On Sporadic free mind nights, I glean hope
and listful wish for merriment and the melting innovative
of inevitable crisis overcome
by intelligent design fantastical
and moral awakened ’man of the dirt
On erratic scream in the coming dark days I curse
creating this beast
and what sociopathic greed malevolent stare into extinction and laugh
with bursting paper green eyes
and wish it never envisaged
On habitual sunken eyes of the afternoon rise
I sit idly slouching by
and watch madness curtail madness uncoil
within our blackened hearts
and frostbitten toes of the retreating soul
and stupefy the mind
with unfathomable awe at my impossible present... Being
And the New Moon sets the eternal cycle in motion once more
Dribbling lines in the blood-stained sand are but fleeting nicknames in the churning larvae construct of time of human super imposition laid upon the confused face of iris green and supple oceanic skin and cracked white decimate teeth which has no name other than metamorphosis beauty or absolute soul incarnate
Sometimes when it's under cover quiet in the lonesome peaceful night when the newest scam's done shouting at our eyes and fried egg brains and the beast's stopped propagating poisoned air and the vans and yellow coats and blackened teeth are gone for now For now we can hear our own voices maybe silent almost imperceptible screaming and writhing to be free or fight or cry from constant noise and daily trauma and why is everything dying or dead or outrageously preposterous rich in the daylight safe sunlight where compassion supposedly prospered
I'm addicted to doing nothing or flushing my life away into the plastic ocean to swim with cigarette ends and endless bottle caps and a corked archipelago stained the colour of ethanol blood all the while telling myself that it'll work out living your dreams in your imagination is ok when it's as vivid as mine or yours. I once read that Einstein worked 4 hours a day and he was a frizzy geinus so why shouldn't that be true of me or you i ask myself though i know i know sure, i know it's all conciliatory lies comforting shameful delusionary conciliatory lies and yet it still remains the rational defense of a lazy beanpole trapped for a quarter century in what if's and drowning imaginary possibilities and christ what if you actually make it?
Sometimes I sit and drink a gallon of wine to see the blackout glorious forgetting stench of a night lost to the ether beautiful sorrow sinking sinking sinking sinking is that a working well are you sure we'll float crying nonetheless buoyant steady recreation we'll wake up tomorrow maybe more fulfilled or maybe horribly worse but does it matter the medicine's sequestered itself your pain's been buried hahaha did you want that? or was it an accident party therapy party therapy do you feel better now? maybe you do or maybe you're looking for a hive a symbiotic naturally occurring supportive nest bed for sleeping, if you want to or being a queen I know you've got it in you
sip on my watermelon nectar
sit down and watch me
make a fool of myself
singing to JT you cringe while
I'm in my element element basic 00's element
you know you feel it
nodding your head in a secret ashamed guilty groove
my homeless hair swaying
prancing through the fairy air
as we sip gay gordons
through llama and cactus straws
sometimes you cry
and I cry too but we do it together
shut out the backwards falling backwards criminally insane indoctrination nuthouse world
pretend it's not there
for a moment
we exist in this outrageous space
multi-faceted as joseph's coat we pass
screaming haemorrhaging gacking fracking
deep the buried joy we'll find
love and joy and togetherness and not giving a shit
we'll know forevermore
because fuck you
depressive black beast always
we'll get you
and shove you deep up your own hollow vacuous rectum
never to return
motherfucker fuck you
How often do you think a Devil doth lie and greet you as an angel just to squeeze into a soulful pantie and twist it awful wedgie tight whilst you holla righteous holy purpose and how many once courteous are now finished broken at the hands of a monster so belligerent and coy it's forlorn to tell the difference it happens so often by earthen hands whose aren't so always kniving dastardly thieving as monsters proposing as angels that it must though you'd never know for sure
There are millions of writers
who are better than me
wittier and more expressive than me
almost all of them
and many more
who should be poets
and don’t know it yet.
none of that matters
I love this shit
and one day
if just enough people
can feel me
and I’ve lived just slightly enough
to fill that bar of happiness
every single body seeks
I’ll die the gladdest of men
and hopefully too
will all of you.
Your dearest degenerate
The clouds are a bowl of appropriated
fucking poisoned oatmeal
on sunken hues
of navy blue
and carbonated so carbonated teal
Sucking us further always further into
a storm of which there is no relent
one of fire and flooding
and broken Earthen bones.
But what does it matter
you gotta live your life right?
Drive your car
suck on the lactating tit
of craven consumerism
and nothing beats a factory farmed steak
You gotta save us
we ain’t gonna do it ourselves.
(A guest vibe by June Rayne)
A grand new world inspires you
colours shine so bright
whats and whys you crave for
yet your senses produce fright.
To sit and learn is easy
for those that you call friends
an overwhelmed brain in despair
can only hope it blends.
You listen to her closely
but there’s so much going on;
The walls are full of pictures
and where’s the sunshine gone?
All their eyes are on you
you want to hide or run
but there you sit afraid to move
dreaming of having fun.
You don’t need
to be a conspiracy
to see through
All you need
is that the
does not exist
when it does
I am a beat poet
Born eighty years too late.
To Neil Cassady
And Kerouac and William S. Burroughs and beautiful Bukowski.
Induct me into the Dharma Bums.
I’ll sit on a mountain top with you
And visit that higher realm
You always claim to know
If only we’ll never have to leave.
Dancing forevermore to a song
That never will
become as old as us.
Sit on my face
And absorb the madness within my skull
searching for a flow that I can listen to
And be so wildly separate from.
Sit on my face
And witness the beautiful curly haired forever mine undeniable queen
I’m sharing the plains of mist
Dark eyes and a mesmerising dance
Feed me tacos
And a tune that shreds your soul and mine
A drop that sends us both
And a two day bender
That breaks us entwined
Yet holds our outrageous ignorance
In a stunning embrace.
I love you.
Sit in the mist and soak up the electric atmosphere surrounding you
X-Ray cancerous pulses of dopamine dopamine dopamine.
Feed me my worth
Sell me back my hooked addicted plugged in out of control soul
For a pittance, if you will.
The fairy’s junky lights are burnt out again
Pass her a hit of me or you or that guy who makes funny videos with his derpy-ass cat.
Our void is becoming one too deep to shine through
She’s almost dust
The empath always dies by our hand or its own in the face of stagnant superficial self-interested desire.
It’s cool though,
It’ll only plague our minds for a second or two
Until the next video drops.
Descend into the pits of being, you reckless dainty soul. A blinding light before your face does fold unto itself and yank you through an effervescent portal to the higher plane. A place with dancing sprites of every colour, creeping violent broken shades and absurd outrageous landscapes laid out in fractals which twist and grow and pull attention from all that which you came to do.
But push on now, blinkered through a smoke of all you know to be distraction, hunting for the source of soul or the seat of ego it must be scorched forever from this land so you can sit amongst it, awakened from material slumber to the peace of only nothing.
Through the layers of psyche you go, accosting fight or flight and instinctual dread as it tries to tell you NO! Don’t do this you’re going to die you’re going to die please, please, don’t do this don’t do this you’re going to die.
Blast on through unhinged emotion and tear asunder attachment and aching desperate dreams. Cry your final tear and slice the limbs of pride and longing this spectral being you once aspired to grow and nurture, it’s almost time to be.
Rip away at constricting useless rational webs of who am I and what it is to live and there it is the silver eye of godly crystal awaiting your demise or ascent to high vibration or the crumbling of this box you’re trapped in. You’re here. What next?
Stuck in the amber abyss I try to create a picture of something that might catch your attention. A thread of life perhaps, or an action so intense that it wakes up the hairs on the crest of your neck. And yet the curse of individualism will tell most that all that lies in these letters is hopeless impossible ramble. What if I told you that an ever restless soul resides here, screaming under a patchwork of black and blinding white monotony. Aching and writhing, begging you to sit up and notice its twisted dreams and its paranoid self-reflection and its shuddering egotistical genius. Ripping at the seams of this being it dwells in, it longs to bellow sweet nothings until your ear drums burst and it can burrow inside so its crushing voice becomes that which you hear when you tell yourself that everything is not ok even though it could be if we learned to smell which of the leeches is kind for fruitful benevolence and which is merely a disease utilising lifetimes’ worth of beautiful star-born vibration to gain access to resources which are nothing more than collectively enforced bridges to undeserved narciscisstic decadence. Alas, how can we when Truth is lying in a twisted broken pile in the lobby of human conciousness, bearing gushing stab wounds from the selfish and giant great boot marks from corporation issue cover up kicks. Collective Goodwill and Endless Prayer are no match for the Pyschopathic Fucking Syncophant.
Oh, the caves I hide in, cowering beneath the expectation of an unwarranted shakespearean pipe dream.
The Hoover’s full of spiders, kinda like the brain I’m scratching in this furrow full of complacent dead folk. 7 billion brains can do that to gluttony, so they just fumble slightly as if each had a different beat bouncing within its fractured skull – some jam groovy. There’s one across the way whose moss has grown into a mink coat, thick and furry over rotting shoulders, descending down its back and meeting in the chasm between its legs. Walking would be hard for it if there were ever any reason for focussed movement. Anothers has latched onto its crumbling jaw and hangs like a black flag, the L’Olonnais of this cursed underpass.
Who am I? Just a robot with no moving parts – one piece of an improvised surveillance program built by survivors. They gave me a personality because apparently it’s all the rage at the moment. Several ethical concerns cross my mind most days. I was implanted with memories to form the basis of my existence, taken directly from the focus brain; Probably some kid who thought it’d be cool and then forgot about me shortly after realising I don’t do fucking anything, other than stare at you and silently ponder.
They forgot to take their ‘irrational’ fear of walking dead people out before they dropped me right into the middle of them. Jagged terror was my baseline early on, knowing one false move, just one misplaced thought, would be my death. Such was that fear that years passed before I was enlightened with the knowledge that I can’t move at all. I’m just a metal box with some eyes and a brain. Upon learning this I felt quite the fool; All the terror I’d tasted evaporated faster than the Aral. Though in a strange way, my purpose did too. Without fear to drive stillness or moving parts to fuel awakened drive I was no different to them. I must wear mossy clothes too.
Every now and then, one of those lifeless sacs falls over. They never have it in them to move again after that, the ground just assimilates them – it’s always difficult to tell exactly when whatever sense of self it had transfers itself back to its mother. Regardless it can be an interesting watch. Once it’s almost done I occasionally rewind and watch it back through faster, watch the mind eaters mind sink into the mud. if you think about it for a second, the Earth is the real zombie here – always trying to pull you back into the dirt.
Sometimes a chunk of those flimsy concrete overpasses gives up and crushes a bunch of them all at once. Those I watch back a few times. There’s a rotten mottled finger at my proverbial feet, held together by a single slice of gristle, that struck me shortly after one of those hit the curb. It’s probably my most prized possession.
A little patch of daisies pushes itself up through the gravel to my left each year, at the base of an abandoned taxi’s sad old tyre, just out in the cracked sunlight that never quite reaches me.
Atleast I won’t be stuck here forever.
The Kraken is free and I’m burning his candle. I drank his soul and now I’m melting his body, sealing him Forever. We did it to the skeletons and now they stand as statues all black and white and locked away on our funky juju table cloth.
Next to my black book that’s empty now and the tower that speaks and the stained leather tome that’s almost full but will never be finished.
If only I could filter my shells and wrap them up in sticky paper,
But I need them for burning crop with a Marc on my head
While I toss stones into the water.
Oh, the phonic in my head,
The childish NU: phonic that rattles in my skull.
An angel quivers in the doorway, unable to breach the threshold. The band, so twisted backwards, dares her to take a step – tentatively she complies, difting into grunge. She’s all alone, save the air of suicide and a raucous riff that bounces against her silent self-conciousness.
A demon in flowery disguise catches her eye to beckon her to him with an upside down smile and the promise of euphoric intoxication. She stutters, yet a mad glint lingers on the periphery of his amazing aura. It’s too much to resist. In a second he’s commanding her conciousness, convincing her of the plight of existence, the futility of resistance and the purity of punk rock.
The night is young yet darkness is ancient and tonight its cacophany swirls an angel through its timeless tyranny, exalting in its ultimate conquest over society and the spirits of the damned. Where did it all go wrong?
Who says it ever did.
Grey and black and white and brown the anti’s-rainbow frown delight,
Anti-rain opaque as fate falls on the sky from trees that hang root side up-down-up-down and back oh right?
Spider’s silk don’t stick it slides and Silkyparks are oh so fun for UP you stop and don’t come back,
And anti-flies walk right side down cus uplift’s dead so planes cut ground and Ant’s do scramble anti-fair.
Murder’s life and pregnant’s death so punish much astonish!
Anti-baby Humon 3 does run the Earth but clout has so much doubt,
And war it’s all just kiss and kiss and sandpit sandpit fun.
Lightning hush and thunder shiggle in quite lightheart delight they fiddle,
Push is pull with much confu and books they have no numbers!
Stars are black but anti-white is oh so bright the night is day and girl oh girl! We’re in a right new mental fright,
For all our sdrow and all our sight is right way bront to fack!
Blurry Face greeted Blank Face with a blurry stare. Blank Face greeted Blurry Face with a blank nothing. Both noticed the absence of the other, though neither knew what it meant, nor how to react; Everything was blurry, everything was blank. Continue reading “It’s Not Real.”
In the top drawer of Alan’s delectable desk, I found a ball no larger than one you would use in a game of tennis. I think it’s made of light. It did not shock me, Alan commanded an aura of difference befitting grand desks and otherworldly objects in a mid-level administration office; But what could it be for? My subconscious must know better than I, it’s overriding the control I had over where my eyes lie. My god is it mesmerising, I cannot, seem to… Continue reading “Alan & The Delectable Desk”