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!
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
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
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!
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
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
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.
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
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
The guide which pushes
The contents of my being
My gaze into the blazing fire
Distorted by wisdom
That can only be tainted
It is my arrogance
And retreat into future
Staining my ribs with scabs
Since it isn’t my back stabbed
My lack of creative direction
Assumes the irrational
Leaving more wayward footprints
Which will always be only
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
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
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
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
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
Day and Night are both sweetened by this
idea of her sharing
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
Determined the worst possible
Untimely and distasteful
Conflicting those thoughtful
It remains unfathomable
Bereaving follows hateful
Leaving us fearful
Everlasting and insatiable
The haunted run drearily
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.