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.