Sojourn

Do I fret for fear?  Do I complain for solace?  Am i insane?  Why must I refuse happiness.

Does being miserable comfort me?  Do i see the world as some great tragedy i star in?  How bizarre.  How unsightly.  Everyone dies in tragedies, so that's at the very least...fitting.  How I wish for consistent joy.  Too much to ask for?  I take on roles of leadership then despise the process.  Some of this 'process' is quite ridiculous though, isn't it?  i would so like to speak the truth to people who really need to hear it.  Would it do any good?  Would they stare up at me with obstinate ignorant eyes, confused and so fucking angry?  Would anything change?  Do people respond to being checked?  How do I respond?  I hate it.  Especially if it comes from a place of untruths and insecurity.  Why then, do I choose to bring it all in, consume and leave nothing but a dusty sky and taupe abyss?  I think taupe would be the worst color in the world to live with for all time; A time.  Life is meant for color and I have been unresponsive to it.  I look without seeing.  I should just harbor gratitude and leave it at that.

When I stop thinking about it, usually after a few tokes, I am divinely sated.  Then I abuse it and there we are.

I don't want to do good for him.  That sucks.  I want to do good.  I am driven to expel all energy, most of the time.  It's exhausting and I should love it.  i do not.  It insults me to try at this juncture.  I am torn.  Not enough to give up on my expulsions but enough to fuck with my brain...and skin!  Jesus, I feel like I'm in high school again.  Zit faced and busted.  I feel better.  Gonna watch war shit now.

Sips

A mournful tune of solitude was all I thought would be allowed.  By whom was this obscenity dictated?  By you.  You gave me less than the time of the day.  You gave nothing and took it all.  All of my passion and innocent longing and spirit for the only thing that matters in this life.  GET OUT
                                                getoutgetoutgetoutgetoutgetoutgetoutgetout

You surface in my brain when I refused to let you in.  Has this refusal been my undoing?  What must I do to banish you from every fibre?  Every cell?  Every one of my memories.  Remembering you has not made me better.  I have learned what not to do, not because of you.  You taught me nothing.  You took and continue to take without remorse....Jesus Christ!  Without knowledge of what you've done.  What I allowed you to do.  I granted you this permission and now the gates won't close.  They've grown rusty with tired rage;  The hinges caked with dutiful diligence.  Why do I carry on in this?  Why do I permit the gates to remain in disarray and ill regard?  I want you out.  I want the gates to disintegrate and to have never have known your name.  You come to me in dreams without consent and fuck with me throughout the day.  Your unwitting refusal to be gone is infuriating.  To say this to your stupid haunting face would do no benefit.  You wouldn't even understand.  You don't even know my name.

I drained myself for the thought of the potential of you.  What have you done with all the power I gave you?  The least.  The worst.  You've done nothing.  It was all me.  It's been all on me and I sacrifice for a creature with no heart.  No concept of what it means to offer, to self-deny.  I can't even fucking blame you.  Or can I?  You knew.  I knew you knew.  We all knew you and know now.  You continued to creep back so steadily, so noisily.  You announced your arrival like a truck filled with bricks crushing a crowd of unaware onlookers.  Yet no apology.  No regard.  no notice.  Are you capable?  Are you able to feel what I've felt?  Do people like you get this?  I want you gone.  Do you hear me, you fucking worm?  Slithering about within my sleeping sight so I can't rid myself of you nor figure out where you are still finding ways in.  How do you block your subconscious from reaching you?  How do you keep things that seem out of your grasp under control?  I never even laid my hands upon you yet you haunt me as though I had.  I hate what I've allowed you to do.  I should have.  I should have.

Ode to the Normal

"What makes you tick..."
With her head in her hand.
Is it the new day?
Or with which foot you land?

I see you around
In fact, everywhere I roam,
I desire to rid my parts
Of this nagging feeling of home.

I was here once you know,
I bore it quite keen,
I, sponge and consumer
Imbibed in my gene.

It was only for fake
This I know for the truth,
I never fit quite well
Enough, too long in the tooth.

Why then still do I long and I wretch?
I am apart of a part
A dismembered sketch.

The lines are all there
Yet somethings amiss,
The motions are wrought
And I most listless.

Why i am the broken
It's never quite told,
I try to breach on
It's cold and I can't muster the bold.

So, I sit and I yearn
For a time when they'll see,
I've been here all the while
Scanning and Stifling and Longing to be.

The Art of Getting By

     There is great perfection in having the courage to be honest.  To rage with fearlessness at those too paralyzed to understand.  I rage....and I Regret.  Rinse.  Repeat.  Is the regret this very human connection to stand and fight for the due, present in all things?  I want to be good.  I adore that adjective.
     I want to do...good.  I hear a barrage of strings battling it out in my brain when posed with the choice to be good, to do good, or to be honest.  'Good' could kill a man you know.  Good can be somewhat...graceless.  When do common courtesy's fade to candid human interaction.  Perhaps alcohol appears in the foreground and makes it all palatable.  We can stomach the nonsense more aptly when intoxicated.  Or, on the contrary we are our most authentic selves once and all.  Why is there such difficulty in admittance?  Perhaps the horror, the horror of where we truly are would be deafening.  I want to have truthful interactions with others.  With everyone even.  I would be satiated with one a day.  What are we afraid of?  What is this ridiculous emotion which compels us to do our hearts such disservice?  Is fear even an emotion?  A cover for something more...substantial.  Something more fiendish?  Does it come in waves like misplaced anger? Is it uniquely feminine to complicate matters?  Not only of the heart but in matters of synergy?
     Men can be honest with their fists.  I often thought we had the high ground on that one.  We relate with our words.  Sure.  Lies.  We don't even know we do it half the time.  Especially with one bearing similar genetic stylings....chicks.  Chicks man.  Fucking Chicks.  We were sincere once upon a time.  But by the light of day our hideous behaviors come a prowlin'.  You'd think our encasings would remain throughout the dawn but no!  Alas, we sink into them even deeper;  Holding on with petulant hands and hate in our hearts.  Hate born from fear of ourselves and how others will respond to that depth or lacking profundity.
     How easy it is to remain there.  How comfortable it is to fall into it at our strongest.  Supplementing reality with coats of learned behavior.  I don't claim to be infallible in this.  I get caught up.  I see it.  I admit it.  So where next?  What other contaminants may I spew out to the world as to not get overtaken by them.  I don't ever want to live there.  Visiting helps to show me I still have a long way to go.  I won't fear it...me...them... anymore.  Let me bathe in the filth that I've created.  Let it find it's way down the sink.  Let me find comfort in what i possess.  Let the stains from things washed away fade and be kept at bay.

In The Sepulchral City

'I found myself resenting the sight of people hurrying though the streets to filch a little money from each other, to devour their infamous cookery, to gulp their unwholesome beer, to dream their insignificant and silly dreams.  They trespassed upon my thoughts,  They were intruders whose knowledge of life was to me an irritating pretence, because I felt so sure they could not possibly know the things I knew.  Their bearing, which was simply the bearing of commonplace individuals going about their business in the assurance of perfect safety, was offensive to me like the outrageous flauntings of folly in the face of a danger it is unable to comprehend.  I had no particular desire to enlighten them, but I had some difficulty in restraining myself from laughing in their faces, so full of stupid importance.'

My behavior as of late seems inexcusable.  I am not well.  Often filled to the brim with such intense hate.  So intense.  It's not my strength that requires nursing but my imagination that searches for soothing.  One hundred and thirteen years later and I feel the way Conrad did.  Would he still get these sparks of 'intensity'? The sparks affecting me seem to last longer...longer.  I feel a loss of control over my faculties...a loss of control over my control.  Being comfortable with my situation, sickens me.  Being bored is a fate worse than death.

What an Asshole

I said nothing.  Not a single word.  I'm sure the look on my face was...strained.  She ditched her popcorn by  a cars wheel and hunted down her keys-first real sign.  Then upon finding them amongst the tampons, dog hair and kid paraphenalia...(yah, she took it out of her ass once, thus creating life), lobbed her most gigantic of pops through the parking lot claiming, 'Don't wanna risk it.' And sat in the car.  Wave after wave of horribleness came out of this chicks mouth.

Uno momento por favor....

I am writing at my writing desk my grandma gave me.  I know that seems silly to write but to me it's poignant.  I recall a time where I would write terrible nonsense, totally different from now i know, on her typewriter at her very own 'writing desk'.  I've used this desk for a great many thing.  This is my first realization of my whereabouts...and its.

Anyhoo...I sat in silence which is the climax of this story.  It was my friends, friend and I allowed ridiculousness out of courtesy.  Courtesy?  Jesus Christ.  It would have been no skin off my back to rip her apart from ear to ear....but I chose to concede.  Would my hypothesized interjections have made a dent in this twat?  Am i just doing exactly what she did, now?  Is my judgement of her behavior just a reflection of my own  faults?  Am I the asshole as well as and in addition to?  Or?  Did this uneducated(in the moral realm and her brainy parts), MOTHER deserve a little checking.  It could have been delivered in such a manner that she would be taken off guard, not quite insulted cuz she doesn't really get what i just said and shut the fuck up.  Smooth but with after bite.  Who knows?  Not I.  For i chose to maintain civility.  What should I have done?  Which would be better for the world and not just a reactionary jerk of the articulatio genus?  I wanna be thoughtful for fucks sake...

I was in an understanding mood this evening.  Felt good.  I like good.  Good is....good and nothing quite compares.

Ode to Good

You are so fucking good, good.

I dig your crazy vibe

I wish I could spend more time with you

And all that imbibe with God on their side.

I've been thinking about this

And pining in wait

You can join me anytime

Good, and we'll bust open this hate gate.

  

Confessions of a Dangerous Mind

I want people to think I'm smart.

The End

The Foul Stench of Victory

What am I trying to say to you all of the time?  What is that I have to say?  I love you, dammit.

crimson and clover, over and over

I can be a child sometimes.  I can be aggressively selfish.  I raise my voice without provocation;  Not frequently, but it has been known to happen.  If I can admit this to someone, perhaps the voices will stop.  I may be insane.  It came to me that I attempted to decipher the shit that happens in my brain, fell completely ill to it and everything stalled out.  Interesting.  I can get so lost in my head sometimes that I can't see out.  I cry sometimes...ha, sometimes.  Negative or positive I can be heavily influenced.  I have a tendency towards competition.  That's all for now...exhausted.

K, I'm back.  What is this 'I' business, anyhow?  What is an insecurity and how does it connect to, seemingly, every aspect of your motherfucking being?  Why aren't we aware of our deficiencies when they are instilled for eternity?  Does Everyone drown from time to time?  Do we consume ourselves at such a furious rate that it comes spewing out in a great mass whilst continuing it's quest for complete suffocation...I know I've been hankering for a little self destruction.  I think that's what happens sometimes.  What else could it be?  Everything else sounds such a fallacious evasion.

I am a sheet of paper, fiber bare, and streaked with eraser marks.  Broken lead marks scuff my tired surface.  Being paper is very tiring.  Uninspired even.

'What use,' I demand.  I am strong most days.  I maintain better than anyone around...just ask...
What happens to a person when they're afraid of everything, forever?  What would that result look like?  Could not imagine what kind of infesting smell that would evoke.  I was thinking of smells today and how they are so very indicative of a persons health.  Mental or other I believe...all that shit be symbiotic anyway.  I saw a man sitting under a tree.  He was attached to oxygen and was the oddest kind of grey.  I whizzed by him on the old beastie, thought about how grateful I was to be me in that moment and imagined he smelt just a fright.  I'm not sure I want to experience that.

I want to breath like I'm in reverse.  I think this could be really helpful.  Being is difficult to maintain some days.  Not all days, not even most days...but it's enough.  Too much really.  My sanity seems to follow the vicissitudes of the lot.  I could be really great, you hear me!  Stupendous even.  I don't require a fucking hand holding-weepy cry fest-babbling emotional strife filled-moon madness-meltdown to get through every hurdle that attempts to impale me with its slivers...creosote tipped slivers of death!  (I was funny once.)  It looks dark down there though...and there could be spiders.  Also, it seems a bit chilly...just give me a finger.

What are you doing...

I asked myself without really asking.  I wrote out these words, not in this order in my brain, but on the page.


insecure
attention
truth=disrespect
blame
crying
guilt
lunacy


I know these words.  I've lived that.  I thought I required so very little.  Why must I be the one confused?  Disoriented...stunned...and severely stupid?  Every song speaks to me from you.  Ridiculous.  Thought this was going to be a bit of a sad one...it looks up.  Well, sullen anyhow...for I am a lunatic.  It's been said before, don't act so surprised.  Feeling stuff is hard.  It doesn't necessarily need to be, but by golly when I set my mind to something...

You know what's worse than having feelings?  Talking about them.  Talking about feelings of all variations...je ne sais quoi.  Ugh, especially the *gulp* happy ones.  Why do my communication skills fail me when I require them most?  It's scary out there...worse when you're alone.  I make fun of myself you know.  When I've done or said something perpetually useless, I'll heckle.  It sounds simple, and at first it could go either way.  Then the repetition begins.  Its slight annoyance in the beginning quickly manifests itself as a raging pestilence that insists on permeating every iota of humanity.  I am all emotion at this point.  Why bottle?  Why maintain as though everything be fine, when everything is just that and through gritted teeth no less.  Fear of looking weak.    Stupid.  Needy.  I don't know why yet, but we must need these for some purpose, no?  Some evolutionary throwback to a simpler time?  Being fucked around by every retarded fuckface douchebag that came within radius?  You know, bunch a things.  Wow.  Am I still that bitter?  That caught up in my, not so past.  It felt great to say, so maybe?  Why does admittance of negative things about ourselves hurt so goddamn much?  Who told us these things were held in such revolt but more importantly, why?  Were they told these things as children?  Did they make it up so future generations would remain repressed and loveless?

I want to be real with you, ya know.  It's never gone down that way.  I won't let it.  I doubt one could handle how real I can be.  I request a team of young supplicants to take on what I have to give until i can give no more and every last one of them has fallen at my feet in exhaustive uncertainty.  Though they've failed in breaking me, I would be free at last.  Purged of it all, I would step over their mangled and emaciated carcasses only to greet you and be held within your arms and in your heart.  Without my knaves to sacrifice so graciously their time to me, how will I ever get to a place of tranquility?  I long for silence like people long for drink.  For food.  Equality.  Love.  I'm in love.  It's colder here than anticipated, but sweeter than imaginable.  Why must my evolution be so laborious and inefficient?  I want results now, so I can move on to the next hurdle without demolishing everyone in my path along the way.  It seems no matter how many times nor how often I pose the above question that shall forever go unanswered, will I get an answer that is actionable.  How do I actively change my ways if I understand them?  Where does the action begin and with what?  Perhaps my effort is lacking.  Perhaps I'm just an asshole.  Perhaps I have too much time to sit and dote on nothing while others truly suffer.  Yup...total asshole.
 

Right on Hope Street

I left the sanctuary today.  The longest stretch I've ever gone, I believe.  No air.  No outside.  No others.  It was exquisite solitude which has left me rather weak.  I feel as though I've been siphoned off of all the useful qualities I had to offer.  Now what?  A pale and emaciated form faking its way through a day with other shells who fake it so much easier.  The frightening fact of it all is that I don't believe them to be falsifying their days...terrifying, truly.  I took a slow stroll through the mecca of facades and as my sadness peaked, I came upon a street sign.  'Hope St.' it said as clear as the day was grey.  Right or left or turn around and run screaming with what dignity you have left, I thought as my legs carried me in a southerly direction, or right on Hope Street.  I came to a clearing which opened to a view of the mountains in the distance and beautiful homes spanning the great distance to them.  I sat on a bench overlooking our redundant creations and cried.  I had on sun glasses, for salty streams must be kept subtly under style.  I cried for all the reasons I usually do but there was something new in these tears.  Something i don't often admit.  I hate my pretend self.  I fucking hate this bitch more than anything I ever thought I hated.  I hate this girl who closes her mouth when it should be opened.  I hate this girl who smiles sweetness when she should be spitting truth.  I hate this girl who hides and cowers in the back ground when confrontation should be embraced.  I hate this girl who hides from love when it should be shouted from every corner of the room.  I hate this girl.  I am this girl.  How did things become so wrong, so off.  How have I forgotten to be real and true and me?  Where have I put the meat of who i am and when did I accept so fully this impostor as the only way?  I want to know when it started and for how long I've kept it quiet.  How fucking long have I been who i am not suppose to be and will i ever get to a place where I remember me for real?  Is she lost forever?  Too long abandoned...would I know her if I saw her?  Am i too betrayed to see reality when it comes now...fuck, if it comes at all.  What if I'm stuck like this for the rest of my life?  ...A fashioned poser of societal cloth, forever entranced by the machine, knowing better yet still without action.  Meek.  Meager.  Not unlike the rest.  I hate all of you more I think.  Perhaps my hatred will be my savior.  The one thing people were always repelled by and I kept under wraps.  It will be my fuel to overcome this sharp pain that permeates the right side of my skull that I can only attribute to sheer disgust for my inaction and ineptitude.  Yes, i shall revolt yet for a reality which is mine and no ones ideal shall taint it.  I won't let this happen again.  I can't...for I will be truly lost to the fate of the rest, a fate worse than death.  I will be YOU and I won't even realize the hate I feel is for myself and no one else.  I put myself here and now I need out...please let me find the way out.  Please let me find the courage to find the way out. 

The Sum of Parts

Am I collection of experiences and memories?  Is that me?  Thinking about possessing a soul, a type of divine energy never created and resistant to destruction...trust me, I've tried...was almost always a comfort.  I could rely on the fact that this core at the centre of it all was the "real" me...Rhandi.  Yeah, she spells her name with a fucking H too.  It was like I always had a partner in my rowboat to maneuver the falls and take over when I was deflated, depleted and drained.  What if?  What if I am merely a collection of forgotten moments and pain?  Sure, there's been some good stuff in there, but fuck...that's not the shit that builds a person;  Creates an entity with awareness.  Even still...if that be the case and we are all void of some deep, cosmic vigor that compels us to do, do, do...achieve, prosper, grow damn you, GROW!...that's mildly comforting, is it not?  This means in my life that I am limitless.  Limitless possibilities, not necessarily in potential.  I think about the things that make me, me.  I thought I've felt the presence of that energy, that silent witness that is always there and ever stagnant.  Why the fuck would I want that?  That judgemental bitch secretly knowing all the answers and smirking at me smugly from her soap box?  Without her, I am a river of knowledge paving my way through, well...whatever the fuck this is.  If there be not a soul, and a place for it after this mortal coil, then we're pretty fucking lucky to be here regardless...ain't we?  Apart from the fact that why, and how will still remain as repetitive questions in my mind, I can adapt. 

Does this mean then, that at the core of all this nothing, I am a performer who loves music, the arts, endless walks in puppy parks, and three orgasms a day?  That's it?  This is me?  Perhaps why we cling so indeterminately to the notion, nay fallacy, is as a result of the bleakness of what this shit really is.  Sure, we've all had varying experiences but at the meat of it all, we are all identical life-forms of a highly intelligent nature who stumble about trying to feel meaning.  Still, the question remains...why?  how?  What happens when that's determined?  What puzzles will be left?  How could we possibly go on, if we knew it all?

Once, I wanted to be the greatest.  I wanted to be creative.  Beautiful.  Intelligent.  Graceful.  Warm.  Funny.  Compassionate.  Generous. I feel as though I always come up wanting.  Finally, the meat.  It's the meat of nothing however and that...that sucks.  I would like to instruct that shit to get bent.  I feel insecure, or stupid, or worthless, or the antithesis of every word above...and I question.  I question anyway, but it's not normally so dark, dreary, desperate.  Tonight is a night of D's.  Drunkenness, debilitating emotional upheaval, drowning in consolatory tune-age.  Fuck...   

A Boy and His Dog

I couldn't get out of bed today.  It wasn't on purpose.  I was consumed by something I've been before.  It doesn't surface often, but when it does I am paralyzed.  Incapacitated.  Useless to and for the world.  It's better for others if I am alone during this.  I don't know if I could be truly held responsible for my actions if I were to enter into the world.  Life is distasteful during this time.  These bouts of seemingly unending darkness.  I need to recharge.  Sleep evades me and compounds the shadows that envelop my every breath.  Something is missing in me.  I feel it. 

I saw a boy and his dog yesterday on my sunlit walk.  He looked happy.  The dog was of course delighted, for he had his boy and the boy had his dog and all was right with the universe.  He grinned at me from ear to ear as I passed, as I smiled at his puppy so immersed in life it nearly broke my heart.  They jogged on down the path and I stopped and turned.  I wanted that.  Not the boy, nor the dog...but that indescribable moment to moment awareness that finds you when you've let it all go. 

I hold on too tight, you know.  With a grip akin to death, I squeeze and prod and squint until distortion and dismay ensues.  I want normal thoughts like normal people.  I want to make myself feel better.  No one else can do this for me.  I'm broken, you know.  A busted doll with one eye...tattered and filthy;  Tossed in a corner with no lustre left.  Where does this come from?  Do I breathe life into it and it boils and festers or is it always there?  Biding time for birth in my brain.  I see happiness, you know.  I recognize its colors...it's contrast to where I live.  The brightness pains my heart and angers the rest.  I want to live there, goddamn it...I want to live THERE. 

...Off By Heart

It's nine o' clock and I am severely unable to drive...a fifth of rum and I'm a goner...whatever, I ate an orange.  When I was a kid, more of a kid than current state of mind dictates, I would subject myself to a few belts of whatever mummers had in the cupboard(sorry, now you know) and consequently 'belt' out a song or two on her awesome stereo system.  Being the product of an artist/musical connoisseur, one develops tendencies in this manner/matter.  I remember distinctly that first time this happened:

Sixteen...typical situation of adults and sibling away for the weekend.  I break up with my first boyfriend/first boy kissed in my short existence and regret it...age old and understood by all, I realize.  I helped myself to various alcohol stored in our cupboard above the glassware...rum, vodka, cognac, something in a purple bottle.  I really went to town.  Second time only ever partaking in the pastime of the drink, as my first experience yielded mixed results:  Two beer and vomitous maximus. 

So, blaring Silverchair and screaming every word at the top of my lungs, I proceeded to drink random liquor til the projectile puke came followed fast by sweat soaked sleep.  It     was      awesome.  The longing, the regret, the passion!  I have not felt that way in, oh, a few years since and here I am.  I am back, or never really left and just hid it rather well from the world.  No, this is new, again.  I am new again.  I lie on my carpeted floor, music at reasonable decibels only cuz I'm not a fucking asshole and respect my neighbors, drunk, covered in citric acid and singing like a maniac.  Did I mention it was nine pm?  Yeah, perhaps my staying power ain't what it was...that's okay, I can live with that. 

I am a teenager once more...less acne and debilitating self loathing, but a teen nonetheless.  I feel renewed.  Alive.  Desperately sad.  Honest.  That last one is the rum talking.  I haven't been here in some time and it is wonderful.  I hope it's real.    

Toxicity

"It Stinks," she says to herself, "Your poisoned breath," plugging her ears.

It's difficult to admit for her sometimes that she exists like all others: lonely and disillusioned with security.  He says things that make her want to escape.  Where to I wonder?  Running only wearies the soul and little else.  Escapes at hand for the travelling man but not much else.  She could live without him, she could do without.  His poisonous air hit chords she never knew existed.  Should she show gratitude and sustain her self worth with mindless mantras of past predictors?  Perhaps evolution passes in such smaller increments for her that a difference won't be felt til the end of days...the end of life as she knows it now.  Faith in others was never suppose to be.  They will forever disappoint, forever take without consent and forget you when you're done.  His foul spewings are often not thought through and she questions why?  Your bowels force this putrid, dank air from the place where hurt resides.  It lives there don't you know...breeding, feeding and depositing its impurities for his brain to grasp and dispel.  She thinks before she speaks.  She plays all of it over in her head at untold velocities to keep him safe and sound.  She keeps him sound for her sake as well and ponders why he chooses not.  He chooses.  He makes the choice to force the fictitious nonsense that somehow still pains her so.  Her fault I suppose.  She chooses to be pained.  He doesn't know...it's the fault of ignorance, not his own.  I have tears and bleary eyes for her.  I've been there and I can only console her with one thing...talk to yourself, for there is no one else who needs to know.

Killing Time

My life it fades
away from me;
Running its course
without consent.
The smoke...
she breathes me in
without remorse,
regard, dissent.
It's not a lack
that keeps me
wanting...time
itself.
Regret harvests time
before its due,
and nothing can be done
to save him. 
Wanting more is not
the case, rather wanting
now to last a day.
A day! you say,
is nothing missed
lo when it's lost,
tragic remiss.