black fog [1.19.2016]

my fingers are a dry creek bed, and my heart is the delta. scales derive from the forest floor, and we skitter like snails.
it flows. it does, out into a vast sea; currents etched in absolute filigree. you simply cannot quantify an open  grave lest gravity makes it so. 
love is the grave, and the grave is a redundancy. 
it's the distortion of severance that sends us, flailing (willing) into the mouth of sacrifice. cross this lifeless ocean of sudden damnation allowing my depth. choose a color, and make it stick. sing vowels. next to the one killing wont. 
let them spend. 

eyelash length [1.5.2016]

certain dreams should not extend beyond the length of your eyelashes. certain somnabulistic secrets should remain yours. they become lies, when you drag them from your slumber.

we mock our winters here, leaving only goblins of sarcasm for the spring to sweep up. stranger and stranger our seasons become, as the sun draws ever further from the point of no return. the zero point. yet you remember me, us, and the things we've done. the random acts we have committed. we mock our winters here, because we know that winters end, and we save our sarcasm for mulch. 

if only we could mine all the silver tongues, and sell them above market. a better world may be merely a matter of proper management. 

powerful shrug [12.25.2015]

slithering between the music when quintets are actually quartets. slick within the city walls and laying low enough. for now. I'm a symptom of the chasm, and the bridge teeters & sways ironically. a tether fashioned with pregnant pauses and useless grins. behind my skull is a gun loaded with insomnia. i'm a powerful shrug in a forest of severance. but you have teeth, and they all line up perfectly. I am not the sole architect of this maelstrom, despite the name etched into the keystone. 

winter brings out the ghoul in us all; those biding their time in the hidden tombs of our hearts. could ask to take up arms against, but the legions would only display a powerful shrug. no banners flown, just muffled war-cries. battle plans torn into pieces as small as possible. reasons for which remain grist for future mills.

no harm in how I feel, or how I describe it. no harm in the desciption of history, aside from antiquated ideas regarding people simply wanting to be with eachother. and no harm in a dobro.

swipe zero [12.24.2015]

like shaking an ashtray to one side, the east becomes queer comfort. like laying in the back of a second-hand hearse while the stars write our histories. challenge foregone  conclusions; choices made anon.  memorial flailing and blackmail. they tell you that faith will come soon enough, but it never does. our misunderstanding of darkness has a rhythm.  a beat lost in the void. or, was it a beast lost to the rhythm? matters naught, due to misplaced throng psychology. fucking muster this, mister; they will eat you alive. they smell fear, those armed with minimal mental ability.

schwarzwalder [12.24.2015]

there's either a measure of confusion garnered by the world, or fucking confusion measured by exactly what the world decides to teach. scratch off the labels to find out which is.....

dragons exist, if only in the caverns of our psychological panic.

(had a dream once where you and me and them were all lost in the same wilderness. murky and treacherous. a myriad of paths lay before us, and our collective survival relied upon all of us eschewing our differences in order to emerge beyond the gauntlet. yet, the campaign fractured; splintered into factions, each with their own idea regarding exodus. dooming each and all to ridiculous fates, with nil hope for anything but mediocre endgames.)

every little black spot in the corner of my eye is a spider, as it should be. I don't deserve complacency. every dark corner is a question no-one has the right to answer, but somehow it gets fucking asked. 

What Generals Want [12.18.2015]

Generals always want cannon fodder, especially when the battle is lost to unknown vectors. don't fuck a face full of tears, lest you desire a lesser definition of what it means to give your lesser definition of those you tend to fuck, and don't fuck the vectors you don't know. and I'm tired of being the fucking hall-monitor for the entire regiment. sunrise is forever the worst that assholes like me wish to smirk their way into peace. 

terrible velocity [12.14.2015]

I won't get roped into this bullshit again. I have pills I need to swallow. windows I need to shut, and teeth needing to be pulled. sick of wet cheeks and regrets I need to manage. tired of sweeping ashes onto my dinner plate. 

curious how a certain angle of the light shows all the grime and dust that was once hidden, yet now becomes a task of uncertain providence. curiouser still, how I forget just how much truly matters. it's a dirty monitor and a missing lighter, but the terrible velocity of my amnesia is no excuse. 

fear not, but fetch the field notes anon.

few know the sound of grinding steel which resonates from my lower jaw and travels, unbidden, into my dreams. or, the fact that scraping promises against enervations yields a scent very similar to burning hair. but, maybe that's what it means to have a nightmare? such would be singular, within the shivering realm that is my slumber. 

no answers when I sleep, and fewer when I wake. or was it the reverse? 

terrible velocity [12.14.2015]

I won't get roped into this bullshit again. I have pills I need to swallow. windows I need to shut, and teeth needing to be pulled. sick of wet cheeks and regrets I need to manage. tired of sweeping ashes onto my dinner plate.
curious how a certain angle of the light shows all the grime and dust that was once hidden, yet now becomes a task of uncertain providence. curiouser still, how I forget just how much truly matters. it's a dirty monitor and a missing lighter, but the terrible velocity of my amnesia is no excuse.
fear not, but fetch the field notes anon.
few know the sound of grinding steel which resonates from my lower jaw and travels, unbidden, into my dreams. or, the fact that scraping promises against enervations yields a scent very similar to burning hair. but, maybe that's what it means to have a nightmare? such would be singular, within the shivering realm that is my slumber.
no answers when I sleep, and fewer when I wake. or was it the reverse? 

ammunition and amnesia 12.7.2015

preoccupied by foolish needs for ammunition, we forgot where the chains are connected. we let them militias gain names, just so we can have a devil's list of places to lay the blame. yet, there is an NSA level version of amnesia involved in forgetting that the blame lies with us. foolish still, how we imagine that the ammunition never gets redirectected our way.

everbody has their hate, and hate is what everbody thinks they need for survival. like a full-body piece of Kevlar, invented by another set of dreams. and we simply imagine that the next shot won't go into our home. piercing someone we love in a terrible way we simply cannot take back.

a black thing

it's a black thing we do, when we create; holding a ball of the abyss in your hands. we toss it to and fro like a child's toy and with every volley we are, little by little, touched by the darkness. changed in Nietzschean ways. I have dust in my system and saviors in my shoulders. but for some it's a farce of the most sickly pale serene. heroes are frail like hot metal and failures are dense like clay. both break when under stress, but malleable when the time comes for reparation. less of a kill, because there's less of this version of the abyss.

he broke the breadline one too many times, and left us bereft of his oblations. albeit, the descent is far too easy to traverse. yet, the river is what he wanted, and he seemed to find his avenue of escape. he found his infinite dark. years spent searching, and spent searching years. 

COSSACKS [11.30.2015]

fear the sisters of distortion when it's icy. when it is cold enough to freeze yours tears to your cheek. feel the warning in the chill, from those who simply cannot take any more of your bullshit. your unkindness. your cruelty unbidden. eventually, we will make an easy meal of you, and find your fellows a fucking tasty dessert. your gods will have no power over what we do to you, because they had nothing to do with what you did.
 

grasp [11.27.2015]

the sky always seems heavier when you can't see the stars. but it's not as dismal as it sounds. just try to think of it as a shared roof over a house in which the entire planet inhabits. every family fights. just so happens that our family fights to the death. that's the dismal part. the part we haven't quite figured out how to do away with. every family fights, because the terror of the unknown drives us to such. the ease of this scenario is remembering grudges. the difficulty lies in forgetting them. 

burnt offerings in a vacuum [11.25.2015]

one is supposed to leave something behind. like an offering of sorts. when they flee the dread. or, perhaps a token; who the fuck knows, since both are semantic versions of extortion? 

the tempo slows, and the demons become confused.

my friend takes his weapon everywhere, expecting a fray. but, the shield-wall is raised and his only battle remains with mediocrity. a shrug melee forthcoming. the last of such in this fiefdom. 

the fossils are suddenly awake, take shelter.

it's easy to declare your allegiances, when the leather straps are placed just so. in the appropriate places. firmly stretched around the throat, where the vitriol gathers in rock-hard clusters.

the drugs pave the way, and we follow.

think about the last place you ever wanted to be, and go somewhere far far away from there.  consider it zero point and deject the idea of regret. accept that it's always going to be a matter of shaky physics. 

there's a black hole near the sun, just waiting.

silence is danger, and velocity equals hidden culpability. somewhere close a trumpet blares. this graft put upon reality is troublesome, and the impact of the gauntlet remains free of a culprit.

don't be surprised when your jailer turns out to be the mirror. 

some houses breathe foul and saccharine, hiding quagmires in the lintels. a viable psychic sludge slicking the walls. it collects, like some diabolical dust in the fucking carpet. every floor is full of its own version of hell.

rend [11.18.2015]

give me a fucking spider so it can teach me how to crawl. allow it to drag me to chillier climes. bring me a fucking centipede, so that I may learn how to avoid its poison. let it rend me incapable. have me for dinner, while wasps write our alibis. procure a fucking leach, so our hearts beat slower. rend me asunder by proxy. recite to me a pointless tale, and don't bother to ask permission when you remove my liver. or, was it my conscience? a sentence mistaken for a foregone conclusion. piety mistaken for social contract. 

apnea (4.2.2015)

yesterday, I dreamt that I was lost in some abandoned labyrinthine mall. concrete walls giving way to sinister subterranean multi-plexes and ghastly food-courts. neglected shops; their wares intact. in fact, everything, including the lights. the whole place lit up like business as usual, but I was the only one there. yet, the ironic thing is that I found this horror while running away from people. just wanted to be the fuck alone. no more ugly voices. no more useless attempts to expain myself. no more regret.  no more. then, when all seemed to be right in line with my intentions; when all seemed to be perfectly apropos...none of it belonged to me at all, and I required someone in which to share it. otherwise, it all would turn on me, like rabid bliss. my misanthropy, being the absentee minotaur of this convoluted maze. then the lights dimmed. my labyrinth (suddenly no doubt that it was mine) heaved & swelled like a vast gaudy lung. or, maybe, a monumental shrug? 

in the end...

DREAD ROAD WICHITA

it's that minor chord that makes me smile. it rises like a falcon, and drops like an expectation. the radiant shovel, excavating everything that the beat cannot deliver. it's ok though, because the horizon is a friendly portrait of distant promise. the closer we get, the more invisible we become. but, the more distance we gain, the more visible we wish it to not be instead. such a road gives us no pause within the auspice of risk. the absolutely incredulous aftermath of what we become. the next catastrophe following the fade-out. mighty us and meager mustered egos distributed among the flock. take over this bawdy nerve in a clinch. don't quote the fear, because the fear itself will give bad directions. the desert on one side, and a bloody nose on the other side of the highway. clowns that we are; bleeding into the wind like streaming red banners of unknown velocity. thousands of ways to get there, but only a single fixed point upon which to finally rest. an aerie slung steadfast in the exact wrong position. don't offer me that fucking empty heart icon, as if it's my duty to fill it. don't spend your goodwill like that. such commodities are better implemented elsewhere, always. 
Our advice to you, young journeyman:
Traverse the next exit west, and never turn left unless the alternative is just so fucked-up that not doing so means treading into certain territories which allow zero retrograde tactics of thwarting their insidious plans of nullifying any blue-book edition of exception. some adventures fucking don't require an unknown morpheme. 

whisper [8.13.2015]

dying with a whisper would be a good death. down those lanes we grift the sway of our tides. blending swiftly toward the west of our flittering joys. such furious fathoms are always mocked, threadbare in quiet spasms. silent histories, like crime scenes serenaded by cellos. so ghastly, the things we worship. so inevitable, the things we love. our smiles are juggernauts of will, and our sacrifices reflect exactly that. a starlight ricochet. a welcome void. we remain the nicknames of Nature. our collection of saviors. and, oh, that murk toward which we rally. maybe the haste is not what we require, but the hindrance of aggressive vernacular? and it's quite possible that we may need to start burying people in the places we've been fighting over. of course the End will come with a bang, but the resurgence will come by a whisper among the survivors. 

muzzle artists [written 6.23.2015]

increasingly weary of muzzle artists and sayers of all things NAY, while our scant universe is ever given over to a very seemingly puckered version of an intellectual desert. and, refrain from telling me just how one version of fodder differs from another. we all feed something.

and I missed the pageant of the planets, 

while securing my place among the upper echelon of the obscure. 

a fully medicated and tenuous position to be sure. 

the ground is not where you tread before.

it is not our fucking world anymore.

and we missed the point of the planet,

while waiting for the firmament to swoon for us.

like placing our children in the jaws of Cerberus.

guilty of breaking the blockade of grief,

reason usurping the very nature of belief.

so, the cobwebs and the relinquishment of control may just have a name after all.  nothing to do with the King's English, or any syllable known. it's a language of twitches and sneers and imposed acceptance. it's a dialect of passive disaster. 

Distortion Oil [written 7.2.2015 -7.10.2015]

there was a terrible split chord that shattered it all. just after the blackout. a minor screech, followed directly by a major scoff. we do not live to provide the template of a reverse plot. and, even less can be expected of the cracks in the clouds. slit that fucking moon like there was a dotted line right down the center, then pretend you were designed askew. smile jagged and decline crooked. let the gaping grave be your grin, just to prove a point. someone stuck an acorn in the gears & we lost a million fathoms we'll never get back. jittery is not the answer, but it'll do in a pinch. there's a treacherous debris field surrounding the better judgement of humanity. so thwart your foul orbit. despite the hyperbole of chance, you can choose your own impact. slick your hands with distortion oil, while we sift through the pieces. perhaps be a magnet for the miasma. perhaps a plague of vernacular? last phantom of desperate climes and faulty incense; the hiss of the more savvy gears beneath the objections. vault the theorem of the enemy horde and shed the scales. mix the quickness of the sideways smirk with the arrogance of the shieldwall. dread the seriousness that this farce hides. suspect the obfuscation. the lords convalesce, despite decrepitude of the system. the fringe will wait while the avatar of the major commodity distinguishes the spoil from the need. 

colloidal severance pay [4.14.2015]

set the fucking alarm!
wake up, do no harm!
no need to go berzerk!
you're doing god's work!

through the lies and through the glare,
through the acres of broken trust,
through tears of those fucked unaware, 
and, through fake fears we must
realize that the horror can be controlled!

we've been fired. not by Congress, nor Nature. not by empathy and, most certainly, not by mythical statistics.