Concealed Behind Naked.

Dismembered memory.
Patchwork reconstruction.
Frankenstein reverie.

Complex soul.

Personality
necessarily an unreliable,
neurotic
kind of eyewitness
reconstruction.

I am not
I am more
I am beyond

thee

and yet faced
with quite
a challenge.

Can you dissociate,
or are you

oh so

deeply entranced
by the distorted
self-portrait,

this low-resolution
ego,

this abstract
tribal mask?

Shame
is nothing, really. No worries.
So I say.
And yet, all the while, silently
screaming:

fucking idiot,
can’t you see?
All this, all of it,

it’s really,
fucking killing
me.

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Spacetime & Alien Vibrations.

Age circa six.
Playing Space Invaders.
Blind to the significance.

Carried along by my river.
Dumb to its alien process.

Up above, all around,
the gears are turning,
moved by hands

governed
and fingers slaves

to strings
inside

pulled by puppeteers
from out there,
up in the sky.

Yes,
they are here, unseen
and more than merely
observing.

If I knew
what I know,
what would I do?

Close and latch
the windows,
draw the blinds?

Lock and bolt
the door, go to bed

with a gun,
one eye open,
and only with the lights on?

No psychic
or material
boundary
is shield
enough. No armour.

No cocoon
of suffocient
strength.

One mind
can’t take this impact,

at least not
all at once,

and the resulting
dysfunctions
don’t ripple

out to the lake’s edges
in a day. Pluck

a strand
and embrace patience
as you wait

for the whole web
to vibrate.

Of the Height of Hopes for Reason.

Rewrite history
in the minds of the tribe, cast
yourself in better light. In their minds,
reality yields

to their confidence
in your “alternative facts.” No matter
this embarrassment of riches,
this wealth of evidence
to the contrary.

This is post-truth.
Madness.

This is where religion
meets politics
once again. Crying: are we just being

naive

in our high hopes
that logic will prevail,
that reason will win

in the end?

Alien Triad.

Inside liquid
black eyes,
almond-shaped,

encapsulated
by the mirror

that is
your warped,
tangled,
knotted mind:

your reflection infects
you as you are suspended,
as if in amber,

empty puppet,
initially immobilized:

a marionette,
abandoned,

hung up
by its strings
haphazardly

on the weak limb
of some old

tree as the wind
whistles
a ghostly
melody,

and the oak,
she dances like an erotic
goddess

to the invisible soundtrack
of static
plus psychological projection,

consequently
completing me.

Tension Descension.

Here I hang
in the balance between
polar extremes:

questions I can’t face
my soul to spill,
bring myself to ask;

answers you’re too greedy
and controlling
to provide.

So I burn away,
chase green smoke,
rise above the firmament.

Descend into the flask.

Pop another pill,
prescribed or otherwise.

Find an entry
or take matters
into my own hands.

So: find a way
to get off,
get back
on/at anything, so:

find a spiritually,
mentally,
emotionally
and physically satisfying
source of orgasms,

optimally.

That said,
I’ll probably just
masturbate.

Bitter Seeds, Forbidden Fruits.

You’re wrong,
though. I can indeed help
it. Proof positive
as I refuse to succumb
to. Subliminal mantras

do not sway
me. Calculated tones,
inflections,
gestures
and microexpressions:

vibes, subliminals,
nonverbals

they can play
with me, true:
I have found my low, false self

taken in by false advertisement
(quite an embarrassment),
but then again, even

if they were true,
if I were a relatively satisfied

customer, I win
in the end.

Inevitably,

I conquer my hells.
So you can go
fuck yourself.

Explored your style
of path (ever so
thorough) to collect

only
intelligence
and just
report,

though my motive,
to be honest,
also involved a thirst
for the rush

(glow of soul,
bait of mind,
tease of flesh)

offered only
by the forbidden:

the more justified
the status,
the more desirous.

Unwitnessed Crumbling of an Unnaturally Orange Fruit.

No matter the truth,
it fails
to impact this damned ego.

Rolls off like rain,
no dent,
hairline scratch in evidence.

To truly bring him down,
you must get him where it hurts.
Drag his name through the mud,
deprive him of audience.

Watch the weak,
pathetic
man as he finally whimpers.

Only means
of summoning response.

Ego only
broken when he’s all dried up
and there
is no one
left to watch.

Then and there,
he crumbles.

One Digit for Dead Worlds.

In the dark,
the desert stretched wide.
Eternity, so far as I knew.

Wandering, running,
stumbling toward mirages
and into awaiting graves

or greedy, homicidal arms,
empty but promising,
promising…

I’m not so naive anymore.

There are occasions I wish I were.
Mindlessness
does not come without its benefits.

It’s popular for damn good reasons,
but all in all,
at what cost?

Innocence is ignorance
though that only
feels nice till the world falls

on your empty heads
and you collapse
and you’re all to blame…

All I ever lost and hoped to gain
remained hanging
in the balance of this question
I knew all too well
that I just must fucking answer:

far wiser now,

I extended a middle finger
and moved on.

Poverty’s Offerings.

Comes from a place,
an alien space,

of no emotion,
least, not as known,
and into a world
inundated by it,

in which I am
hypersensitive
to it

(I am but a sponge,
a radio receiving all stations at once;
jet fuel without a container)

and all its vicious vibrations,
agonizingly low
and painfully-pleasantly
fucking high frequencies,

and in
either case, relentless
resonance:

realize that. Please,
keep that in mind.

(Noted.)

I am surfing naked
here. All I know is that you comfort
and excite me.

All I know is that you’re all
I’ll ever need
to keep going. To drown
in your eyes

again. To have you straddle
me, invite me to climb
on, enter after twisting
you ‘round,

holding you down
(comfortably)
and plunging
into, driving

you to a place available
through our meat and wires
where there’s no one left
but you and I,

so nothing to truly
hold or let down,
attack,

or otherwise
depress
or terrify.

Just soil.
A baseline
from which to grow

down,
in winding roots,
and far above,
blossoming.

Suffocation & Burial.

So I shouldn’t mention it?

Shove it back
behind the mask,
I guess.

Just push it down
till the unconscious
and subliminal pushes back
from the conscious pressure
like a volcano.

Kick it out into the world,
I suppose. Project
it upon some faction
of the masses represented
by some percentage
of my immediate social group,

all to distance
it from me like I made a play,
wrote my own part
and then went on to cast their roles.

Guess I’ll just censor
it, bury all this inside,

beneath regulated,
so-called
self-expression
and compelled speech.

Suffocation and burial.