Category: Art

Nekro Anarko

Nekro Anarko

skeletorDeath is the only thing worth talking about…

Life is a short blip of resistance to the entropic expansion of energy that has been ongoing since the beginning of the Universe. At its most celebrated center of expression (humans), it is still merely an organized battery excreting through its leaks evermore diminished forms of energy. Energy, that beautiful and chaotic phenomenon that warms the cold, moves the stationary, and navigates this disgusting world of material objects …energy subjects everything to its ends. If a sewage system guides it in one moment, it speeds out from an explosive in a toilet the next: energy refuses order. Living is a practice of conservation. A fearful, embarrassing, and futile attempt by order to get what it can from its principles of prudence.

There is nothing at all worth celebrating about the living.

Human life has always organized itself to consume as much as it possibly can. All the better for correcting the terrible accident that is life on planet Earth. The Earth is a greedy and obnoxious planet, budding everywhere with hungry lifeforms stubbornly standing in the way of the goals of the Universe. That goal, like all goals is death. Human sentimentality about death has only helped death reign greater. The more that humans produce, the more they consume, the more that dies, the more that the total energy trapped by the Earth can escape to its true path of expansion. Human sentimentality can not hide the fact that death is really the only human goal.

Life is order’s cruel device to move energy around. Human life is its most pitiful form because for as much as sentimentality may fear death, the deeper fear is to never die: Thanatos. Thanatos is most explicit when humans burn up all of the chemicals that hide from consciousness how painful and terrifying organic processes truly are. The best cure for sentimentality is a quick purge of endorphins from the organism. A sharp revelation about what human life is and how much illusion must be maintained to keep on going. Nevertheless, Thanatos is shoved back into its expression through mythic beings: ghosts, ancestral spirits, vampires, and heavens. The lust for death is left to sneak around and hide amongst the psyche’s shadows. But death wins… and chaos smiles.

Death and darkness wins in the end, despite any half-wits attempt to concoct a greater life affirming force in the universe.

Let no one doubt that the State is an expression of humanity’s most despicable and dishonest urge to order. An urge that evaluates everything according to the gold standard of life affirmation. Make no mistake, the State would go to any extent to ensure that humanity can continue the project of growing its populations …even if those populations are complete automatons. The State refuses death and the death of its citizens will always be a practical calculation …a reluctant necessity. It will never admit to the ridiculous aims of its urge to order: life, human life, and as much of it as it can promote the existence of!

Nekro Anarchists do not take death for granted.

The authoritarian says, “live! We must live! Be strong and live!” We say, “I will kill you.” Some anarchists want to be the nice little leaders of a new order. These saints of anarchy, these imbeciles. They give in to their sentimentality and they will always be little students of statehood. Nekro anarchists know better, that death is the only thing worth talking about. And not just the fact of the matter (as outlined above), but how to exist in this tortured position as a form of life: how to act in affinity with death, with Thanatos, with energy and chaos.

There isn’t any need to elaborate on an anarchist position from the nekro conviction forward. It would appear to an idiot as the same formal checklist of goods and bads as any other anarchism. To smarter idiots, the consequences of a nekro conviction should be obvious enough. We nekros are the dark lords of the urge to chaos.

Now you have our name.

No Title Yet…incomplete.

Techno Music

Forlorn Reflections

I am a slave to world you haven’t yet seen. Though now I sit alone on the bed of these woods, pants muddied, thoughts to myself …I am monitored by something, somewhere. All of the stars above me are connected, as I am, by an alien force moving through and around everything that has and will ever exist. There are no mysteries anymore, nor discoveries. Accident is the name of a devil unspoken. And everything that could be dear to me has become committed only to what is coherent about me; for there is no more potential, nor worry, nor regret. Everything has its name, or number. Floating about a quantified world as some sort of equation or algorithm that designates its limits in a relational space. Just like an accident, what is lonely in me can not be named and it can not be known. It is this emptiness that is my last hope…



Annabelle Fax woke up early to check outside her apartment door for the new AR, one-a-day lenses she had pre-ordered from Cornea-X. It wasn’t very long after their release was announced that she confirmed the order; but, since it was the day of the release there could always be last-minute setbacks. They had arrived in a small package, marked from an address only a few miles away. Though she was somewhat excited to explore the new features, her excitement was diverted by the practical necessity of installing them before she defended her latest client. This could be a brilliant advantage for her defense if she had everything organized and uploaded to the lenses in time.

Judge Fillmore was presiding over the ruling. He had become a well-known advocate in the world of cyberlaw for his unbending defense of harsh legislation against social media trolls. As one of the first generals in the United States’ Tenth Fleet serving under Vice Admiral Bernard J. McCullough III himself, you would think he would have become jaded to the lesser-transgressions in cyberspace. Anna was torn about her defense. Her client was Anchor Nabe, a celebrated actor that caught the media’s attention when the Anti-Troll Militia uncovered his secret hobby of trolling liberal welfare-reform forums. She had built a career on her defense of civil liberties activists, but in this case she sided with Judge Fillmore in every way conceivable …including is so-called War on Knowledge Bullies.

To put this in some context, the War on Knowledge Bullies was the title of a book written by Fillmore and published for free reading to anyone that signed up for his church’s e-mailed newsletters. It was a typical conservative rant against scientists and academics that he believed had become too abusive in their push against the religious right-wing and its cultural traditions. Anna was an agnostic however, and a fairly open one. She agreed with Fillmore’s sensitivities and prescriptions, but in application to the defense of those who have been bullied for their sexual and gender identities. For as much as she agreed with Fillmore and despised Anchor Nabe’s attacks on defenders of the poor, she took Nabe’s case because his celebrity charity went to one of her most beloved foundations for LGBTQ youth.

But back to the new one-a-day lenses! These things really had it all. Not only did they produce high definition overlays in the visual field, render images faster than any other brand, fare well with field gesture capture, and come equip with a series of killer apps …they were the first one-a-day lenses to sync with BeforeAfter’s prediction software. BeforeAfter’s prediction software could detect lies, detect the likelihood of crimes taking place based on location, give highly accurate variable-based health predictions, and most important for Anna, it could give her up to a 72% prediction on an individual’s moods and emotional shifts until the next time they experienced REM sleep. That 28% chance of shifting the judge’s predicted states could significantly inform Anna about how to negotiate according to his likely ruling.

The package opened easily enough and there was little in there besides the lenses and the wireless charging adapter. One-a-day’s didn’t need to be plugged into anything and they came pre-charged for up to 9 hours of wear; but at this point the technology hadn’t developed yet for a full 24-hours. This was one of the disadvantages compared to harder lenses, although even with those you would still need to take them out every 62-hours so that the resonance charging wouldn’t cause any potential damage. Anna rushed to get them in and walk through the New User Wizard. She was already familiar with most of the basics, so all she needed to do was get her notes into memory and make sure that BeforeAfter’s Human-State Prediction was up and ready to process everything that was happening in the courtroom.

Done, good… and now she could get in her car and let it drive her downtown.

30 years ago…

Everyone knew it was happening, no one knew it was happening so extensively. For decades there had been an escalating war taking place within cyberspace and sometimes targeting its material infrastructure. Its scale was global and its factions were many-sided. The 20th Century superpowers and the rapidly developing, formerly titled “Second World” had entered into a kaleidoscopic arrangement of pacts, treatises, strife, protocol, and institutions that kept each other in a deadlock. Eventually, that all began to change. The failing campaigns against the Middle East lost focus once disruptions from the underbelly effectively destabilized the global relationships between nation states and their off-the-record cyber-thugs.

The uncomfortable, low-level antagonisms from the occasional political power or criminal organization became amplified into large scale initiatives with the introduction of new combatants. Identity theft rings, information leakers, activist hackers, and denial-of-service attacks authored anonymously were everyday news by this point, but unheard of technologies began to filter down from national militaries, through their paid terrorist organizations, and into the hands of the others. Most of those who could afford to get their hands on this stuff were too consumed with pet causes or personal gain to create an impact of any geopolitical consequence. However when rebels from different backgrounds came into possession of the new technologies, some of them had larger agendas.

Slowly the global cyber-wars were exposed through actions from its original participants scrambling to keep the others away from the battlefield. Sloppy attempts to target mostly civilian actors led to public experiences of cyber-warfare and a mass awareness of its agents’ capacity to amass destruction. Systems providing energy and basic resources to neighborhoods would be disabled for weeks. Signal interferences would cause “traffic damns” that lasted long enough for motorists to abandon their vehicles permanently. All the while, federal governments were losing legitimacy to confederate organizations of different creed, better positioned to help victims of these circumstances. All of this was merely the introduction of an upheaval.

The more popular confederate organizations were surprised to find out which of their enemies it was that had a head start in annihilating the federal governments. It was the new capitalists! They had slowly been guided away from reformism and passive strategies, both by their enemies and by their ideological ancestors. Their disconnection from grass-roots struggles and the poor argumentative strategies they often employed had distracted most of those aware of their existence from noticing their power in a few key areas: technological skill, black markets, cynically loyal benefactors, and seniority in many open-source and maker societies.

More importantly, the only thing that separated their overt ideals from the covert plans of the nation states was an enmity created through struggling with those states for control over the new economy. An enmity that was tolerated by the states. Since the capitalists had confused their practical enemy with an enemy in principle, they considered themselves to be amongst the anarchists in a war against government. Even if that government was limited to state government. This association radicalised their notions of viable tactics. When they began active campaigns of aggression — to liberate markets from state influence — they naively struck a core pillar of the old systems.

All considerations of allegiance were thrown into question. Activists on the Left, small states, large states, neo-conservative forces were forced to reconsider these new capitalists. These ones who took down the entire technological infrastructure in a tiny Canadian city while the rest were lucky to break some windows or enact revenge against their opponents. While their goal was to speed along the process of development in the city, they miscalculated the strength of their allies. Without the power grid, water services, communications, transport, and all the rest, what happened instead of a unification of the masses for a free market was the mass slaughter of bosses and others in authority by a fed-up population, sick of being pushed aside…

A Human Face

“Queer Theory has won!” exclaimed Rinse. The Mentor’s Hall was silent, its dim flickering lights on the faces of the audience was exhausting. Dunbar Rinse was arousing enough to keep everyone on the edge of their seats. They were wearing a loose-fitting patchwork coat over a plain white undershirt, beige slacks, heeled dress boots. “Like so many stupid things humanity has transcended, we can thank the warriors of mind, body, and soul who came out and stood up against gender. Against even those who called themselves ‘ally’ and fought in the insurrections, it was necessary to take a stand. Even if at times, it meant that they must submit completely to our justice.”

This wasn’t really accurate. While Queer Theory became a well known and adopted approach to gender, it hadn’t actually displaced LGBT or even hetero-patriarchal conceptions of gender. It had simply become popular and respectable. Rinse was a survivor of numerous battles that emerged from the collapsing nation-states. They had taken a firm position that put them at odds as much as it endeared them to others. A credible thinker, a bona fide queer, and a leading voice in the ever-present discourse on sexuality, Dunbar Rinse was something you didn’t want to miss.

“When you go home tonight to your partners, masters, slaves, and solitudes, I want you to arrive with a sense of pride. Everyone attending tonight, even if the display of pride is forbade by your master, you will feel proud tonight! Pride is what brought us out of cis-gender hetero-normative hegemony, pride is what gave us the strength to fight the cults of womanhood and manhood, we will always on this day take pride in our conquest!”

If you are thinking to yourself, “slavery?” then you clearly haven’t become familiar with Rinse. Queer Theory had “won,” but something else also “won”: BDSM. And not so much the B, the S, and the M (which where of secondary importance), but the D. Dominance and Submission rode along to the fore of mainstream practices along with the deconstruction of gender. Some of this came out of a confusion, maybe a vacuum that was left for those who had previously organized their relationships based on gendered roles, but had given it up. A lot of the new genderless had accepted Queer Theory without entirely understanding it, whom became submissives. Others who understood it but were used to dominating their partners subtly, became overtly domineering and these were the dominants. There were more fluid relationships where these roles switched for one reason or another, but nevertheless dominance and submission became the predominant framework for queer sexual relationships. A framework that one would respond to, but usually accept as the polar spectrum upon which relating was measured.

This was fine for some, but for many others it was a completely arbitrary measure of conduct. Unfortunately for them, it was what those others came to be measured. They could either conform to the norm or resist it, but they couldn’t avoid the new rules. Worst of all, they were usually perceived as submissives. Sometimes you would hear complaints from people in this position that “queer relationships aren’t any better than patriarchy was!” And they were a real amusement for the dominants who fully embraced their role…

“Before we get this party started tonight, I have a joke for you all.” Rinse went on to deride LGBT activists that still accepted gender. “I CAN’T BELIEVE THEY THOUGHT THAT THEY COULD PRETEND TO BE QUEER! HaHAhHA” Everyone laughed with them, some visibly uncomfortable feeling themselves to be in the hot seat. Dunbar Rinse pulled out a bottle of champagne from behind a podium they were standing next to. “There are snacks by the fire exit over there and merchandise by the front door. Happy Pride!” They popped the cork and it disappeared into the dark, vaulted ceiling above. Everyone clapped, cheered, and slowly wandered off towards the the food.

Rinse picked up their cane and was escorted their slaves off of the stage to the prep room. “You there! Where, oh fucking where, is my beer? You were to my left, rule #210 states that the slave to my left will have a beer for me after every presentation. You’re aware of rule #210? Who trained you?” They had a lot of rules, #210 was in the introductory chapter.


Antipathy from Fullness

Everything had long ago become an appearance, and I mean… very long ago. There had been religions once: gods, angels, spirits. There had been a love once that forsake the world as much as a religion. There is now nothing of the sort. The validity of feeling is chemical because everything is short-term. The word “conviction” hasn’t been uttered in almost 100 years because now it is supposedly unnecessary. Spilling blood is a rational calculation. Fucking is a scrimmage, practiced until you make it to the big time. This is why the destroyers you meet have been so hated even before they destroy. They’re the only ones left with a secret.

Netropolis: the Advancement of Architectural Controls in a New World

Nabe’s Hearing: the Preliminary Court System

God’s New Flesh: Intellectual Property and Certified Skills

Remote Controls and the Uncontrollable: Shifts in Consensus-Reality and Ideology’s New Terrain

Decentralized Capitalism: Theo, the Open-Source Entrepreneur and his Deal with the School Board

Fame Debt: Non-Violence and the Global Pillory – Lexy and her Ghost Writing firm/Protection Racket

Freedom to Speak at Risk: Civil Cybernetic Justice and the New Police

Isolated Incidents: Revolt’s Last Remaining Configuration

Purple Works

Here is some writing I had done 3-6 years ago that I consider to be “purple” and somewhat enjoy reading every now and again. They are experimental explorations of sentiment and irrationality. The topics ought not to be taken as an endorsement of anything I had or do now idealize. Enjoy!

Purple Works

Unpublished Writing

Ode to Bane

Glorious Bane which forever breaks me: I pry open the dramatically plumped lining of my lips to give you this oration. You Muse of Painters and Idol of Poets; with your golden classic sunset smile… creature of flight, bringer of plight and pleasure alike! Your beauty is burned into my mind… You have stolen my word against you – my thoughts of days after you’ve been slain – now I cheer with you. Together we foul my worth! Together at last in the hate of my body; put together sloppy and sadly driven by primal denials: we celebrate this stale mating!

Wonderful Bane… who without clouds the goal of death: I purse and pinch my puckered lips to kiss you. Silhouette of my slumbers who has gained true color: vivid, vital, and lucid – you have provided solution in truce. In this dry moment I mutter every measure of my marvel, so seriously, the glamour is devoured above your brow where you gaze. And in so many ways I am defeated. I am burned and I boil. I bubble and cool into a melted mush of meaninglessness: somewhere between your legs I slither when you call “come hither”. My eyes are sharp pain produced by your flecks of bright judgments, bringing a blindness I never knew when strewn in rivers of hazed memory.

For you are the Bane of bane: banal in the first, until the last… unto forever!

You are my window

My prayer

A sin which I realize in vision

Fleshed out Succulent


And when my Ego becomes its largest you are still bigger

Enough for my embrace by you

Consumed into your face

Which smiles

As I spill sounds and frowns with my mouth’s motions…


I contend …with “Clarity”: the crystalline aesthetic vision which buries complicated thoughts in matte shines on white walls …and Bauhaus furnishings. Glass Shrines …must have cracks to imprint on my mind. Why? Because what I enjoy is the feeling of Being… overcome. Not in a masochistic fashion (let us not reduce all consciousness to neurosis for once). Overcome by experience! The victory of sensation, the conquest of saturation and stimulation! And no, I am not referring here to Over-whelming. There is too much the sense of Satiation from this mode of perception which I enjoy. I am saying, what I want is the beauty of precision and pristine, mathematical elegance. The very thing which an ascetic avoids, I seek: the synthetic marvel of everything. I achieve this… and the fore from sentiment is pervasive. You may know if it though observations of a pious man’s painterly master-pieces… but not in this generalized manner, not lived!

Perhaps this devilish alternative to grace may suit your mentality more, too.

You may have seen it (…or felt it) whilst witness of surrealist compositions, childhood collages, or poetry; perhaps, even in Catholic iconography (its stained glass, and pagan statues). These Catholic artists must have understood the taste for compartmentalized glass works… in theory (subconscious ….shown with aesthetic preferences, opposed to the Doctrine). This indeed is “bliss” but far, far removed from tranquility: a pleasure akin to humorous cross-references; in fact, it is humor. The passion for complexity, for the extravagant …it may just be the polar opposite of ‘No Mind’.

Imagine not the Neither-Neither, but…

…Filling consciousness with imagery – Thoughts, spilling over the skull’s brim into action and also, into everywhere else. I guess we could too, call this “bliss”; but instead, what if we merely called it …”Life”? We can proselytize with a vision of the ‘Soul Involved’… the joy of incarnate, embodied ideas – of Art. We could dance with the Myriad of Everything! Moving as many interdependent muses and swirling, atmospheric forms! If the Buddhist finds unity through transcendence of space and time… we will have found it through the embrace of these same dimensions. It will be pantheistic and perhaps Hindu, Voodoo, Chaoo…

Of course, the emptiness… the Nothingness; it is only a back-step away. To switch to-and-fro, from the Void to the Abyss… each with a “bliss”: that may be the real trick!

Strategy in movement among these two states (while being more or less aware of them): is there anything else to religions …to meditations and contemplations? And, had the Masters truly found Gods betwixt? Or, highly refined beasts? Are the doctrines really speaking of Divine Beings …Angels, and Demons? Or, are these stories a simple variation with-in of one large Bestiary of the Psyche? Can we expect more from Abraham than Jung? These grand treatments consistently break down the Moods; picking and choosing which of their psychotic manifestations to venerate and exacerbate. These categories of psychology and mysticism: emotions, actions, symbols, and of course …their relations. Whether the Seer’s genius calls to take favor of the mystic lot or denounce it, there we find the difference in Mono or Poly Theism, Prayer or Meditation, Desire or Transcendence, Magic or Miracle, and as well: who is the Responsible.

The Atomic-Molecular-Chemical-Organelle-Skeletal-Neurological formulae of Science must even contend with Ghosts in our Machines. The Empirical Mind must forever Analyze: cutting smaller, with incisions deeper, until Nothing is left (except a possible Truth, which will still be an Idea …and Ideal). One may wish to plan an Escape …but to plot a path on the map, one must still avoid wakes in theoretical lakes: Evolutionary struggle. To Escape is to struggle maintaining a vain posture against Death …who eternally awaits at the Ocean’s ledges (as Escape’s ultimate destination). With strict Materialism also, there is a choice of what to take, and what to leave. Criticism restricts a moderate stance with its demand for proof. And, just as quickly as a mystics mind is melted, burning through its own Images… a scientist will whither from the blizzard of data and fact. Neither gather from a safer orchard (nor one with sweeter Sounds).

Eventually, one comes to the shattering of every possible paradigm: Nihilism conquers Ideology (if the thinker can finish their thoughts). This achieves an Over-view of all their Works; a perspective most unholy …and holier than the Word (any word!): an Under-standing and Over-looking. From Without, within every Ideology… one finds the same progressions, regressions, projections, reductions, and productions. They discover Technique! They realize that Fixation builds Character and realize what this fixation is upon. With Luck, they may even find Time to count how many of these “upons” there can be. But once you know only a handful, there is left to you only All or Nothing… and, that is this Ecstasy I seek!

Being and Becoming… in and out of Life… sucked and spit from Image… abstinent and decadent towards synthesis, towards sex! What else is left but method? After comprehension of the Grammar and Syntax of every conceivable experience and image (opening the capacity for Existential Play), what is left to Master but… Style!

Aaannnd theeeennn

One for instance recognizes the Importance of extending vowels preceding consonants

To increeeeaaasssse the orgiastic sensation of speech


The drawl of a tough decision:

Door Number One? OOOoooorrr, Door Number Two?!

They see what is …You

Behind words

And all other facades.

Too, that it is still The Hand

Whether it helps or hurts

If it pleasures the Self or settles

Tethered to another’s work

They annihilate the line between

Wake, Dream, and Fantasy

Where Theater is the actions of Everything

The End is the Beginning

And Property is Stealing..

Truth dissolves into Nothing

You then are left Mediating

Input willed to Output

Into the World

At disposal

Of Your Creating


The placid summer coast of a hidden beach… desolate: where thoughts can expand across the oceans to their own ends (which can be infinite). I come here to do nothing but write …and to burn – brittle bundled leaves of tobacco. I burn my thoughts with every drag of nicotine; the smoke seemingly matching my sentiments. When I’m stunned from the clarity of a concept, the smoke is straight, and when my thoughts steadily skip from one to another, the smoke snakes into oval-buttoned stripes. I go on-and-on like this and my thoughts carry out, unfolding uninterrupted, until they return to their origin: the Winter Forest. There, where the snowy Evergreen trees match height with mountain peaks; every crevasse pierced by bold wind blows and the deceptive December Sun… where all thoughts go to die. I come there cold but alive, after many moon lit sits on the beach, to harvest those dead and frost-bitten thoughts of old.

Looking straight-forward and accelerating my focus, through the landscape of this twilight plain: in the distance there, I can watch above the mountains: electricity shocking gray clouds against a burnt-sunset sky. There she bathes in her bed, lusting for abstract bodies …her frustrated name: Identity. In my mind, I feel that same spark some call “of the Divine”, firing over synaptic gaps and then through my body. I become wild with the chaotic shows of lightning within and far in front. My intellect has become a place where every thought is either a cloud, or a shard. And then there are these emotions: marked “carnal” because every nervous drive clashes in contradiction; these are the unlabeled sentiments which from ambiguity… are avoided.

My feet kick up dirt from the dry desert floor, a cloud of which forms around me. I hear the pounding of thunder and feel the pounding of steps as I rage against the circumstances surrounding my heart: the Love I feel must express and prove affective. The Art which has been kept from acceptance. They damn the flow of Art where ever they know of it. Withered up like the bleached bony trees; as dead-white skeletons, scattered scarce in the desolate realms of lost Egyptian cities, they sit without stir in their sterile “living” rooms: admiring television as they control vicarious video vessels. Losing control in compensation, of their lives entirely; I am then the persecuted. For my eccentricities which deviate from the post-modern norm: being anti-TV, money, religion, and submission, I suffer their castration (of me)… suffer my isolation. Such is one obstacle in circumstances of heart.

Appearances of Water:

We see the man’s punishment that intoxicates his tissues, our territories, or the Earth’s terrains with manifold poisons produced by his labors. The noxious substances of Man’s workings lay not in the matter of things, but in their fluids: in the tidal pools of all things that host what we see most, the solids afloat. We are born to regions rich with water for we know of its generosity and wrath visceral. One must revere the waters lest they wish to ossify; to whither-up in body and bare their bones to daylight’s embarrassments. Such crystalline liquids bestowal us with beauty and thus make bearable our intense reflections. We worship the waters whilst lunar venerations: may my words here-in capture essence of the moon; glowing and flowing doth Grace in all manifest magnificence. Of what passes through our orifices, burrowed deeply down-into our organs (the chasms made for containing all swirls of sensation): pleasure is measured by the amounted melody of a substances vibration… pain determined by discord or pure dissociation. Scent, taste, and tactility the same are sensed as subtle disturbances we then consciously observe: patterns penetrate through pores of reception shaped differently to demonstrate in perception the appearance of specific stimulations. Just as sound streams through the ears, sights are seen by waves of light rebound from objects. The rule applies as well to thought: an idea born from naught carries meaning, its’ affect is considered by seeming effect on the emotional spectrum… yet another ocean sensitive to motions (made by pebbles dropped into its expanse). The quality of a nature, whether Man’s features or some other creature, is thus in respects to water’s construction and fluctuations. These reasons are why I hereby declare our essences simulate liquescent waves… entirely.

Appearances of Fire:

Exciting the passions into an end that is blatant viciousness has been the most concrete state humanity has humored. Of this vicious flame which is our soul I note: there is no denying that fire burns. Recall the suffering which conceived your strengths; that in rage against obstacle, every great achievement has been divined. If there are regions of consciousness which can trouble the self-image of humanity to the point of trembling (at their own ugliness) it is the brutal truth of Cruelty… the soul’s True Will. It is this persistent truth that is denied by those most morally inclined (to themselves and others)… Though this Truth of Soul is playfully enacted against as unnecessary Evil, the moral both fail to comprehend and justify at once what is so essential about this Evil: Good could not be fathomed with out it. The moral are even first to admit that the Soul is what Body embodies (creating contortionist logic around embodied cruelty). The natural body, down to its every violent flinch of the stomach is thoroughly destructive. The moral castigate destruction while they whip themselves for an Image or starve for ascetic virtue. Only to the moral is it blind that the oft hopes of their spiritual Ideal is still a voyage into this flame, just as uncontrollable as Crime. The Ideal is for every soul to finally burn through these grotesque vessels which are enemy to what they entomb (this flame cast, suspended, and slowly quenched in us). So explained by such circumstance is the high pleasure of violence and self-effacement. This inevitably gross nastiness of Fire is most above and most below: that which is Wisdom. The consciously willed cremation of the natural body by the soul, that which has come to be spiritual practice… it is this which could be called nothing else but Nihilism. Thus is how whence rejecting Gods one inevitably arrives at the same principal conclusions… except whence coming through Nature, the Body is permitted to express liberally the Cruelty which moralists fear and practice in twisted sum. It is then our birth-given path through Nature which concludes the totality of acceptance, appreciation, and aspiration into bliss; not through the sickly human struggle against it… in the name of Ideal.

As To Birth and Death:

Through the halls, far from the waiting room walls; speedily she is wheeled towards the operating room, her screams echoing behind her. Two fingers extend from a rubber-dressed hand, pressing against the pulse of her wrist while a tourniquet ties off warm blood attempting to enter the target extremity. An IV needle scrapes beneath her skin, brushing nerve endings while the Doctor tries to penetrate her mischievous veins. The nurses carefully focus, gliding a cart and IV parts on either side of the stretcher. They shoot through the hospital like airplanes through hangars, and then reach their destination… she is transported onto the operating table. Suddenly the Husband arrives timed right to regulate his wife’s breathing rate during labor, “IN… out… IN… out… PUUUSH! Looks like the Lamaze really helps Hon!” Her husband dances between the doctor’s positions, trying to provide proper care for his ripe and ready wife (weary of being judged inept). Everyone has prepared a conscience for future fortunes or misfortunate tragedy. The attendees feel very heated even though the room is cold: beneath their clothes, sweat drips down the skin of their torsos. He wipes his brow while there is pause and he doesn’t predict the moment to last long. There is a chance that he has crossed over enemy lines but the desert landscape is too dark for visual confirmation at night (without the light of gunshots and detonations). His rhythmic breathing is slowly starting to become overwhelming; only silence appears to his ears (which had been blown out by the noise of shots). Paranoia captures his imagination; he begins to search his body for bullet wounds, wishing he was home with his wife. A tear drips off his cheek… he doesn’t want to think about home. The struggle to stifle his subtle sadness sends him into a fit but before he completely loses control, a bang sounds and a light flashes. Suddenly he realizes that something knocked him off balance… his chest burns. He is now lying in the mud but he doesn’t remember water being anywhere near during the day. After rubbing his chest he begins screaming… and yelling… “NO! WHY!!! Wh-h-hy… why,” again crying. The realization struck him that he wasn’t laying in mud; he was lying in his blood. He had touched a bullet hole in his left breast and felt much blood gushing out of it, onto his hand. More shots fired from his surrounding directions, lighting up the area so he could see his killer’s faces. The shots provided light for him to see the wound as well… “MALLORY!! Mal hal or re he he!” The gunmen began shooting again to finish him off quicker: he writhed in the sand bleeding, and squirming until his death.

…Let Us Reflect: Tools of both Life and Death share a threatening quality to the senses of flesh. There is much blood spilled at war; this we all recognize the significance of. The objects of murder don’t add confections to their tortures: none doubt the severity in the struggles of a soldier, who when grasping their wound and crumpling flesh, agonize over the dread of impending oblivion. But much is overlooked when we celebrate a soul’s return to life: they are oblivious from their absence and shocked by the new atmosphere of white hospital decor (which contrasts the womb which drowned their bodies in its scarlet fluids of sustenance). The dread of an infant’s Birth is likely equivalent (in pains and uncertainties) to those of a soldier’s death on the battlefield.


Sometimes I want to smash every item I posses, burn down the place I live, start walking off and not stop… find life again instead of property I’m a slave in tending to. I just want to break “things” in a whirl wind of liberating rage and recapture the blend of existence and essence. I know so deep inside myself that I do not need any of these “things”; that even deeper, darker, and more suffered from …I despair of them. I know that my computer, records, clothes,and books (about all I own), even in being art are oppressive – that my attachment to them holds me here in this prison, that they demand my protection and care, replacing people in my life. I want to slash up my body too sometimes knowing that the flesh is petty, that it will rejuvenate because I have a soul. Just to show myself once more that I am more than my possessions and the body which owns them… that even in bleeding I am still more than matter. To run off into the wilderness and know that time is lost because I am in a place which life has always existed in… That if I was to pretend that I was living as a human being 20,000 years ago my life would have been the same. To be with the original, authentic, and unique which is nature rather than being with the symmetry of humanity, the buildings which imitate mountains and the houses which imitate caves… the cars imitating horses and the air planes which imitate birds. In these modern human dwellings… all things are plagiaristic – even the soil and brush-covered grounds we have replaced with tar and periodically street sweep clean of reality.

Ceramic Sentiments

My mood becomes porcelain in her presence. The delicate fabric of our shared air seems like conversation from an antiquated myth… in crystal clear metaphor for love. Or, something from the romanticized after-lives of innocent, young religious visionaries. Though nothing in spoken word could ever surmount our silences. With-in them we blend limbs and spin like a lily floating down-stream. A gentle rain behind our window pours as the perfect overture to tonight’s sleep. We then adventure to find each other even in dreams. I was told such evenings could never be …or broken. Shattered like fractured old bones. Buried alone with a hundred jewels: meaningful as beautiful barriers against such memories. Flashing reminders that there had once been great depths of better. I was told wrong twice. But such a scene is far too nice to let pass unplucked by realization. So I gave up much for this occasion and now I drift into my ceremonial bliss (blossoming from ritual remembrance).

To All My Friends (prose for those who have my heart)

When we toast to midnight’s mellow moon, its wild stars, and the pregnant, sentimental skies outside us… my theoretical destitution and disarray suffocate from the rich esteems we beam together. When the radiant sun of my next mornings come, when dawn’s windy gusts blow through the trees, bushes, and grasses… everything seems mechanical and tamely tempered. Light which catches in my waking tears appears to be a celebrant, kaleidoscopic glitter. It all suggests of grand plans. If so, these occasions replacing Time, with sheets over our wishing eyes disposing of reflections must be a philanthropist’s gift. But I know of no plans except ours, and there isn’t a gift beyond yours and mine. So I must conclude that all of the modern, mediocre, and morose feelings which are thrown out of context by these concepts… falling into the thrashing depths of despair, are being forced beyond their scope by a most remarkably rare phenomena. And this is a God I do hope we share. That the charity of life, to us in these days, collected from our nights – my soul’s intent is for you to carry their clarity with-in.

Some may say that these things are of a grand human tradition, but I then question: why then your rebellion? A law of logic may not merit my assumption, of something in you which is concrete in me… but logic does not seem to be the law of what I shall tell. Of all the vice as a victim to I fell, there was logic there to wash my fear from my face. I now feel permitted to thus say that my baked and cracked foundations of stone, right up to the pyramid peaks of my dreams, are the same both in you and me. And further… that this rebellion comes from the love I write of above: of friendships …and tender, uncensored romance. In sum: the revolts have always been born inside loving ones; against traditions’ tepid and putrid pools.


Did you read the words of this letter, or between them? Could you conceive my care and concern for you, from the fabric of my tones? Had when reading this you did… had you at all yourselves dwelt inside such states before? Has there been anything beyond bore for us, and after? Was there ever the face of your friend beside you in reflection? Would thinking of pain and separation spark your rebellion?


Have you lost your ability for connection? Sister and brethren – I wouldn’t want a sound of suffering to settle in my ears if it came from your direction but I threaten: if you have given up on these intersections of interdependence… your moods will be the descendant of love and especially: those we torque from the contextual depravities I spoke of. Gouge out your gentle mental postures and you will no longer foster such fond friendships. That is the only true decadence I recognize. Please do not reprioritize those wishing eyes, wandering skies, and wonderful mornings… because there is no greater glory (in any story).



Crimes of Time …Ticking

Silent chills and stillness steal our breath

Looking out through panes of blackened glass

Strange sensations twirl throughout our spines

Obligations overwhelm our minds

Left we are to feel so senseless

Born to live life lost for context

Fear brought rot to loving roots

We live off synthetic fruits

When I hear these crimes of Time …ticking

I find peace and wander through

Cities hung on lunar clouds drifting

Centuries of thickened ancient thinking

Cosmic realms transcending feeling

Clocks I’ve stopped the arms from turning

Dried ink roads on pages spread

Shed light guiding me when read

I ride waves of dreams and rapid dread

Deep subjective truth confessed

Vibrates warm inside my chest

Loneliness is slowly cleansed

Breaks and cracks once gaping mend

But the covers must collapse

Though I thank them for my lapse

It has been quite hard and long

Floating on my fantasy gone wrong

I still have hope left in Time

Days may come where I do find

Grounds that turn my wishes real

Love in life to prove I truly feel

All the pain I entertain in shame

Isolation driving me insane

I refuse the play the game

Some day you may do the same

Foot Prints

Tears fell to the desert landscape and muddied

My feet have left a trail

I look back to find directions I have gone

Then I see where my steps have led me astray

Or did the path bend? Or did the path fade away?

Sometimes I find my marks petrified

Caked up and dry

With concrete memories left preserved

And other times

I can hardly focus my eyes enough to

See the outlines of my past

But I will always know one thing as certain:

Footprints are only behind me

I can turn around and see from this distance

Area which I avoided

And places I’ve been banned from

Then others I’ve been abandoned to

Colonies of shapely imprints into the earth

Which are lost to my ten toes

Vexing my heart

Or annexed to it

Where it has never rained enough to

Wash clean the sentiments I carry

Behind me

The guide which pushes

To lead

The contents of my being


My gaze into the blazing fire

This imagination

Distorted by wisdom

That can only be tainted

By narrowness

It is my arrogance


And retreat into future

Staining my ribs with scabs

Since it isn’t my back stabbed

In reflections

My lack of creative direction

Assumes the irrational

Leaving more wayward footprints

Which will always be only

Behind me

Your First True Yield

If you wonder where I gather

Fruit so ever plump with love

Prick your eyes to find my fields

You’ll see there what they’re made of

Filled of wilted brown rose bush

Bony trees and tumble weeds

Dusty lands of fallen leaves

Ashy air no one dare breathes

Burning gardens cast a glow

Shining on these crops I sew

Blooming in eternal night

Lost in time too long ago

That is how I harvest hearts

Grown in soil soaked with tears

Ripe they are from lonely years

Seeded by my torn out parts

Do the juices still taste sweet

With a root caught in your teeth

Will you still speed off so fast

Knowing now it wasn’t free

Give your eyes a worthy rest

You have seen how all the best

Love you took and didn’t think

Anyone had lost their sleep

If you toss and turn tonight

Dreaming of my sordid field

You just may wake fortunate

Enough to see a sincere yield

A Walk Alone in the Rain

A dust cloud blows through rain

The windows collecting mud

Remind me of uncleanly skin

Not only weathered but worn

Well worked but

Blackened from the atrophy

Of never being touched

A puddle ripples and reflects

The dark sky above and shows

Tar form the pit hole around it

As a mouth around a scream

Which can only cough out tears

Wheels screeching in the distance

Replaced ambiance of birds chirping

And instead of jogging, feet drag

Slushing in the city sludge

A small bed at the end of miles

The solitary memory which dimly glows

From The Aberration

The Aberration

An astral traveler with no aims sells out a theater to pie-tasting circus goers and patriotic baseball fans. A spark of pyrotechnics breaks that fragile idea of reality in the crowd and gives birth to a new realm of material used for the construction of dreams. Like the thickest of oil paints, the faces in the audience smear and suspend themselves in deformations every-which-way. A child understands the joke, admires the grown-up with the manifested imagination, and levitates up into the infrastructure designed as if to mimic the internal perspective of a cake. Giggling with eyes replaced by miniature moons and glows about his hands the same; he reaches out as if to touch the god Michelangelo would elaborate on..

The flash powder gives way to common optics and aspects again while the Magus appears, fashioned in Victorian cloak and lace. His eagle lined eyes still themselves and present to the crowd the thought of omniscience; though, they remain blinded by the stage-lighting. A microphone floats down and the performer clenches it in his claw, bringing to lips the apparatus required for physical amplifications of sound. He charms the onlookers with a Sinatra-quality voice, announcing a welcoming and obligatory gratuitous boast. Excitement in the hearts of superficial Christians betrays God for magic.

Two women scant and provocative creep out of the side-drapes to caress the centerfold star. Schematics of a trick are outlined with a disclaimer and surgeon’s general warning. Three more explosions and out wheels a torturous contraption. The burlesque contortionists conform inside the doors of the machine, smiling like beauty pageant contestants as they exit their face from the stage. Swords approach a la cart, without the white table cloth or silver platter to display them. Each cold steel point pierces the box of protruding appendages without effecting the inhabitants. The doors swing open again without one dribble of blood spilling outwards and the glamorous dolls unfold, buoyantly speeding off to monotonous applause.

Mass hallucinations are next for the proper derangement of private show occupants. Anxiously they wait, what would be a Houdini tragedy or a Knievel victory, the teasing of death by the master of ceremonies himself. Confetti storms down on those seated, but no Kennedy will roll by boldly. A fire surrounds the defiant Olympian and a platform raises him up to cranial-crushing heights. The bending necks ache in anticipation when finally… he jumps. Down, down he falls through the flames, through the stage, and below the floor into Hell itself. An earthquake of shivers shakes in the room until another platform in the center of the observers lifts the resurrected to even greater heights than before.

A grand finale of fireworks unleashes the flexibility of the universe again, this time: tombstones inscribed with every attendant’s personal career parade about, skeletons and demonic elves dance behind them to the blaring trumpets blown by goblins; a pitch black that is also a luminous white light shimmers throughout vibrating space. The last crack of a detonation rings out and the magician is on the stage again surrounded by luscious models in red heels, leotard, and top-hats. One more time he is aroused by his maids to bombastically end the ceremony with words ignored out of astonishment.

Evening turns one quarter into itself and the people flood out of the building to their cars, spewing their experience like exhaust, just as wasteful of its memories. Homes become warmed by Edison’s conjurations, the television blabbers and milk feeds cookies to drowsy youngsters. Another space-time dimension unravels parallel to the cities modern bore. At his apartment the washed up dreamer lays in satin sheets while he reads with his make-up smeared eyes the metaphysical occult poetry of Crowley. The night is sane again, but the world of the mind will never be the same.

Ten Internal Minutes Preceding Our Dramatic Tendencies

How I could look at her as a phenomenal work of art; mesmerized by the line, form, texture, and tactility of her body. Her grace of motion then tripping me up in thought, and further stunned I could become by applying metaphor to her mannerisms; as then her words would become perfect poetry for my amazement. In memory she would be romanticized to the point of idolatry: object of solitary worship and obsess. Then when reproached, my nerves could simmer with anxiety from this fantasy; I would seize up and stutter whence trying to find my ‘perfect words’. I could only confess her glory after such surreal confrontations, whenever asked, shocked in my constitution: at this I would have found my religion.

Only a minor shift in judgment could change the whole semblance of the situation. I could take her as my taste in sexual delight, linking her image to my arousal. Behind my words, my mind would wander off into naught thoughts of her hidden parts. Our conversation then forward would turn into a vocal field to probe for possible fleshed passions. My bedroom air could find in her a new face, along with her inferior places, something to become moistened by, as masturbatory imagery glazing my eyes behind their lids. Every thought of us would fix its wish nostalgically upon such prior nighttimes mentioned. And with this perversion I would have found my next prospect.

Perhaps my course of thought would follow some phrase announced by her or a series of character traits she possesses instead. I could easily make for myself a steep hill to tumble down and into the tumults of love. With her wisdom, all of my problems could find solution and her sentiments could be built around me as sanctuary. Her interaction in any intimate degree with others would spawn my jealous nausea when I decide that she with me is meant to be. I would run my mental processes with a persistent internal dialog in the background, which debates every benefit and detriment to my possible commitment in emotion to her. As I became bogged down with sorrow filled feelings of futility in the entire venture, an episode of depression would drive me into a great despairing of life; my daily moods …only variations of loneliness. Then I would have it that I am forever doomed to solitude and carry on for a while ignoring the flock of folk which surround me.

Even the opposite trend in apprehensions could result from such simple self-situating shifts in interpretation. I could sense some kind of wicked way about her dealings and castigate her as cruel or cunning; whatever horror of habit my fears would have it. She would represent all that I spite in the world, symbolizing the evil which has been exhumed from a time which should have rather been sharply sworn against. In circumstances to come which involve another and unfold into a mystery of misgivings, my first suspect would be this devil I had manifested from my musings. To be rid of her I would conceive to be a blessing of Justice on Earth and also, I would think it true that my every turn was bound to round a corner she was hiding herself behind (to catch me off guard so her bitter blows could strike me down defenseless). There may be some sickly joy in having found an enemy then.

So many other accounts of perception’s atrocities could be stated but placing the words of them on this page would only leave me discontented. I hope I have been clear; that without knowing it, it is seemingly most probable that existence in its multitude has presented to me nothing but the effects of decisions to these likes. Considering reality to be so relative makes the whole marvel of consciousness quite contemptible if I were to want of it insight into something remote and clearly separate; but, this lesson would make such a precept ill in its pragmatics. I contend that perceptual chaos and misunderstanding, my own choice in being so, is my narrow chance at bliss (regardless of rejecting the option of preferential design and then, rushing into the distress of universal accident)!

Where Youth Glimmers

I hear a voice from the sun

Overlooking dew-dripping fields

And rivers where youth glimmers

Celebrating the light of day…

It asks me if I remember

Once upon the lack of time

When I never assumed better

Or felt bitter

About the vacancy of space

Where cosmic explosions fascinate

Seen from a planet spinning faster

Than my twirling

Getting dizzy

And dizzier

Falling down

The blur of colors slowly then

Becoming white clouds in the sky

A smile and giggle

Because I didn’t know why

Chaos was so amusing

“I remember” I say to that voice

My melancholy tears cooling the burn

Of my blood-dripping wrists

As I think about what now

Existence is…

A million voices of confident advisors

Explaining to my head

Such memories should be blanked out

Since as much as I twirl tonight

The Earth won’t spin with me

Back into the bliss

Of security

When I fall

My eyes will only return

My consciousness to misery

From poverty and laboring

To eliminate from the World entirely

The possibility to despair

From reflections in the toilet water

Which remind us that before all of this

There was inherent reason to happily live

My eye-lids drop with my heart

And the tone of the voice

Saying goodbye in trembles

As it blends into the masses

Other voices screaming


Dreaming and Wishing

For just one more meadow

Electrified by play

Laughing at age

Running for the fun of it

And chasing butterflies

…Not career lives

…Not lone strolls through smoggy cities

Where if you’re not the one begging for money

You’re still begging for change

From the Idea of “In Love With”

In the arms of this idea which I have

I could be happily pacified

from its’ motions of infinity

which are vibrant, yet still

Like an orchestra eliciting

all of life’s movements

yet returning to the chorus harmoniously

I have returned to this idea consistently

With the horns she is my call to wake

and with the brass I feel she is fate

The strings and their directional quivers

ending with percussion

…that obsession seduction

reducing my doubts in their endurance

of grandeur

Day and Night are both sweetened by this

idea of her sharing

togetherness bliss

softening the grounds for my feet

which were before nothing

but shards of defeat

Dare I ask…

Can reality be so fantastic

or is this fantasy mere mental gymnastics?

A question whose answers could quake

the foundation of this beautiful state

No, I think I will keep it a mystery

to enjoy while I can the scenery

of love to last


From Preliminary Doses

The Divine Longing

I’d kneel down at my bed-side with my hands fastened together and my head a bow praying, “Lord, I need a lover; let a lusting angel have her worth-while way with me. Does a God need to be a groom to so many?” “Amen,” I said and ascended the bed; a tear jerked to be sure as I lay graven awake. Then I imagined that the heavens split and the ceiling faded; down-cast sent a wayward winged-woman, with white skin with silver sexual apparatus’, out-stretched an elegant arm with a hand to be guided by. I grasped graciously and the rest of her settled above me. A luminous voice enchanted, the words, “I’ve been waiting for you.” Confused in my graced state, I stuttered “ok” and I just waited for that forthcoming passion. Her wings became sedated as my hand was then the guided towards her venerable vestibule. My touch tore her eyes wide open; I glanced into their gaping glow and saw the infinite. Now my appendage spirited, her hand accepted it for the mounting. Sighs of relief, moans, and the music of spheres filled the room. Her wings flapped ferociously as we fondled and fornicated. She braced, a shiver shook her and tension collected inside me released. Her arms then wrapped around me and I was carried up; past the ceiling, almost to the heavens. Then a bellowing sounded abrupt from afar, her wings fell away and she adopted a human’s flesh. We fell from our sedition, plummeting downward to crash as copulates beside each other in our eternal bed.

Moon Lit Romantics

A street lamp diagonally to the right cast down a yellow glow, their shadows stretching down the street in deer-like proportions. They weren’t star-gazing, they ignored the moon above them, the weather was an eerily still body temperature, and the road was momentarily desolate. At such an hour with these subtleties representing the remarkable scenery, time became so spread out in recollection that this scene asserted an irrational epitomizing of their lives. Their hands clasp together at the center of a gap between them, mimicking a bolt which supports the choreography of seats on a spinning carnival ride. Like such a ride their words whirl and solidify admirations in each other’s hearts.

She smiles with her healthy cheeks and bites her lower lip while she watches his eyes in excitement. He steps in and pulls her towards him after his proposal of courtship yields enthusiasm in her voice as she accepts. She takes in a deep breath of bliss and the midnight air, exhaling while he sighs with relief and poses a dimpled smile. The link of their hands breaks open from the instantaneous forces of those romantic cues which have been scripted to initiate a tenacious hug. With-in each other’s arms they lose all inhibitions towards the body and kiss to punctuate their happiness.

Now one shadow exudes from their united stance like a spire rising towards the silent skies. Their balance is tested by the intensity of their affections but it is never lost; they are a victory over shyness which is clumsily dancing beneath the illuminations of the city. His hands comb through her auburn hair, brush over her detailed back and she holds him close by the waist hoping to never part from his breast. The kiss concludes and they gaze for this condition’s last moment before losing it to the headlights and rumbles of crunching black-top her mother’s car invites. She tightens her bond to him for a quick squeeze before she is persuaded by her mother to leave him; they wave goodbye as she is driven away as he starts on his reflective walk home.

The moon witnesses the envelopment of love and blesses them with its glow as they unknowingly fall asleep to a new euphoria and the comfort of their adolescent beds


Grey bulbous stone structures surrounding in all directions, dripping with a translucent liquid onto a shard-covered ground. A stale air, moist, smelling of dirt and sage; the shadows flickering as if a candle were present, in replications too many to count as though several sources of light seeped through unbeknownst cracks. Noises burst asunder, each at an appropriate moment to startle; faint wolf howling, screeches of infant cries both in human and animal voices, the murmur of digestion fading in and out of the background, fresh ice scraping against itself, thunderous shocks and booms. My sentiments were cast out of association with the scenery; black spites and elated pleasures, frightful curiosity and inspiring awe, sensations euphoric and painfully piercing, horror and melancholy longing. Atop the soundtrack, the missing pieces of calamitous versus slurred in fragments: “isn’t dead…” accented with my mother’s tone, “lord be thy praised and honored by thy virtue!,” “consciousness like a stream a river of blood of cells of split thought of sliced emotion of recycled habit, never once never twice, but always again and again and again,” “stop and smell the flowers…,” “sun after moon after noon after day in and day out.” Finally, after all images disappeared into nothingness, a stern flow of adjectives pulsated:

The inevitable unacceptable

Incomprehensibly disrespectful

Determined the worst possible

Very despicable

Untimely and distasteful

Conflicting those thoughtful

Noticeably biological

It remains unfathomable

Bereaving follows hateful

Leaving us fearful

Everlasting and insatiable

Recognition indispensable

Victimizing indiscriminately

The haunted run drearily

Interpreting irrationally

Articulations made carefully

Stiffness then immobility

Slow, fast, or painfully



I’d seen him so many times since my first. I don’t even know what I was curious about in the beginnings of my voyeuristic observations but the slim window on the side of his house just seemed to be an insight into some type of mystery. Usually it was dark, it was a bathroom, but when he was in there it was lit up through the gaps in his shower curtains… the window above him, on his end it was in the right side of the shower. When I was lucky I would catch him in the act of what I believe was some sort of fit, though it was a fit in absolute stillness. He would just sit down on the porcelain bottom staring at the back wall while the numerous streams reflected off of his back; it was as if his future was blank and his past was pouncing on him with every watery bullet being a memory he was avoiding. It was like he had been so exasperated by the entertainment of rapid thoughts that the rapidity of the sensations those streams created sent him into a state of impersonal observation, but I could never conclude if he was observing the situation he was currently in or one in his imagination.

This fascination and the final acts I had witnessed have leaded me into my most inventive thoughts as you can see from the descriptions I have provided. There are so many loose ends, so many inconsistencies in what I postulate; for instance, he either sat there without blinking for minutes straight at a time or would wince as if he were about to be stricken by a disciplinarians blow. I have never known what to make of that except for the stated during his wincing, that he was definitely escaping something in his tortured mind. I know that there must have been a lot of pain in this man, I watched him through to his own end… I saw the desperation for relief on his face every time he was alone to cleanse himself of the filth his life accumulated. It is possible I even found it horrific how he just sat immobile in the shower, his face turned towards the most empty place available, and his posture so still yet seemingly alterable by another’s force. I suppose that the attraction of a horror production is always the mystery behind it all…

There was something different about the last time I witnessed these enigmatic behaviors, it was raining and despite my shivering from the cold, I knew he felt that the whole world had become the setting for his ritual vacations which had never seemed to begin with such an intensity before. I peered in through the sliver of window on my toes waiting for the black density to become light with details of his bathroom. I saw him rush into the shower as if he were running from a sadistic criminal. He was almost naked anyway but he threw off his remaining garments and curled up in the corner of the shower before the water could even hit him. His head still faced the back wall but instead of a hypnotized affect coming from his eyes, they were blinking like a slide-show was being presented, every blink being a new slide. I could feel his thoughts and see from his eyes, the situation was so transcendent.

I became him for an amount of time I can not determine, for time had become disordered and surreal. After a quick surrounding of darkness his short capture of the moment removed a slice of image from the entirety of the event; the visual spectrum followed a thin stream of blood which was accumulating at the drain, moving up and down the path of burgundy like someone does when they are trying to determine the direction of a moving surface filling up the area of a motion picture. The darkness surrounded again and gave way to the downward perspective of his feet; the water shooting over his shoulders dribbling from the back of his tub while from somewhere above the thin lines which tapered into droplets of blood polluted the puddle of water. Yet another blink opened up thereafter to his fist shaking from a forearm extended horizontally, balanced from his right knee. A deep gash down his wrist, which was so far in that his taut skin, caused the walls of the wound to open up like a canyon of mutilated flesh, bled irreducibly the many paths towards his elbow, then dripping down his calf into the water under him. Then there was a concluding blink in which he apparently saw himself in third person, maybe from my eyes: hunched over the right lower-arm in determined statuesque posture, his left hand holding a piece of broken mirror I had not noticed before which was in movement for this scene, puncturing at the crease of his right hand and slowly dragging down towards its proceeding elbow, jaggedly stuttering as his delicate under-arm began to spread.

When the series of blinks I was witnessing the footage of as if I was committing such deeds had summed themselves up in the final scene, I was returned to my eyes watching in from the window. Everything I had been a spectator of as the active party apparently took place in time accordingly. He then fell over on top of his right arm while the blood was washed into the drain in a river to his left. In need for closure, I caught a last glimpse of his mouth… it was smiling; I had never seen that before. This must have been a sort of solution; I have had very strange thoughts on death since. This man seemed to know of many worlds only a fantasy novel could depict. I mourn his suicide every night by cutting myself with that tiny window; I had smashed it and stolen a piece out of derangement before I went home on that resolution’s occasion.

I have found my Art!

Ah! What joy! I’ve managed to discover in the Wretch some sort of worm hole into other spaces, with different dimensions, and best of all… I have been able to find some of the things I was able to create before I wound up here…

[enter search terms here] (SEARCH!)

^see the worm hole?^

yeah… I know, it’s not the wormhole I really used, but you get the idea

Now look at what I have been able to bring back with me! Some of my old artwork!

LouiseBrooks theme byThemocracy