Suicidal Seed?

Is this strength,
an immunity
to the zombie virus

that has clearly infected
the majority of the population,

ensuring that I am
a representative
of the band of strange souls
determined to better fashion

a world out
of the coming ashes
of this bitter
and old, decaying world,
this awkward,
blood-bag container:

product
of eggs
and cum
to dust,

or is this truly a blazing, neon
sign of weakness,
a foolish, pathetic, childish

stubbornness
possessing my soul, haunting

this cosmic eye-blink
of a life, an insipid impulse
blossoming, spawned
from an ultimately suicidal seed:

an ill-advised,
potentially fatal
refusal to adapt?

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Advanced. Civilized. Insane.

It’s strange, living in the context of this society and having to find a job. Want a good job? Be a skilled motherfucker. Go to college to learn skills for a particular career — one you might not even be able to acquire, which could suck, as you might need such a job in order to pay off your student loan debt.

No college? Dropped out? Learn a trade.

In any case, it’s a fair question: how exactly is it that you go about getting a job? Well, bare bones, it goes like this: you are free to choose who you are a slave to, if only you can master the art of advertising and can coerce them into such a purchase — because let’s face it, you’re really trying to sell yourself to them through a resume, an application, during an interview, by showing what an effective tool you can be in their toolbox, what a fine and dandy fucking cog you would be in their particular machine. And once you get in, once you’ve been bought, you go on to try to prove your worth, show what a grand gear, what a superior slave you are so as to earn that raise or promotion.

This? This is growing up. This is being an adult.

It’s amazing the suicide rate isn’t higher.

For 99% of our history as a species we lived in small, nomadic bands that hunted, gathered, fished and engaged in small-scale agriculture, wandering about within a fixed territory in response to the seasons, enjoying deeper social connections and far more leisure time than we do in modern society, free from the ills that plague the modern human, our ultimate impact on the environment moderate — but the agricultural revolution, the industrial revolution, where we stand today?

This? This is advanced. This is civilized.

This world is insane.

Dexter Mindset.

Go to work.
Watch your flavor
of fake news.

Attend church.

Build a mask,
you fucking faker:

fashion
a costume.

Be Mister Glad-Hand.
Smile at strangers.
Master your foreplay,

then fuck
their brains
out through their eyes.

Despite this:
be negligent to your wife,
a total dick

to your kids.
Live like no one
is noticing.

As if no one cares.

Makes it easy
for me
to slither

in, unleash
my blade

and slit
your throat.

Land-Fish and the Need-to-Know.

Caught fish in a pond,
examined,
experimented upon,
tagged
then let go

so you could monitor
them remotely,
occasionally engage

in subsequent,
covert,

catch-and-release operations
to study
them more directly:

makes
enough sense, I guess,

but, still: why follow
families, why track
these bloodlines?

Who are you?
Reptilian, gray,
mantis fuck:

what are you doing
to me? Who am
I? What am I… Why
is it that I can’t

recall?

How can I remember?

I don’t
want to believe:

I want greater understanding,
as I need to know.

Dead Thought (Plea to Reason).

To this clown
on the podium,

gestures
either defining a boundary,
identifying an enemy,
or referencing an unseen sky,

words aimed
at no more
then the simple,

sequential,
linear:

dead thought:

manifestation
of these species-wide
suicidal tendencies.

I plead reason:
let it infect your brain,
so silly and dangerous,

I plead empathy,
let compassion grow
from that old, fertile soil,

carried along
by that sense of self-preservation
and exponential growth
for which you aim,

albeit presently
only in a superficial,
ultimately
doomed kind of way.

Just your stereotypical
rude awakening.

Aim of Awakening.

If you would be so kind
as to pardon

me, it seems I
must now lapse
into a coma.

Hit the sack.
Summon the Sandman.
Go the hell
belly up and beddy-bye.

Take a snooze.
Catch some Z’s:

sail on the sea of dreams,
row-row-rowing my boat,
and not always so merrily,
if I might come clean…

Crash.
Collapse.
Slip into a slumber.

Take a breath,
close my eyes,
hoping for a wave
of sleep to take me under,

willing an awakening
from a restful, revitalizing
slumber

through which I finally
feel refreshed,
hopeful, and relentlessly
ambitious:

so clear
and complete.

Exhale (Beyond a Spectrum of Skins).

Eyes slanted,
almond-shaped,
liquid black,

or all-too-human,
so narrowed,

reduced to pupils encased
in lively green, a moat
surrounded by dead white:

does it really matter?

Monsters take shelter
in a vast spectrum of skins.

It’s all in the glow.

Arms open or fists erected,
embrace or hide
in the closet, behind doors,
beneath the bed:

behold
the hypersensitive
soul infected.

Could have gone towards
or away, preferred
to juggle, struggle with both,

agony endured,
all to reconcile,
holding breath
for some headway,

finally
feeling that long-awaited,
blessed exhale…

Done With the Numb.

Managed to escape
and rest assured,

I’m never going back.

Made me so small.
Could’ve squashed
me like a pesky insect,

and I’ve been
there before.

No empathy.
Devoid of compassion.
Seems to be universal,
to be so cold
and calculating…

I embody
your counterforce.

My soul
was just marinating,
for I had
to feel it all, straight

through
to the marrow
to know,
and now I know:

You’re too empty,
I’m too full
to fill the chalice
I’ve apparently become.

I feel too much,
a fucking sponge,
you clearly feel nothing,

either entirely hollowed out
or you’ve grown
too numb.

Sorry, no sympathy
for me available
in your present capacity.

I’m not just going,
it’s passed the end.
I’m gone.

Fade to black,
roll credits.

It’s over.
Done.