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.   

often and loudly

with suppurating eyes and falsified records. with zero-point fealty and a kink in the neck. with muscle memory twitches and all that they entail. I remain ill-equipped to be your slave. insomnia, like many things occurring beyond our control, can have their benefits.
nature never apologizes.
is it the time for an insurrection of the senses? is it time to just slip away into some vortex of unearned beauty, like we were entitled to such?
spending bliss beyond our means, we pervert the concept. convincing ourselves that the combination is anything but insane. then again, insanity tends to have a much higher success rate. 
  

THE FOOLISH FOOL, FOOLED BY FOOLISHNESS

I've discovered a new understanding of my vocabulary:

1. If I begin a statement with the words "Now really", then your eyes immediately glaze over, and everything post will be abjectly ignored until
2. I say some completely rational shit in which you
3. suddenly arrive at concurrence with me, in which
4. we can, therefore, continue a decent conversation, wherein
5. you agree with what I fucking had to say in the first place. 

bezoar [4.8.2015]

I'm gonna make my own god. with yellow cake and regret, and mix it with leavened outrage and a pinch of sea-salt. 23 minutes, and at least a day's rest, we have a batter of the purest bullshit.

and then I'm gonna bake my god in an oven which the heat source is a chemical miasma of false-facts, political pandering, 

and a bezoar for flavor.

then&yet [4.6.2015]

missives beguiling and ground-level radiation. live for now, but only because then is shit, and yet means nothing less than resignation. always a twitch where the clock is ticking, and always a click where the twitch is losing time. and, you bet the world won't stop turning, regardless of the current climate. so, come again another day.

considering the established end, it's not the flesh of weak humans which other humans will consume, but the stories of the weak instead. 

history is merely the predator writing the sad tale of its prey.   

jagged is better than jilted, unless the latter is self-imposed. jittery is also an acceptable answer. provided it is posed in the form of a question. and blood is a great cleanser, provided that it's your own. just be careful of where you leave it to dry.

cause everyone knows they're coming. the proverbial they. coming to take the proverbial yours. arriving in the proverbial unbidden. better batten down those proverbial hatches, place your proverbial head between your proverbial knees, and kiss your proverbial ass goodbye, proverbially.  

fragrant spiders [April Fool's 2015]

I thought I'd avoid the mess by placing the incense near the ceiling, but all I did was make the spiders more fragrant. the ashes, well, where they landed remains a mystery. and these days, it seems, I am amused by nothing. 

and nothing is amused by me.

somewhere amidst this secret mathematic there's a queer code hidden within the folds of a feverdream. its mystic twists holding shame in coils of psychological fealty. "count the hours. count the minutes." serfing the tide, so to speak. 

and so the tide speaks of the serf.

the only true success in this scenario belongs to the spiders that bite you in your sleep, and then crawl away unscathed. you're left with nothing but itchy red bumps and confusion. awakening to a lost battle of their design.

and so the design is lost to their awakening. 

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...