Leeches

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.

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Oh, the caves I hide in, cowering beneath the expectation of an unwarranted shakespearean pipe dream.

Pushin’ Daisies


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.


Dogmatic


In the beginning naught did shine but light and hope and clouds they all had lustre,

Then the Journey snuffed it out.

In the beginning there swam free peace conscious and curious lives we hungered,

Then the Journey snuffed it out.

In the beginning both beast and man sweet harmony sang and we fed them and they fed us our joy,

Then the Journey snuffed it out.

In the beginning O’ heavens they were hallowed and unknown too was hallowed though thy name On High unknown,

Then the Journey snuffed it out.

In the beginning there was but green and blue and rustle and trickle and crack and splash all over,

Then the Journey snuffed it out.

In the beginning connected all did feel and balance all knew well,

And then the Journey snuffed it out.


In the end all was bleak exhaust flew through the cracks and poisoned,

The Cycle shall reset you.

In the end there was no peace and wonder was survival dead,

The Cycle shall reset you.

In the end the beasts lay caged or worse and  mania-amaranthine so long beset them,

The Cycle shall reset you.

In the end the heavens all had clogged with hopeless quests to conquer,

Thy name unknown endured.

In the end there was no green or blue just black and endless thunder,

The Cycle shall reset you.

In the end the link it severed and all life fell asunder,

The Cycle shall reset you.

Dogmatic.


 

Grunge Is Not Dead.

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.

It works.

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.