shattered cellos [6.23.2015]

name your own mystery and accept the ramifications. everyday is a vast hedgemaze and we've all been dropped in the absolute middle. but it's midnight on the new moon, and there is but a single map to be shared among us all. 

let the fucking games begin.  

name your own weakness and accept the consequences. some say that the Universe is shrinking, so be thankful that you may not need to be burdened with open-mindedness for much longer. you've earned the reprieve.

let the fucking purge commence.

name your own downfall and embrace the velocity. become the monotony with every fiber of the being you leave behind. create the template of nothing. the asphalt will remain the popular height at which to aspire. 

bleed shrewd configuration [3.12.2015]

it's not my knuckles, but my eyes which bleed. shrewd configuration and schism breakfast. the hive leaves, but the throat is the weapon. orders are the sound of the thoroughfare. the vacuum which nature abhors, and the field of someone else's dream. 

sugar, take flight. be somewhere else immediately, lest you get swallowed. splayed across some altar like so much religious debris. please make your escape, you earthbound angel. leave all us fools in your wake before we trap you within the cage of our propensity to raze the world around you.

it hasn't happened yet, has it? that time of configuration? when we configure history with equality? 

all the dimness and the doubt [6.13.2015]

they come from the perfect flaws, and the things you do that you fucking know are the good things. the better things. when you are looking up your more altruistic nature on Google Maps, and it just won't focus as much as you would've hoped.  those blurred rooftops. scanning and squinting, and such a ridiculous idea seems perfectly normal. this vernacular is not a secret, but a gauntlet. they are the love which, according to the villian hidden within your doubts, are much more telling. telling that tale. the one you wish you could tell in perfect syntax; with a perfect voice. regardless of the interruptions from the demons that occupy the insides of your eyelids. staking their claim in your retinae, when all you want is a few hours reprieve from just about fucking everything. but, surprise!, your demons have a deed. legally binding in whatever personal hell you happen to have forged with the flesh of one too many skinned knees, and too few lessons learned. a shaky fucking foundation at best. a basis for routine at worst. and they can't seem to figure out whether the universe is expanding, or retracting. both concepts are terrifying, especially when the ceiling seems to be inches from your face. closing in on you like a fear you never knew you had. buried deep, waiting to pounce on your nerve endings. your demons know more about love than you're afraid to admit. and, sometimes it truly feels as if you need to clutch the earth while it spins, just in case the void decides to swallow you fucking whole. after all, its appetites match our own. we're the hare in the course, and we are the hound. we're the chaff, and we are the wind that blows us away. we are the dimness, and we are the doubt. the sun, the moon, and all points betwixt.  

the ouroboros cliche [written 6.6.2015]

why run, when the most adept hunter is yourself? lines in the street only serve as tracks to follow. jittery & jagged; there's always someone who knows where you are running. turn a corner, cadge an alley. fucking matters not, for you will always be found. cowering in the corner with your collections. your thematic rhapsodies of a life lived somewhere between zero and backward. even the smartest cattle ends up becoming the feed. especially when you are your own predator. just another rapid, vapid morsel for the monster. yet, eventually, found inedible. like gristle to be spat. expectorated expectations, fuckers. find a greasy bone in the gutter, and tell a story. tell it to the spaces where the witnesses should be. don't worry, the fucking mosquitos are taking notes.