Just Cease

A house upon a hill, upon a crest, amongst the chill.
Gusting winds like trusting sin, it wasn't real.
The doubt without the feeling, we suffered less,
but even though you struck my flesh; I wasn't killed.

Resurrected connections, a dream only lucid.
The music was flute-ish, deep and fluid, I knew it...
Creeping, gleaming, sneaking you in for union.
Communion, confusion exclusive to novelty;

prophecy when you toppled me, that promised summer;
I stopped to wonder, I hungered, and honestly

you fed me when I needed it. That somber evening

I awoke up to find you sleeping; a nightmare, quite clear...
Quite scared even though I was right there.
Bite harder, scratch deeper so I can breathe again.
That fever, a demon's breath, brutal natures...
Image after image of your wishes, can I choose the flavor?
Shoot the paper with ink, if cupid's wrong
I just settle into myself and do a song. Move along.
Uniform lovely scent, the matron returns;

such vacant concerns, so flagrant your fragrance it burns.

To face it, I study to harvest virtue.
Within me the yin and yang grows, just start the circle.
To sit upon thrones with a crown of nails.
You picked the wrong rose, I'm out to sail.

Yes, love is religious orthodoxy, precision origami
an inch or more, to kick the door to stop me.
A distant war with bombings just to witness whores for intercourse.
The instant force continued so you could stick the sword inside me.
An infant, born a zombie, a different sort of body.
Organs torn to bits just for a copy, but there's orphans dying,
crying in the corners of the formless forests, endorphins.
Trying to abort the soreness; lying; won't report the corpses.
The metaphor obscureness, a corpus for fortune.
Rhyming is my orphic endorsement, assorted in orbit...
flying to erase the torment, morbid in shape, proportioned

for fate. If we pry we can escape the storms, arrange the forms.
A frame of thorns, a broken heart where the pain's absorbed.
A focused art, so much work until it's blown apart.
Bones in shards, so much hurt until she chokes the throat and
screams until we both explode and sleep, or bleed...

To face it, I study to harvest virtue.
Within me the yin and yang grows, just start the circle.
To sit upon thrones with a crown of nails.
You picked the wrong rose, I'm out to sail.

Pain is pleasure, fear is clearly what drives me.
Lyrically I'm me, serious silence but rhyming
is binding and blinding, reminding 

that within the inner dimensions I'm shining, relentless.
Combining of sentence and message, defining

the lessons from Mencius, dividing contention.
Suspended in the sky, free from the endless decline.
If humanity is good, only to be cultivated...
I extend an ultimatum, pretend, the awful hatred depends
on the pain that descends.

So when you aim to extend this misery,

juut remember there's no reward at the end. 

Just cease.

Master Proof

I spent my days as a youth roaming,
despite the fact that I stayed in my room lonely.
Prayers confused, I was prime prey for the muse.
I guess what they say isn't true;
who needs meaning when life is just a matrix of proofs?
Aesthetic reason, poetic patrons in tune with my mind:
a tetrahedron designed for creative pursuits.
They call it complexity;
quantum obsessions over subjective concoctions,
directed perceptions, or modest impression-streams.
Beliefs built on the assumption there's freedom in logic,
but only when God isn't mentioned.
Their arguments are arduous
but think of what we started with:
after years of skirmishes we learned to live in partnerships.
From bartering to sophistry, euclidean geometry,
to pyramid and ponzi schemes, diminishing those promised dreams.
I write to reach clarity, but find that it's a rarity,
for the closer I approach the more I'm blinded by our "right" to speech.
To clarify, it won't suffice to speak carefully,
'cause our language is moot,
owing to constraints that we're scared to breach.
Slowly time encroaches on our hopes to be prepared for peace:
just think of our despairing greed.
Inherent flaws rampantly consuming Thought.
Communication exhausted due to the abuser's cost,
invoiced to the future cause, assuming law
and order isn't drawn and quartered by bombs and mortar.
Either singularity or somewhere between
robotic warders and a new evolutionary breed.

Organic flux,
either struggle against the grain or let fate command your crux.

I spend my days as a man learning.
I spend my nights as a father.
He's the motivation to change,
'cause deep inside is a monster.

He is beautiful, an unexpected seamless musical--
with Kant I used to grope in the dark for reasoned truth.
From teaching youth seasoned proofs and seeking meaning,
to either sleepless evenings or ceaseless dreaming.
It needs repeating;

I spend my nights as a man changing.
I spend my life as a father.
He's the motivation to change,
for deep inside lives a monster.

Morally stricken, you set the course and position,
embedded genetics, no need to force a description.
Scattered across months of anticipatory remittance
to save the soul or some gold?
To pay the toll and to go forth to your limits.
They say the formula isn't ordinance driven,

but to be yourself for a Self to be formed and conditioned.
If only I could make sense of it,
how nature could create such a dangerous convention.
Nature could have mentioned how creation is dependence,
instead I'm caught without preparations or defenses.
I guess there's no mistaking the intentions of the Absolute.
I suppose it Acts with Truth.
Even though I've had the muse, now I've set the dragon loose.
The motivation to create is embedded in established roots.
Now to have these roots sprout into a Master Proof,
with axioms of passion and fallacies of madness.
No father could prepare his son for how rapidly it happens...
How masterfully it captures youth.

...the natural order

"Hell is empty and all the devils are here"

"Abandon all hope, ye who enter here."

A cathedral: moated, protecting Heaven from endless fear.

Within a cloistered protectorate, the guardian of the Seventh Sphere;

that of virtue, where the bravest never shed a tear.

Around the Pergola de Academe sat a master with sagacity.
Surrounded by the youth eager to hear a masterpiece.
In the distance, sounds of clashing things, swords and mortar rattling.
In the circle a lesson: "never let your capacities be overcome by lack of reach."
The master's hand extended with pointed finger toward the castle's Greens;
"The children there are stewards of perfect virtuous mastery.
They haven't lost their vision; persistent in their pursuit of ends.
But never so blinded that they would use a friend."
Virtue is a striving for, but it's a goal without trajectory.
One can only hope to aim correctly.

"Carnality's vestige." Hope here is truly transience.

A room divided by the six desires from the grand Hedonist.

They talk of Demons. But only phantoms tend to manifest.

Irony: substantial grips on the temporary meaningless.

The Forever War: manufacturing weapons and necklaces.

Bread and swords. Unleaded or synthetic oil.

Beds to eat your breakfast in or simply to have sex with whores.

To the 5-star, they "toss your salad" with peppercorns.

Machines to copy text to message boards with propaganda.

Disassociating self, alienation, a shot for cameras.

The constant hammering, development, suburban sprawl.

Covering Earth with dogs and sipping sugar through Slurpee straws.

Dehydrated minds naked and blind, tell me what you're thirsty for...

But never ask questions... there's the television. Turn it on.

Within these walls, esteem falls; a sea-squall of grief.

Long dreams of results, but more reason to feast on.

Greased and dripping disease, raw pickings: they eat. 

False systems repeat wrong traditions to each pawn. 

Chessboard divided by flesh wounds and cyanide.
Organs shine through the vestibule, ingesting food like iodine.
Healthcare professionals might x-ray to inflate the bill;
and as you approach the matrix, still you can choose to take the pill.
But if you refuse, don't expect to escape the reel;
another tape to pull mistaken fools through the bake-n-kill.
Distort organs with bacon; real or fake: become statistic.
No grammar to explain it proper; poetic justice misfit.
The language: dangerous, prompting a war on your plainness.
Victory's secret mistress defeated by physical self estrangement.

Hear the clank of the falling minted currency currently. 

Connect the circuitry to feed the system's gambling addiction. 

Automated trading, economic murdering perfectly. 

We all stand for this cancerous demand to be the richest. 

Picture the scene. Suited minions of Greed.

Finger-jabbing germ-infested touchscreens until lunch.

Shovel muck into the gullet; quickly revisit the stream.

Fall into the same river with currents pigmented green.

Keep your vision to the screen as digits remain in flux;

all this talk of gun control... fighting to sustain their bucks.

Don't get it twisted though; many slaughter for amazing stuff.

Operating within a system that can hardly take a punch.

Graphs and diagrams make intelligible avarice.

So save up for your next piece of chemical and plastic mix.

"Hell is empty and all the devils are here."

This is paradise hidden from any semblance of fear. 

I've seen billboards with more authentic sincerity. 

Perception twisted by a Heavenly Parody. 

A Shakespearean comedy.

But What Pretty Lies She Told

I still hear her laugh in the back of my mind;

a simple joy captured in time.

This Civil War has lasted a while,

so as I listen for the bastion's alarm, I sit exploring the past;

the sublime master's design, Fate;

many visits to the liquor store waiting for my 5th deployment.

The wait; thinking a drink and I could just ignore it.

The hate; no control, all drafted in line.

My boots, strapped and secured;

so important to have that support engaging in the action of War.

Just maybe this is the last.

Many stories tend to start with a description of the clouds.

But this one... is without, just a mist in our surroundings.

A new era prevailing; such persevering surveillance,

robotic camera details amongst a series of fail safes.

Still not used to the eerie silence of the rail trains;

rendered null by the jail breaks...

behind me used to be the bustling action of the city.

High speed moving every passenger so swiftly.

Propaganda spread via graffiti bombings with

government bribing loyalists through weakened promises.

I can't put my finger on why I didn't join the youth.

I guess my optimistic nature tends spoil the truth.

In college I was skeptical, but needed more than proof,

the evidence took precedence but I didn't think it'd force a coup.

In retrospect revolutions seem easy to predict;

But the call of Dogma is never easy to resist.

Today is the day of reckoning. I dropped my pen and ink;

as my bunk-mate used to say, it's better to never think.

But I'm a skeptic I said, should a captain let his treasure sink?

He said a man is simply judged despite the means for the measuring.

I supposed he was right then; today more than ever.

Rain suits over flack jackets to combat this horrid weather.

Whether to weather the storm's never a question explored...

The pain of the freezing rain's much like flesh to the sword.

Dextroamphetamine deployed to the thumping heart,

today in history: Blitzkrieg stomped before it could up and start.

We wandered for months in this fucking darkness;

our enemy?

Our cousins and brothers are up in arms to defend their freedom.

I still struggle when attempting to set these events to language.

I accept it's dangerous and disguise my subjective anguish...

Experience is nothing if the memory is vanquished;

So what is this thought as I'm staring into this centurion surveillance?

Technology is greater now; to think of what I fought for...

I used to hear her laugh then; a faint giggle or chuckle;

its memory exists like the love but the sense of its muffled.

I still pick the pen up to consider the worst of it

but there's no resolution; The Infinite Purposeless.

Defend the conservative; lose ambition and certainty.

The economy is greater now; to think of what I fought for...

A cause lost in the cause itself,

a war lost in a Lost War.

demon and not daemon

I am demon and not daemon.

Breathing unfocused energies and bleeding clotted Forms.

Infused with the muse’s poisoned juices,

Making dunes of considerable itch on my skin.

The Culprits are evolution’s blood leech.

Winged musk-beasts. Such teeth,

Such complete devastation to feel crushed beneath.

Organic metaphysics.

That which takes from my slowly ebbing reserves

Simply replenishes something else’s.

Are these epidermic dunescapes truth makers?

An epidemic concordance of soothsayers.

We breathe alike too.

I swear I felt the mechanism that keeps the sky blue.

Language conscripts itself with the reasoner’s encouragement.

So yes, that must have been the demon I knew.

Beneath the sky, truth keeps fleeting by,

Who speaks just like you?

The nine solar instances,

Through which to remain reminded of the recycling entropic.

Ontic-tensed logic, like reaching for your coin-purse,

Or your wallet shoved inside your wet pockets.

Those are choice words! Chosen freely through and beyond me.

I’m just a visage envisioned through lack.

The shine of the darkness. The impact of the shift from

Pitch black to the light of noon.

No doubt the sky would move for you too.

Our structure is in the connective tissue;

Not reducible to the system which gives rise to its own means.

Another dune created by June.

A mere two-fold gesture from clock’s triumvirate.

My skin is an atlas of history and philosophy and poetry.

But what goes on within this skin?

Within this skull of such weakness to impulse.

6/5/13

And they heard the call;
this time, with empowered deceit reinforced by those mountainous trees.
Bulwarks holding fast against full force. Control the Pass.
They learned to fall with belief in their concerted cause.

Elder Statesman

Asking for Muse, he sat gripping the straps on his boots.
He knew the quill would drip mystic passionate truth, and yet
He still advised;
Place your hands on the heart of rhythm.
The soul demands that the mark of wisdom
doesn't get lost before the dark within us.
He watches freedom ignore us.
Tethered to beliefs in reprieve.
As if peace is before us, hands out waiting to receive it's release.
Of course trust in the authority's power is waning.
With the turn of a dial, the circuit's reprisal
sends disconnected worth through the herd with a smile.
Rhetoric is just as much evidence as authentic riff.
Language: merely a means for transmitting messages,
devouring hastily those cowards that blame.
I guess malice can only challenge the sane;
such intellectual drought people doubt when it rains.
Among a withered crop yield, proud of his pain;
it's much too difficult for the victim to challenge his Fate.

Amongst the Crowd

Take cover amongst the crowd -
they'll only see you as one of the hustled [now].
Trouble bound, no escaping this mushroom cloud -
this is madness, madness! Or motivation... -
I took the shuttle to the ether -
Either I'm dreaming or I cannot touch the ground.
Either I'm breathing too quickly to think correctly,
or my heart is underpowered.
I started but never finished -
She begun without a shred of vision,
a lovely child and better mother,
I wonder how she'd be if she wasn't proud.
So get to cover the brush is down,
no canvas needed for [genius] to construct a shroud...
Lucid believers suited as reapers
with hand fulls of truth as we see it.
they want us out!