Tuesday, October 20, 2015

The Bunker of Desperation


The Bunker of Desperation


There is an immense desperation that takes over the heart when we stand next to the abyss and peer into its emptiness.


Next, I find myself in a bunker in the middle of some war. Which war it was, I was not sure. It really doesn’t matter, a war is a war. In every war, people’s lives are placed in the hands of fate. More times than not, a person’s fate is to experience the end of their life. This is true for those unfortunate souls who find it their duty to kill and die for some cause.

There were soldiers there, and they all were wearing gas masks. Bombs are exploding all around us. Each time a shell met with the earth, there was a loud horrific sound and dirt flying all over us. I could see the fear spread across their faces. Their faces said more than they could put into words. Their faces were a universe unto itself.

They were all young men, probably only in their teens. There was a naivete that oozed from the pores of their skin.  

We found ourselves in the midst of something impossible. At the core lay something illogical, something twisted. There was an absence of any profound reasons, nothing we could put our finger on. A tempest raged around us. This was a place of consequences. They had been living among the razor blades, being cut by the slightest movement. They all had little cuts here and there and their uniforms were covered with blood stains. It was a reality of delirium. We were being taught a lesson of how small we are.

They were parts of a machine that once gave them a false sense of purpose. Now they saw that the machine itself was the reason for suffering. Their illusions of war had provided them with a sense of security. Their security was bashed in the head by the harsh and brutal reality of their existence. Their part in the machine was to die. They were the raw materials that were destroyed in order to make something else. Blindly they thought that this something else was peace. But, the machine does not want peace, it only wants war.


Their minds were introduced to the thoughts of the shadows. The objective mind was impossible in the midst of their situation. Their fear of death brought them to the inevitable conclusion. The limitations of their world showed them their true selves. They became willing to give up that which was so precious to them.


They were struck in the face by the absurdity of their existence. Absurdity was the only definition of their world that made any sense. Does this absurdity of life require blood? Does life only have meaning through death?


The origin of intense feeling is a ridiculous beginning. These soldiers were certainly in a ridiculous situation. They were trying to end the lives of some unknown enemy before the enemy ended their lives. Their anxiety was the source of everything.



Their feelings outlined the borders of their universe. They delineated a point which no one should venture past. Thus, they put a limit on their feelings because to go beyond would increase suffering. A person is defined by his or her feelings and the limits each places upon them.

Faced with the reality of their situation, they could no longer invest in a future. An unknown future stood before them and they were helpless in its grasp. They admitted to themselves that they stood at the threshold of time. A time that was running out for them. They were victims of time. They had been clothed in illusion, They prepared for a future they didn’t want to accept.

They were concerned about questions concerning their immortal soul. They attempted to face their reality without flinching. They faced the certainty of death without hope. They realized that the door of hope had been closed for them and they could not find the key to open it.


Some put their hopes in the existence of another reality. Hope they considered to be their greatest ally. Their hopes were reaching out to another world. A hope for a life beyond this life. A more valuable real world. They looked away from this life to a life that comes later. A life that is filled with happiness and eternal joy. They put their hope in an escape from their suffering. A reality where their suffering will no longer exist. They desired to live a life with only joy. This idea of joy is an illusion. A life without suffering is impossible.

Hope is an evil that has been let loose upon humanity. The machine feeds us hope so that we blindly do its bidding. The source of the solders’ hope is the machine. Hope is the reason they let themselves suffer. They suffer for a peace that they hope someday will exist.


Now they knew the truth. It was a truth that they could touch with their own hands. They discovered that life is full of suffering. Their calculations resulted in a conclusion of death. They previously had put their trust in life. This trust was their nourishment. Now they put their trust in suffering.They realized that their suffering would only end in death. All they had was the present and a future that they could not fully comprehend.

rm17b

readymade1 - postmodern art

Friday, September 25, 2015

The Hallway Part1

The Hallway of Oblivion

I recognize that my metaphysical world was outside my past world of experience. This alternative world was not above my past world, but beneath it. The alternative world that I was in was a corruption of the human experience. I did not find joy there, I only found fear and desperation. My fulfillment as a human being was suppressed in this alternative world. This alternative world was an evil world, a shadow world of the life I once enjoyed. This was a world without change, my life of becoming had ended and now I was in the nothingness of an alternative world. I was trapped in a permanent world without change. This was a world that has no way out.

Human life does not have a greater significance. This has all been a catastrophic miscalculation of reality. Our histories are written as a slow and certain decline. This life is a burden. There really is no good reason why human life should continue to exist. Are we alive merely for convenience? When a life is weighed upon the scales of reality, every life is discovered to be lacking merit and value. Everything in this existence is trash, rotting garbage that has no value. The good in life does not justify the evil in this life.

Sometimes we strain to see the other side and then there are those moments when we can see clearly and everything falls into place. Of course we may not like the place where it takes us. Most of us do not have a choice in the manner nor the strength to resist it. Sometimes you can feel it inside of you growing beyond your control.

This dark place must be destroyed. I deny the existence of the absolute. I have learned to deny the possibility of certainty. I reject the possibility of absolute moral or ethical values. There is no truth. The concept of truth is a social construction. Truth is defined by the powerful. Thus, the destruction of all truth is the foundation for the improvement of life. Death has its own hidden forces which can only be experienced through death.

Monday, August 24, 2015

the pointy stick

That Pointy Stick

she found it, running around
where she said that she couldn’t
I think I will, Vickie had it
recite your prayers, it goes back to Sue
too little, too late, too much for the pictures
to bind your will, last rolling papers
I did not mean for this, solid bloom
it came out all wrong, sipping whiskey
to the window, your thrill, as I climbed upon the ladder
she said it was all about love, all about the intention
the bet upon the wheel, to jack the bitch
gone all week, all but the original purpose
plastic bags, about 4:40 or so,
that will work, for original sin

The Visionary Ghost

The visionary Ghost

Seeing is ethnographic
high upon your perch
questions from the sick
squeeze and cough
I looked up Wednesday
she saw stars in my eyes
doing the devil’s bidding
her grayness was excitable
I will wait until the time is ripe
embrace your ritualized cruelty
the play without words
only the actions of the fearful
pour your distrust upon me
I have learned to see through your eyes

Friday, May 1, 2015

A Note on Pathos

A Note on Pathos
Weak feelings of foreclosure, one breath high upon the pile
a monumental steamroller, underneath, while the crowd shouts for more
eating flesh, pulling the flesh, smashing everything down, eviscerate
incited agenda, want to dissect, everyone who stood
you feel nothing, to lose everything, emotions through, and the distance grows
no internal apocalyptic, never loved, evil compelled by logic
the numbness, a rejection of everything, furrowed people
and care about nothing, the strive, the purpose, the agenda
struggling within, to die once more, dead in their eyes
this creeps upon, from her lips, with bright eyes and darkened souls
you, recognizable soul, slow corrosion, I nail you to the floor,
crawls up the back, the forces of good and evil, bloodthirsty ghoul
and takes you with the wildness, never inhabited, under the devious face
by surprise, raised in your own image, they do lie, falling asleep
with capacity, chewing your heart, here to trick you, to fold
the most important, turns to the mouth, seeing darkness, into little creatures
you feel nothing, hoisted white flags, plastic spreading sickness
or capacity for empathy with anyone else, giving the flame
you become a blind and brutal force, a proxy for freedom, for execution, sick like you
that has no direction, burying your head, breathe in the dark as the others sleep
or destination, swallowed, engulfed, feeling the blood, out into the streets.

Leaving

Leaving
Out into the street, dragged, under your nose
they, you, us, killing thing-fingerless gloves
executed, dressed all nice and fancy-black leather
all others, admired touch, which a velvet
burned the pretty words, some very subtle things
tongues nailed up with your shadows, pretending
on the courthouse walls, I rolled you down.
Look, dead prophets, a buildup of layers
once flowed as your boredom laughed
never owned, me the views, to be real
by the love song from everyday life.
Now they are silent, large landscapes
staring into the distance , all sepia tones
and dead little fleck, light upon your breasts
like the rest of us, your rawness.
Fields, still comes through, never more beautiful
with good intentions, I watched and waited
changed so much, as your scarlet see-through blouse
because they were blessed, danced through the streets
with such insight, repeat ourselves, with flowers in your ears
and understanding, building upon the other.
Tupelo (Published Bone Orchard Poetry)
sitting on floor, casting long shadow
with the smell of bodily pronounce
physical exertion, the end-slaughterhouse
propped up all around you, with flamboyance
can possess, between your legs, voices
hear the music, anymore; you hide it under your seat,
poison everything, with mercy and born
they will never fade, inhospitable cradle
smoke, holding Bacchus down
Valhalla, with one foot-on your soul
I didn’t realize, the downsize of truth
the full extent of the down here, the awakened flesh
of your injuries, and the beforehand starts,
the postures of exhaustion, spits freestyle
they fall out empty and get paid
onto the floor; are themselves exhausted
I pick through them, the guilty confessions
everything appears like a slippery nipple
flattened, shortened and bastardized.

Thursday, April 30, 2015

SAD

Sad
a stretcher,  no longer parasite to hymnal
stalking blonde, wounded turn, a clear pure evil
alien eyes, chained down there
counter dreamed, cohabitation
obsessed photos, passed through cannibal blue
detrimental body, this world
harvested smear, a whirl
sit with signs and razor blades
hands of death that touch me everywhere
they always say no to your dreams
these nude arms are so long and they bend
past two-story cats with whiskey smiles
and elevator knees that swoon, sucks you down
your tongue purring, as a fishmonger
dark crying, in my hands, more real
holding to the lambs as they scream
tolerate longer sadness, making bones
stretch lone fingers, like coins, take this misery
tornado dramas, static dead skin, emboldened wolf



totaled as stench, a named junkie
throw off the chance, the wait for death
you say to any and all to always
to gather only you and dream electric
lies lost with the doom, human eye
mischievous archway, burn fecund
agnostic freckles, resistance, a pour
moving towards breathing, misdirection
exotic dirty, and any way you can take it
your shapes, have all been sold
echoes of decay, say it all so well
solitude between my fingers, and a dancer
most days lost, most days not feeling

Friday, February 13, 2015

Glean Trout

Glean Trou

for your dream voice, exploited primal fear
synthetic over time, neutralized capture
constructed allegorical, boring oxygen whirl
Two by two, we marched to the bossa nova
tiny revolution,  absorbing the very aesthetic
go to the top and back down, all the real fun
hideaway behaviors, loosened wrath
unfit for the socialite, we actors and insurgents
coming emissions, under her dress
Chesterfield broken crosses
vehemently venomous, two teeth missing, small soul hate
heavy shoulders, a fancy little smile
transfigured attempt, that spoke of his flippancy
still waiting for the artificial, infiltrate and remember
I am dead, like a diminutive Jesus

Cold Beef

Cold Beef

Weapon wants , she purchased
to drill herself deeper/ a bit of a connection
into the bedrock, ORTHOGRAPHIC
a sizable amount of dynamite
rough-shod replica
contraception
on, scrubbing the love out of the human.

about Spain.
room service,
people are dying.
We all die for the wrong things.
It is the love for the metamorphosis.

You took the creature down
and coiled it around your neck,
still passing me the encrypted note.

pacing the tiny apartment with subpar footwear.
I can see a path being worn in the thin bare carpet.
a product of this digital age.
I pulled out the Yeats and found you at the door stoop;
you were pretending to be real –
fresh from the cement mall.
I want the hand of the maker to be seen.

Nubile Bourgeoisie

Nubile Bourgeoisie

they have saucers in their eyes, wiping blood
smoking opium, communist manifesto
you wait, into the void of desperation, blood, uterus brain
piano stool, as Tonya’s ass, to defend, needing a fix, orbital dance
leaves you, the walls give in, as this life swallows, from banging
in the rear of the saloon, hanging over the beam, this fake democracy
you whole, to the butcher, as far as Chicago
sheer lunacy, skeletons tightly packed, laughing eyes
the mossy Hamburg , in her closet, snouted brutes, of the Holy Ghost
with beer trumpets and bent needles, her mother’s muff
for her pickled meats, to know that I was dead

A Note on Pathos


Weak feelings of foreclosure, one breath high upon the pile
a monumental steamroller, underneath, while the crowd shouts for more
eating flesh, pulling the flesh, smashing everything down, eviscerate
incited agenda, want to dissect, everyone who stood
you feel nothing, to lose everything, emotions through, and the distance grows
no internal apocalyptic, never loved, evil compelled by logic
the numbness, a rejection of everything, furrowed people
and care about nothing, the strive, the purpose, the agenda
struggling within, to die once more, dead in their eyes
this creeps upon, from her lips, with bright eyes and darkened souls
you, recognizable soul, slow corrosion, I nail you to the floor,
crawls up the back, the forces of good and evil, bloodthirsty ghoul
and takes you with the wildness, never inhabited, under the devious face
by surprise, raised in your own image, they do lie, falling asleep
with capacity, chewing your heart, here to trick you, to fold
the most important, turns to the mouth, seeing darkness, into little creatures
you feel nothing, hoisted white flags, plastic spreading sickness
or capacity for empathy with anyone else, giving the flame
you become a blind and brutal force, a proxy for freedom, for execution, sick like you
that has no direction, burying your head, breathe in the dark as the others sleep
or destination, swallowed, engulfed, feeling the blood, out into the streets.


Wednesday, January 28, 2015

wntmlcsk


magic



We live in a world infused with purpose and meaning. All things share a relationship deeper and wider than in our modern view. Magic involves the belief in the essence of all things.



Magic is an attempt to understand experience and influence the world using rituals, symbols, actions, gestures, and language. Magic rituals are precisely defined actions and words used to cause some effect in the material world. Magic often employs symbols that are thought to have abilities to promote the desired effect in the ritual being performed





Magic involves practices that influence the mind, body, or property of others against their will. Words, gestures, and magical tools are used to carry out a magical action. Magic is a manipulative force exercised through the practice of the will of the seeker. In magical practice, words and actions are used by the seeker to bring about real changes in the physical world.



Magic makes the world bend to your will. Magic is a journey from powerlessness to power. It involves the transformation of the material word, turning the world upside-down. Power is the ability to exact change, even against the resistance of others. There exists in nature a force which is immeasurably powerful. By knowing how to adapt and direct this power, one can alter the direction of the stars and the universe. We are not blindly driven by the forces of the stars – we have the ability to act upon this influence and later our world according to our will.