Wednesday, January 21, 2015

Untitled

Here we are again, too close to be confused.
Yet distance is persistent, despite our evolution.
I speak and the void listens, and an abyss emerges.
This is new life. This is skepticism in the face of truth.
To stare intently. To grieve.
To brace the self in the face of Self.
To seize the momentum and breathe.
I let the train take me where it takes me, despite our conversation.
The poet is blind, with eyes wide... gazing.
To see you even as I fail to notice you, amazing.
Make it brief. Say what must be spoken.
Nourish your soul and grow.
To notice you when I fail to see you.
We attach to the ephemeral, and break apart when death comes.
We adopt stasis; our children are Fear.
And death comes, an X next to an empty line.
We sign. We sign.

Saturday, January 10, 2015

Medication Meditation

Diagnosis: psychosis. Divided focus...
mirror broken, glass shattering flying lotus.
Fist to the femur, too many lying coaches tried to fix the demeanor,
now I'm living crass. Savage in the pursuit
of the venom from dying cobras.
Time is frozen exposing the menace of my neurosis.
Madness is only calmed when subjected to higher doses.
This is levitation, head embracing horizonal-rifts,
watching pain slip away as I devise an opus.
Composed from the Heavens? This scenic route,
paths crossing hopeless dimensions, if agnostic
then no mirrors, lights on, shadowboxing with Beetle-juice.
My screams for truth get passed off as demons who
whisper contingencies and paradoxes they breed with brutes.
Wickedness in the deep, I swear I'll stop them.
Do I seem confused with moral depravity?
Breathing putrefaction, no warnings or maps to lead
me, so instead I feed the serpent the apple seed.
I ask him if we can't believe? If he's mad at Eve?
If we ought to go along with divine tragedy.
The sadness bleeds from cracks in the glass of dreams;
no stones to pass for a hack reprieve.
No praxis needed, no practice, just relax and read...?
If modernity is poison at least we have the Greeks.
If Rome was a measure, man is manic, neurotic.
With Platonic doctors making Alexander a profit.
Multi-sided. Lost inside an awkward mind with
compulsion driving the opus maker to falsify.
Not One, a pole of anger controlling hatred,
the other, just a poet taking lashes from your thoughtful God.
I'm no believer, but far from atheistic.
Somewhere along the line I should have bought the lies;
I may have missed the point of all the dying.
Could this be the cause of my demonic nature?
I'm far from gone, but my pain is approaching apex.
Embracing the soul: my brain stretched
through the corridors of space, catching panic.
A forty floor collapse from the mortar, war
in enormous chords, rhythm, chaos and gore.
And lords rule the quarter with rhetoric, a seance
explored to discover the hordes in exodus.
Penmanship: the trump and the sword.
A vengeance myth, but still my sentence lives.
A sentence of life in the meta. A tamed fox
with the grey hare of the "apoc"; face locked in confusion.
In flames, lots have been ruined...
I'm choosing music,
a fluid dynamic existing with true fire,
dancing in loose fibers. Resisting your soothsayers.
Not afraid to embrace a change in the scheme.
'Cause these raging reprieves are danger to me,
but truth ranges from greatness to weakness.
My name is in leagues with pagan elites.
My pages are freedom for the enslaved and the meek.