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...