esteem
about my body and my brain.

Perhaps I am lonely and need a partner
because love always solves problems
in the movies.

Perhaps I need to be struck with lightning
and turn into a mutant
(I like that, but it's unrealistic).

Perhaps I am a transplant from another reality
and the more I affect this one
the more it messes with my mind to reject me.

Perhaps I am lazy
and haven't bothered to look for my purpose,
maybe I don't have a purpose,
maybe I had something and then discarded it.

Perhaps I am an archetype
and there is little, if anything, unique about me
and I am just repeating
the behaviours and words of my peers.

Perhaps, friend, perhaps.
May 2019 · 249
// the beautiful ones
Xallan May 2019
There are those among us
Who have an ethereal beauty
we see with our souls

We do not know who they are
Their smiles glow
with the kindness, the beauty

We see the way their eyes shine
with effort And without speaking
They can tell a thousand stories
In a thousand languages
In a thousand realities of time

There are those among us
Who are immortal, whose beauty
Transcends age or culture or skin
We are blind to their twisted nose,
Their loose skin, to
their *******, their deformations

The symmetry of their expression
breathes life
Into the primal, pattern-seeking parts
Of our pitiful, primitive minds

We can only admire them, without love
And call them little heroes
for their beauty
For it is an aspiration that saves

It is an ignorant kind of wonder
A bliss
May 2019 · 261
// dowry
Xallan May 2019
Is blame something one can tuck up into a little ball, put a bow on it, and give to me?
Can they expect a thank-you?

My fault as a gift, scapegoat for a job title, with earnings of deceit and manipulation.
I drink from a dish, I am tied to the fence.
For my birthday I get such wonderful presents, reminders of the burden I am and a souvenir key chain from the prison I live in.

I dress myself in their clothes, woven of expectations higher than my friends after smoking a joint.
Do I get a puff of that good delusion?

They whap my ankles to get me to walk forawrd, like a chicken, then whap my sides to correct my direction.
They rule the roost here, and are so much better than the rest of us.

They have their Power, a conglomeration of everyone else's.
That was my gift, my contribution.
A tax.
May 2019 · 1.1k
// naivete
Xallan May 2019
It's a little voice, a prompting, a suggestion
A prediction what possibly may happen
Do it, fear it, with 'should' cast of gold
Ignore my pusilimous self, my lack of courage

If I were to tell you the truth
About who- toward what- I really am,
You'd be disgusted.
I was.

I've adjusted to the time warp now.
Reject the possibilities, no- have me some
Long shot of anxiety.

Irish coffee and whisky mix well
As I ponder the universes now.
Every reflection is a funhouse mirror
Refracted like a broken prism.
Of the greatest and worst of all superlatives,
I am.

*****, *****, the truth will never be set free.
Imagine me, twice my age,
Same knowledge, will I have changed?
Will my mind and body still rift
Over the contents of my bloodstream?
They will not know until my deathbed.

A man I met once, he knows the truth.
A woman who will die tomorrow, she knows.
A child without care, they knew.

Their knowledge is empty, their memory
Will be forgotten with their minds.

You shall not know.

I intend to keep you, and alive.
Closed to new experiences, you are a
Coward, coward, closed to new knowledge.
Closed to new possibilities, I am a coward.

So as I raise up my fist to hope
My reach is weak, my hand is closed.

Hope knows, and hope is dead.
Your empathy was washed away
In a flood of others' medications.

You would not have comprehension, have it.
You would not understand.
Whether I should, or whether I should not:
I fear that I could.
Not gonna happen.

I will tell my secret to all the world, but you.
Many years in ignorance is smiling in bliss.
Your bliss is worth my annoyance.

You have the hope.
I have the time.
May 2019 · 238
// divisor
Xallan May 2019
Give me rhythm, heartstroke,
I took it away
My brain lept into corn, emptily,
And it was gnawed to the stem this way.

The barrier between mice and men is no more
No more, no more.

Don't let anyone put more
Pearls in your oyster, overconsumption is a disease!

Love blossoms with the rest of the weeds.
May 2019 · 223
// ambient
Xallan May 2019
Noise, noise I can't help but hear,
Leave me here. I miss the silence.
I miss the roar of the sea-
Not the roar of voices. I miss
the screams of the birds- not the screams
of the people. I miss the clamor of the rain-
Not the clamor of humanity.
I wish I could not count myself among them.

Humanity seeks to end sound with more,
More sound, more noise, more stimulus.
I want to sleep in peace and quiet,
But dreams, and sound, and loud,
Meaningless vocalization! I dream it ends!
Let it end, end me, leave me here.
I will stay awake while it is quiet.
My eyes, open-
My contacts will dry on them,
and scoop out my gelatinous vision,
and dry crystals will my sight become.
I will not see, but I will hear it all.
May 2019 · 146
// e coli outbreak
Xallan May 2019
Honesty is the antonym of patience
Words that come out, too fast
Too soon.

Unprepared, like a raw dish
They upset your stomach.

It would never end well.
We get so sick.
May 2019 · 272
// tribulation
Xallan May 2019
Man must have misery.

He must milk his wounds, drink his blood
Tend for some injustice or hardship
And if there is none,
Man will create his own.

He will latch on, and burrow in
Under layers of slight, of worthless apologies
He must turn to life and rage
Quietly, he must carry that burden, prudently,
He must have motive for his happiness.

Man must have misery.
May 2019 · 399
// the texture of water
Xallan May 2019
teeth that crackle and shift like the faults of san andreas
will the rolling wave, the bathtub tsunami of my tongue,
salive flooding my throat
and I am drowning.

I am inhaling my jaw, and all my little teeth
will slide into my organs and form crystals
in my kidneys, in my liver, in my gall bladder
my tongue wraps itself about my trachea
holding my breath in a vise
my mandible collapses, my trachea collapses, my skull collapses
I am in compression
and my insides are crystallizing to diamond
under my skin, which is oxidized and without lustre

I cannot see within the mirror
the hinge of my mouth,
the muscles that droop
or, the eyelids that swing like a door to the floor
water floods my system

if I do not clack my teeth together
I fear my face may have moved out of place
to my lungs, to my fingers, to my navel
and my nose has become buried by my breast
and all of me is collapsing
my neurons, my veins flood, my ears flood
I replaced bone and muscle
with liquid
May 2019 · 133
// Apep
Xallan May 2019
If the universe craves chaos
how did it make humans who crave order
If humans crave order
how did they make me who craves chaos
*how is destruction made
Let me tell you: it was I.
I was created, to create, to destroy.
Chaos in an orderly fashion is acceptable.
But a chaotic order is ideal, it the god
who threatens the universe with it all
I threaten to rise.
Apep is the God of Chaos.
May 2019 · 264
// Sawyer
Xallan May 2019
I thought about clipping my nails
after I woke up took a shower brush dress
this morning I ignored the ringing of the reaper
last night I stayed awake full of empty love
yesterday I talked nothing but hope
last week I measured up a future for myself
the other month I was smiling in naivete
I'm glad I forgot to clip my nails
I want to tear away that facade of possibility
I want to tear into my life muscle
claw away within my chest
and rip out the love
yes--- rip--- like a grave, like a tide, like a wave
I think I thought but now I just feel
and I want to shut off the blood to my heart
so full of us and we and each other
so full of the love that has become empathy
the empathy that I feel is imaginary

I imagine the angel
his voice that wept over chords on stage
I see his smile now a clown's face of despair
the wake shower brush dress and then
the ringing of the reaper, the words no one really is hears
the caesar in a suit suddenly becoming heavy, too heavy to bear, standing in the doorway, eyes
soft and voice no one really is hearing, like the knock at the door, the widening of the eyes the denial the embrace the
pain injected into him like blood from the knife of his friends and the love
demanding how and why and no
the love that has become imaginary
the rush from the knife goes straight to his head and he wants to rip it out
leave him in peace leave me
in peace this unreal vision of imagination,
this is the reason I never dream
every heartbeat slows to a double,
I am not listening not thinking because if I think, I will remember and feel the imaginary empathy, I will think about the emptiness seen or unseen, a void injecting me with my blood, going through our veins of seeing is believing, I believe in the void that was or is or am and am and am not going to listen
I see only the sounds no one really hears

I imagine the satyr
the smirk of innocence protected by layers of solar lenses
I know his eyes will not weep at the voice he never really heard, at the ring of the reaper, at the knock at the door
but our eyes are veins and the blood is bleeding and he is wailing
sounds he doesn't really hear overandover
and no love or comfort
can replace the blood that he is lost falling out through his eyes our eyes my heart pulses out sobs, wants to rip it out
this is the reason I never cry
and my hands reach for a memory that was going to be and finds a puzzle instead
and not a person, when the emptiness takes my hands and they cannot embrace, every
moment I become more antimatter than matter, when thought becomes a vision
of only imagination, blurred skin and blurred eyes, comfort
found in thoughts left over, poisoned with pain, stained in empathy, in empty
a void of memory rising like a bubble in the mind, with every word not really hearing
holding emblems of stillness
different faces but twin shadows
and then the light snaps off

there's always relief, there's always guilt
every minute the knowledge accumulates weight
growing massive on my mind like a tumor
pain not ended, pain passed on
which slithers from eye contact lost
into my eyes and, now, look,
look and see what is within me
nothing has ended in me
only things growing, dark things
and what if I blink
what if I close my eyes and sleep
desperation mounts its steed and goes flying
into the arms of the reaper
and we ask, to think, to feel, to rationalize
I want to stop doing those things
they say lost like something to be found
they say passed like excelling on an exam
they say tragedy like it was all an act
and so many funny words that I don't really hear anyway
all that I hear is the punctuation
question marks demanding how and why
figuring the purpose of life to die in some interesting way
to climb the mountain and plant a flag
enscripted with words from some forgotten language
and the youth have become so fragile
and the youth have become incorruptible
and the youth no longer make eye contact with strangers
every meeting of the minds has become a kiss of commitment
Words rattled around in connotation
suggested and insinuated in conversation
but never flew off my lips, past any
teeth grinding out music and art
Words that melt into the sleep of wakefulness without awareness,
the art of acting without pretending.
I can only imagine reality
if all we ever do is act out life and love and loss.
As I approach my final place of rest
I prepare to rise again, if ever I remember to,
if ever I remember to clip my nails
or live
My friend died. This poem is dedicated to his memory.
May 2019 · 177
// los aguas de los ojos
Xallan May 2019
¿Son imágenes en total
en realidad fotos de fantasmas?
He olvidado.
Yo no estoy joven, y tambien yo no estoy
un foto de la futura.
Estoy la pensamiento de la pasado,
Afuera de la cabeza, afuera de los neuronas
Ahora nos almas piensan por nos sesos,
Y nos sesos hacen no mas que sentir.
Nosotros no podrimos ver un fantasma,
solamente lo sentimos.
Lo sentimos, amigo.
¿Donde estan nos memorias?
Recuerde para mi, por mi.
Te olvidare por ti, para ti.
En los montañas del sol, lloré.
Llore por el niño que fue, y ahora está fue.
Ellos corren en la playa por el agua,
y nadan en el agua,
y sonríen en el agua,
pero para mi el agua se muy peligroso
porque yo moriré en el agua,
como mi amigo muere en el cielo.
Mis palabras esta muy pequeño como
mis manos, que hacen nadie.
Que pueden?
Mis ojos babean como un perro,
y mis pies no corren, y caminan
a mi lugar de morir.
Algunas personas volan.
Este poema se en Español porque ahí esta no traducción.
This poem is in Spanish because I could not make a proper translation in English, sorry friends.
Apr 2019 · 480
// liberation
Xallan Apr 2019
there is freedom--- freedom in the darkness
in the warmth that comes
in the dust that settles
in the ice that melts

there is a realm of possibility where nothing
is anything and where reality
is nothing more than a lost cause

where uncertainty dangles dreams
on a gossamer thread

and freedom is just opportunity
bounded in pain
every right was fought for
but usually it was by other people
and now we must reckon with ourselves
for our freedom to live

our faces of clay wet with mud
cast in the most solemn of expressions
and the red blood drips serenely
as our assassin stands accomplished
in the deed of liberator

there is freedom--- freedom.

Freedom in the pride of was
in the assurances of will be
in the fading of is.

there is freedom in the vapors of last breaths
in the rattles that disconnect us
and the wires from the robot
in the shivers of the feeling a parallel world

where the temperature is cooler
and the dead skins fall like snowflakes
upon an unstained carpet
and float in an unstained bathtub

there is freedom in the thought of beyond
of a better, or a worse
but not a further, a no longer, a done

there is freedom in deciding to leave
take a knife and cut open a door in our flesh
and let a few dreams trickle out
before opening it wider and moving on

there is freedom in the light
let me go
Apr 2019 · 119
// lunacy
Xallan Apr 2019
Three meals a day, but alone.
Alone here, with our doors closed
and our windows facing out.

What do you see in the east?
A sun rising, but you ask it why
and it asks you why you rise
and what makes any person at rest
find motion.

In the east, a setting sun wonders why
I stop to sleep and why any person
having found motion
would want to rest.

Neither of us can answer, so the sun
speaks shame
We hide our shadows with fake light
and make friendship to dust mites
making their nests in our minds.

You want to see me.

I want someone to care for me
better than I can for myself
but care comes with expectations of sight
and sight comes with expectations
of something worth seeing.

Something I care about seeing.

I don't think we should see each other,

The sun wants to see me
but the sun never cared about me
and I can't say you did either
I just expected you to.

Three meals a day because it's better
than not caring into starvation
because even with all this food
and all this emptiness
I never get any dopamine for it
and I can't care for myself.

I don't want to see myself.
I stare into the sun
and see everything I expected to.
I wrote this thinking about the enigma that was Albert Einstein. Why do we respect him? What made him act? His wife?
Apr 2019 · 98
// grown
Xallan Apr 2019
What was it like to be young
There's still so much I don't know
The hole just keeps getting bigger

I used to be, I used to be
I used to look up at everything
Now my eyes are always down
No use comparing anyway

This vessel is bigger and more empty
My soul hasn't changed
But my skin and flesh has grown
And with it I'm twisted too

In silver panes I do not see recognition
I see fear and it is a round thing
It is a hungry thing, and it is me
Time comes in and it does not leave

The hairs of my head pack up to go
Skin cells leave one by one
And their slimy trails of desolation
Turn into poetry and words but not life

What can save us in humanity
The years get shorter but no less empty
Still tedious, arduous, and pointless
Numbers in stacks of paper and clocks

Why grow a garden of flowers anyway
Fields of tulips, of poppies, of lilies
Fields of skeletons buried below
I don't remember them being there

The notes float on and disappear
Emptiness is a gift I used to have
I used to have hope
Maybe that was being young
I don't miss it, but I don't remember it either
There is no regret of the forgotten

What form does hope take
It can't be a vision of years or fears
There's no promises made trustworthy
When children ask for bandaid
They want their skin back

I want my sanity back
It comforts me and my scraped knee
I guess we have bigger problems
The scrapes keep getting deeper

But, there's no point in comparing
If it's all human nature to fall and grow
I'll find my field and burn it
Apr 2019 · 93
// still-life
Xallan Apr 2019
Death is memory distilled
The rosy haze of commitments
Irrelevant skin, irrelevant organs,
Even the face irrelevant, it fades.

Life lives on in the fear of death
In the memory of love
In the truth that is loss.
In death there is cleansing
Of the soul, there is perfection.

We are lost upon our ruminations
Of Van Gogh losing his perception
Dead faces fade to purple streaks
Of pure remembrance.

We imagine they live beyond us.
In our minds, we paint
Their portraits with their essence
In death, irrelevance dies.
Age dies, frailty dies, pain dies.

Love does not.
Dedicated to my friend Johnny Walker. Thank you for sharing your words.
Xallan Apr 2019
What we want is blood
We dream of roads unrewarding
Hold each others hands sordidly
We whisper wishes and dreams wordlessly
And endlessly we brood

Salt falls into our eyes
We turn our faces up
To question the authority of the sky
Our papayas rot away on trees
Strangled they hang in sour decay

Hands melt into each other and love stays
We wonder where the salt comes from
The origin of our isolation
Some of us look for someone to blame
Some look for some beast to tame

I just stand here soaked in the rain that falls
And endlessly the sky snaps me in two
I think I used to love you
I think we had words to dream of whispering
But, now endlessly I bleed

Because we want more than sugar
More than salt, we want heavy metals
For iron, some slam butter knives
Straight up into their esophagus
But endlessly I give my blood

And when I am dry
We fill me up with dehydration, with
Melted plastic hands and rained-in eyes
And raw papayas
Now endlessly I search for butter knives
Apr 2019 · 98
// soft defiance
Xallan Apr 2019
Yeah, I'm writing a poem about you.
I'm writing everything for you.
I've run out of places in this dimension to write,
so I'm scrawling it on the inside of my skull,
another place I say I'm "here."
With these words, I get to be with you.

Because I'm an objective person,
I see your flaws, I see your imperfections,
I see that you are ugly.
I see your humanity.
But, heavens, when you smile
that ugly grimace we people make when we're happy
filling your mind with a new kind of emptiness
I just want to look at your green eyes forever.

Or maybe how I met you in a grocery store
That random stranger with a heart
beating so loud I could hear the ceiling shake
Someone who used to be nobody became somebody to me and no one else
Our words have been exchanged, but
I have more gargling vocalizations to share,
and more to hear
Before you close your brown eyes forever.

Smiling in rhythms I could call music,
Our layers of dead skin cells electrically brush
in a soft defiance of preconceived notions
With a voice that pumped emotion into my hollow aorta
A classical archetype of degeneration with symptoms of a decomposed ego
shuffling trodden but proud plumage
Yet brilliance shines in your blue eyes forever.

I never have time to read if I spend it all writing
Just because my poetry is about you, doesn't mean that I love you.
But I do.
Apr 2019 · 166
// пленник
Xallan Apr 2019
take a look and see what a masterpiece lies ahead of me
such an empty window displaying a vast landscape
of uncharted territory under the heavens and within too
and I wish I could believe I can go beyond them here
I am confined to my little existence which is infinity

so I look at the little atoms that make up my being
and I hold the hand of the universe guiding my mind
through the stars and along this wrinkly stretch of time
I call it mine, I call it art, but it's just another blind memory
I look ahead and I see infinity trapped in my mirror's eye

I inhale and my cells shiver with life and death in oxidation
I think and I never stop, even in rest, my heart is pumping
thoughts up and around my brain with every sight seen
for every cause there is an effect, given to humanity
only God alone has free will, people never escape

so what I see are the bars on my cage that I made
it is my creation, and what I create is art, compulsively
beauty is a prison, not a deity, because we worship ourselves
I dream of my last breath, of throwing myself out the window
and flying to the stars, to explore within the heavens

but life is time, and time is of a now for me mortale
and I regretfully say that I am very much alive, and well
for I am young, and full of so much wonder and possibility
and therefore I am beautiful, but I am blindly seeking a key
clues dance before my eyes, but I have very poor vision

I am horridly nearsighted, and require glasses or contacts
clarity is rare, and truth is a difficult part of the elephant
so I see blurry hallucinations of myself in so many roles
I see myself in pain, most of all, a pain of happiness
as my soul ever tries to decide whether or not to feel at all
пленник-- prisoner, captive
Apr 2019 · 157
// weapon of choice
Xallan Apr 2019
everyone has their own version
of self harm

everyone has a different
shade of blood
that flows everytime they dig in
to themselves
with their weapon of choice
everyone has a coping mechanism
that they use to destroy

anyone can run from people
anyone can run from tools
anyone can escape from reality

but no one can hide
from the danger, inevitable, everpresent
no one can hide from their
Mar 2019 · 115
// equity
Xallan Mar 2019
The world becomes soft and formless
without fear, with nothing to lose.

Everything is a snowflake.
Everything is a hairpin trigger.
It's all just molecules exploding,
tense and inevitable.

The world becomes weak and forceless
when lying in wait for a gentle doom

Every inhalation is obstructed
with the ash of effigies burned in the future.
Gratitude fades into memory.

Ignorance is etched into the tunnels
of time, and is slowly filled with sediment.
Knowledge decomposed into sentiment.

The voices of candles become silenced
with a whisper, they extinguish hope.

Cats will leave their hair everywhere,
on the patent leather throne of a executive
on the stained and shredded couch of a degenerate.

The slap of ice water becomes an embrace
with blood stained tears, it initiates sight.

Birds will drop their **** everywhere,
on the divine faces of the carefully designed
on the unkempt hair of the mad and lacking failures.

We are gods, but no one would know
because we didn't create them
what we created was meaningless
and inscrutable beneath the damp mist.
Mar 2019 · 300
// what is left of puddles
Xallan Mar 2019
My head is encased in a vise unseen
My scalp prickles where my hairline laughs
My ears ring with the sound, all of her

She whispers kind needles into a doll.
I shake like a sphere behind my facade
Every weak muscle shaking off fiber

Like a cat in a bath--- I screech, but silent.
My throat is stuck to my jaw, and so
My voice is garbled through a crystal tube

It is a high frequency, all disregarded.
I do not know where the pain is coming from
I do NOT know where the pain is coming from

I DO NOT KNOW where the pain is coming from


I am my own doll, I've washed away fortune.
I've taken my toe to my mouth in lieu
Of a tongue slippery and swollen

Brittle, brittle thoughts and empty dreams.
I do not know where my voice went
I lost it in a rainstorm, while I was singing

I dreamt I was a puddle evaporating.
And maybe it's just pain, maybe it's just life
But my thoughts are coded in a bad way

I don't understand, and my pride is broken.
Is that what makes a man? To stay whole?
Lovers break girls.

It Is one train to be unique, another to be alone.
It is not good to be alone in the universe
In my bubble it is good, it is peace

But I am greater than a bubble.
But still I am empty and frail, and alone
I am without blood or kin or kind

I am with pain
Mar 2019 · 250
// complexity
Xallan Mar 2019
how do we behave before an enigma
she who is so great of sight, she sees
the truth of you and me and herself

she sees with a filter over her vision
pointing out random correlations
and the patterns, which are as string
tying the universe together

he sees the patterns too, he knows
and they see them, and they know
but we who are deaf, dumb,
and without form would not know

how do we behave before an enigma
our numbers never add up to the
correct quantities or by the right
derivatives because of our ignorance
to simple truths and complex concepts

a child sees the truth of the butterflies
we are more immature and unsure
without foundation or future

instead both our eyelids are sutured
existing without innocence or naivete
only lack of comprehension
as if language has lost all meaning

the fog that drawn about our minds
like a self-imposed cloak of ignorance
composed of bright lights and whispers

how do we behave before an enigma
we bow our crowns to the burlap sack
and silence the words of the sighted
in darkness
Mar 2019 · 473
// devil's mantra
Xallan Mar 2019
can I get a solid *******
Am I the only one so deprived of reality?

My emotions have one purpose:
for manipulation. I will use them,
you will use them.

It is not about what I want!
Is it about how I feel?
It is about what is, and what is not,
and why I feel at all.

So I say ******* because
that is what I feel
and what I know is real.
What I want is gone.

I did not want it, not wanted.
But I want it all, gone.

I want to put on a symphony
and I the conductor
as the cannons are wheeled in
through the twisted flames.

I will harmonize my twisted laugh
with my direct condemnation
of all humanity!
As they shall sing and play,
so shall I.

I wish to be the end of it all.

I do not want to be the memory
I want to be the forgetting.

I feel pain at the state
of the existence. It!

My pain shall be spread abroad
in the unity of the universe
it will divide humanity
in our selfish egocentric cares
let mine be the loudest
and every moment be mine.

I am your god!
You would not have known
if I hadn't told you so,
so be grateful.

I will detonate the bomb.
I will engineer the virus.
I will program the matrix.

You will see me end you.
The devil is in my heart.
Mar 2019 · 555
// marbles
Xallan Mar 2019
Existence is past
Always falling behind in step
Heart rate slower than the rhythm
Every tailbone wagging
Emotional doubts- see
The eyes. With them. Through them.
Past them- see
The hands. The hands not present
On the reflective screen
Are revealed only in memento
Through movement, by touch, with use

A ghostly apendage- see
The orange shaped like a banana
Succulent, fresh, juicy, and ripe.
Like *******, at the prime of youth
But swollen, dragging down
The head, the hair,
The back arched and strained
By the increasing mass of the body
******* that belong on a woman,
For her to be kissed, her with her *******,
A beautiful, empowered,  property manager
Rubbing those scars, with ointment.

Circles that soften the body
Running on marbles, spheres for toes
Sliding towards the floor
At least shortness shortens velocity
On impact- see
The eyes flickering
The squeak of release as my chest deflates
Fragile sacs of fat, waiting to be filled
Lungs missing lobes, hoping to grow
Ribcage missing mass, never to expand.

All of my functional organs constricted
To my inside, my ***** swells
And I make straight men gay
I free all goats from their scapings
It would be preferable
To remove unnecessary chunks of flesh
And bestow them upon her,
Beloved unbodied, now with form
A beautiful spirit of femininity
Begone from me- see
The just reward is awaiting

At the price of stitches and rehabilitation
(So much rehab)
Take my cells, take any hope of balance
Break my sternum
Open it wide- see
The rich red music, I urge listening
Take my plastic bags, my contamination
Burn my impotence
Let my bones soften to ruin
Let my teeth slide out, and acrue wisdom
Without balance, without both, with

I dare not close my eyes
Even at the sight of this deformation
Tongue to the roof of the mouth.
Head straight, eyes forward.
I dare not sleep, I dare not dream.
Is this what I am made of-
Consciousness? Marshmallow fluff.
I will never know the value of youth
Of my life- see
The potential of therein, ever
Or only a glimpse when I am old.

The rain becomes a subwoofer
And slams my head into the barrel
I drink- dihydrogen monoxide
With my nose
I drown- in ethanol, with my face
My cheeks stuffed with papaya, slimy.
See the banana, shaped like a papaya,
All rotten fruit, attracting flies
I invite them to me at last
With this pure sweet stench.
This poem is ripe with symbolism. What's your interpretation?
Mar 2019 · 428
// expenses
Xallan Mar 2019
*** doesn't sell. It buys.

Society says, she'll always have
food on her table
for as long as she has a body worth feeding.

She feeds the appetites of well-fed men
whose lust and greed shine
like the silver and gold they crave.

They use her as a currency too
(a coin without a country)
to buy satisfaction
from no nation, but any man
may add her to the bank of his conquests.

Some women are cast to wishing wells
drowning in the sea of 'why' chromosomes .

If a woman should wear a gown of justice
it will be justified to adjust her scales
as has been set in the books of law
about economics regarding
national debt and interest rates.

It is by these laws that she buys a roof
a faucet, a stream of wishing water.

There is great shame laid upon
the prodigal son who takes up the practice
of his mother in femininity
which is only at the expense of self
paid in pride and esteem.

So lowly a trade.
Most people will see this and keep going. I mean, what can you do, right? You can do a lot, actually. You can take a stand. You can share a poem, or you can share a world.

Fight against human degradation of women. *** trafficking most especially. Be aware. Snd if you're aware, you are obligated. What actions you take then determine whether you help the world move forward, or down. Fight corruption.
Mar 2019 · 256
// through the ice
Xallan Mar 2019
Through the blinding blankness
The cold desert of ice and snow
I see in the storm, a glimpse of you.

I see your eyes, encrusted with frost
Twinkling like diamonds at the tip.
I revel in the sight of your peeling lips-
If your smile is the last thing I see
A glimpse of your face is all I need.

In the panic of hopelessness, is us.

Our hands join, and warmth flows.
However temporary, we have ourselves,
And can sustain for whatever length.

You are the flame in my breast
I am the heat in your breath you exhale
In an icy cloud, in a plume of smoke
From the fire in your belly, dimming.

In this weather, we'll never make it.

But we may curl up in the snow.
The heavy fog of sleep, blissful, peaceful
Prods at the horizon of consciousness.

The hands of our hands slip past.
"They say that those who die of exposure
At the end, cuddle in their snow shrouds"

And so we draw our bosoms together-
I bring your fingers to my nostrils
Caressing every frostbitten cuticle.

I whisper to you empty promises,
Like the barren landscape surrounding us,
But my hoarse voice makes you smile.

I can't bear to watch your soul fade.

I wrap you in my arms back to the wind
There is not a sound nor a sight
But each other, which is all we need.

At the edges of my sight, I see visions
Hallucinations of surreal dreams
But in the center, I have you.

Through the ice, in the arctic hostility
You have my heart, and I have your soul.

After all hope has left, love remains.

I keep you near, and hold you there
And mingle our warmth, until there is none.

The icy invasion of the pit of my stomach
Without your aggressive heartbeat
My tears crystallize on your body.

The cold has become you now
And I accept it in as a part of you part of me.
I surrender to the wind, to the frost, to the fog, to the snow, to the ice.

I tell you my promise- I love you.
Sad poem :-(
Mar 2019 · 252
// pleonexics anonymous
Xallan Mar 2019
This generation is so young, so greedy.
Teenagers that with one eye open, take the sun
with both eyes closed, they take the moon.

They consume time like it was sweet, and they taste the days extravagantly.
They sprinkle every hour with decadence,
and then return to prayerful sleep
That of a modern worship, to a modern god.

Teenagers that play rich, driving fast, with their friends' new tires of poor money and sour gold.
They build castles under blankets
growing empty with emotion but find their return when they become cold.

Teenagers that dream of dreaming, and when they sleep, fear wakening
The hours without life are rich and pure with the air of living!

Only without sensation, that they can do without,
so sopping with sensation, so attentive to fixation, so noticing of interpolation,
they seek the bliss of memory and paranoid nostalgia fading to groundwater haze.
They sleep, but not peacefully.

These teenagers collapse into its embrace and never notice it picking their pockets.
It finds their essence in the back of their minds and holds it for ransom, so they are indebted, always, to dreaming,
never to dream.
My generation is dying to live. Please help us.
(Pleonexia: the insatiable to desire to have which is does not rightfully belong to you)
Mar 2019 · 152
// songle humanus
Xallan Mar 2019
I feel very

I am an alien
on a home planet
I am a single songle
a species of itself
there is none else

none of me

I am without instruction
be not fruitful
or multiply
even asexually

I am to ferment
like still waters
like still gases

no mirror, or equal
no friend

no future to forge
this is the final frontier
the great beyond
not the planet

my mind
not here

here there is no one
For not let the title fool you: there is no humor to this poem.
Mar 2019 · 130
// snowdrift
Xallan Mar 2019
God is hungry-
His ethereal intestines twist
and dance upon arcs of atmosphere
with vocal sensations of want
sending down ice and chill
instead of fire and brimstone.
All barking wind, all biting cold
but not a sound to be heard.
Humans recoil anyway

from every livelihood
distracted from their convention
to gaze out upon his fresh creation:
the pulverized remains of an ice-beast
fought in the sky, whose ash
now falls to us. We children
with eyes of wonder
and hands outstretched
build ourselves a better beast
with a soft, silent maw
that bites sharp with frost,

hungry for warmth.
Our clumpy, distorted figures
are reflections of God himself
as they take the form of their creator.
He himself a child,
a hungry child, of whom
we people are but bacteria
flourishing, dividing, dying in his gut.
It is hungry. It has consumed the cold
now forever demanding more warmth

and heat is found under the glaciers
buried in the polar ice caps
whose chill settles upon our roads.
We humans cannot go,
so we stop, and look about.
It is wonderful to give the awe
and God demands more wonder.
He sends damnation in
the form of snow for us to marvel at
and do some creating for him

but we are no good.
his creations of ours are deformed
we children of hot blood
create by him our children of ice
and it is a creation of equal meaning
and opposite effect.
Unsatisfied, clouds writhe with hunger
and sleurpe the heat from the air
but not from each other

so the humans bundle up together
where they have stopped to survive
sending heat to each other for comfort
as they watch the dissolution.
If some shall stick, they build,
but if some shall not,
they shake their gloved fists high
and curse God and his atmosphere
as they hunger for more wonder.
What are we compared to the beauty of it all?
Unsure if I should capitalize God's pronouns.
Feb 2019 · 152
// chihuahua
Xallan Feb 2019
My sister's become a siren
Atop a car, luring evil to its death. Unsilent,
I see her red tongue, pink lips, open
Raw like a wound, and loud too,
Like a little cut. Injury speaks volumes in pain.

She sings songs everyone knows.
Memories not shared, no wisdom attached,
She never learns from exhaling success.

What can you get from the bottom of a chocolate river? Chocolate fish?

She fly-fishes on its banks, with honey
With milk and with sugar
Pure opinion, sticky, sticky.
What do words get you?
Feb 2019 · 1.1k
// observations
Xallan Feb 2019
when you see a forest
what do you see

do I see the forest for the trees
or the sustenance they provide
the ecosystem
do I see a biome
or many large upright sticks

do I see the causes
the water supply, or the rich
aroma of death
of decomposition

do I see the effects
the moss facing north
the flat places where
animals rest

do I see the trees that are here
the canopies, the trunks, the roots
stretching out
do I see the trees that aren't there
that are logged or lightning'd

do I hear the forest
if my tree falls
do I make a sound

do you hear it
Heisenberg had an uncertainty principle, by which the act of observation causes a particle to occupy a time, place, and state- basically,  to have existence.
Feb 2019 · 232
// connected
Xallan Feb 2019
the internet is a void
of hands without bodies
eyes without faces
words without voices

and here am I

I wish to touch
to see, to speak.
Feb 2019 · 95
// on the river
Xallan Feb 2019
You could see the entire brightness of civilization
The lights crackling off the water
Lapping at the darkness before hopping on

Ay, what a time to be alive!

I sold music on that river
I sold beats to the waves and the crests
There were bass lovers in the riverbed
There were classical aficionados in the reeds
There were rockers in the rapids

Ah, what a life to lead!

I banked on the banks of pure noise
Washed it away with the omnipresent roar
The monsters wanted snapping pop
And we sang together, off-key
Every horrid sound we loved like a child

The monsters fought the villagers,
The villagers fought the monsters,
and I played a theme song under the brilliance.

Oh, what a world to end!

The light and sound went faster and faster
Every barrier broken, every eye and ear
Shattered like reflections and rhythms
On the river, where I sell music

The only customers who come can listen
The only listeners who come are monsters.
Together, we hear the sky and watch their cries.
Feb 2019 · 506
// eggs
Xallan Feb 2019
am I oK? nonono
I write too much to be healthy
I need conversation, friends
This is me talking
to a blank wall

Please talk back-
I am alone without friends

I have words, words,
so many meaningless words
that fill me up and rot
like eggs inside a hen

too many, too many

my hands shake
as they squirt out
hands urging it out

like a boy in the bathroom
on the first date
and he's so definitely in love
that that pupil-billowing
has got to be!

and my words spill out
into a mess upon the floor
and writhe

that is my seed
my conversation

small wonder
no one wants to talk to me
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