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. 

  

REPURPOSED [6.23.2015]

I take this pain in my head, and I repurpose it as vehemence.  I ball up my culpability like yellow cake & save it for a rainy day. I am the other shoe awaiting the inevitable impact. I am the designated asshole. I am physics at its worst, and I drag the moon into my business. I am the blackboard, and I am the screech of errant chalk. I take this "sudden but eventual betrayal" and repurpose it as kindling. I am the scrapings from your favorite thing to scrape. I am the squint derived from an unscratchable itch. I am the looking glass through which you fall. I am the six feet of earth you need to remove from your grave. I am the tiny bubble in your IV, unfortunately. I make a fist and leave my apologies in the space within. I am the Ace Of Spades that falls through the grate. I am the bump on your log. I am the left hand in the warm water. I am the space in which you crawl. I vomit my guilt into your kitchen sink and wipe my mouth with your secrets. I fucking hate everything, and everything fucking hates me. and I repurpose that scorn into a viable fuel source called sustainable vitriol.

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.