To Mentally Maim.

So again,
they descend
upon the zoo,

pluck out
their pet projects,
examine, test
and tweak
from mind to skin.

All those questions,
all those nightmares,
every hope and fear
attacks

me viciously
like shot arrows, alive,
hungry for me.

Expected this.
No surprise.
Better fucking luck next time.

Go ahead,
insist it was all a dream,
wipe the subjects’ minds clean.
Now just give them space
to feel it out,

explore their black-and-white
options: to dissociate
or embrace…

Subliminal influence
will keep you in line.

Train your brain,
follow your heart
and in time
we shall meet
again, predictably
in this very same place.

Chapter ends.
It moves
on, be patient…

Despite those ever-cautious
expectations
of yours, even in the light
of your diverse and rich disillusion,
your cautious nature
clearly now called
into question, answers
will trickle in, bleed,
leak like a sieve,

stain you,
mentally maim you,

a virus that replicates,
breeds like bunnies,
evolves a cultural bowel movement
into a goddamned revolution.

Our keynote flood.

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Permit My Insanity (Echoes of Narcissism).

Watch, recognize
this fight
as a world war
between me
and my empathy.

All these storms,
roller-coasters
that I do not mean to be…
please excuse them.

Perhaps it is just my arrogance,
after all: my selfish, fixated,
echoes of narcissism.

Could it be? Fuck.
Do you still like me?
Would you still want me?
Me? Far too damn
perpetually
fucked up to tell.

Such a selfish
little shit, this I know.
Try living
as this fool.

Sometimes I
want, blazing
white hot,

though know all
too well, so cannot
in good conscience
move forward

without considering
the fallout…
After all: consider
that patterns recur.

Al my hungry ghosts,
poltergeists, menacing
spirits, veterans possessing
agents with whom
I have such a rich
goddamn history
with: suppose
that they all returned

to find a feast
prepared
in their absence.

Misleading departure,
unintended welcoming…

Yeah, I feel
it, casket sealed,
burial complete,
eulogy spoken,
epitaph chiseled
in stone

and, oops:

turns out
t’was a mere vacation
of the dead-
though-(clearly)-far
from gone,

just another element
in my bursting
cornucopia of absurd.

If I would,
could you let
me, let go,
embrace,
permit my insanity

as we both chug
and burn?

A Pantser Goes Planner.

When I used to write creative nonfiction on a daily basis in a blog that essentially constituted an online diary, I never had an issue writing. At the end of the work shift I would at times drive home much in the same way one does when they’re holding in a terrific shit. Once home I would make a pot of coffee, run to the computer and take my psychological dump. I would sip from the warm mug of java, smoke my cigarettes and write in that way that so often brought to me the Flow experience. Just let my mind bleed itself through the rampant tap-tap-tapping on the keyboard.

The reason I did this? Aside from serving as both literary catharsis and psychological alchemy, it was me trying to train myself. I had decided that if I ever wanted to write fiction then I would have to work on concrete descriptions, dialogue, and so on, and if I wrote at least one diary entry a day it may not be fiction, but it was damn good writing practice.

Why was writing about the day to day so easy? Well, I knew where an event began, where it ended. I knew the story I wanted to tell, the tale I wished to convey, before I got home and sat down to write it. I would also take notes throughout the day in a small pad of paper I always kept in my back pocket, or on a napkin or torn off piece of paper. It gave me reason to pay attention throughout the day, to endure the oft-wretched contents of my experience, to cleanse myself of life’s shit and perhaps transmute that shit into something I, and hopefully others, could find valuable, at least in the sense of being amusing.

Eventually the daily life lost its inspiration. I turned to focus my writing on other issues.

Now, for November, I want to try my hand at writing a 50k book of fiction. I feel the need to make an outline, too, which would be consistent with my creative nonfiction. Can Outlining a fictional story be that much different than writing about your daily experiences when night finally falls?

The diary experience supports the notion that outlining in fiction is not stifling, or at least not necessarily so, but can provide you with the structure you will later be writing within. It’s like a map in that it tells you not only where you are going but just how the fuck it is that you get there, and with a person like me who is so horrid when it comes to following driving directions that he is convinced that he has some directional form of dyslexia, that can come as quite the vital resource.

In essence, an outline would enlighten me as to the acceptable boundaries of my investigations. The boundaries in which it can productively wander.

This could help. My mind likes to wander.

I should have outlined this entry, actually…

All These Transitional Pangs.

Walls break
as they cave
in. Bars
bend. Thick skin,
so swiftly worn thin:

fucking
dilapidated.

You can see
through, they can break
out, they will blow away…

Look at their eyes.
So intense, passionate,
studying this bound
and gagged life, so rancid,
restless, stockpiled
and quivering,

vibrating,
oscillating…

If you, you poor sap,
only knew
what was coming,

if you would just
learn how to just accept
it all in light
of its inevitable dawn…..

perhaps you could dodge
this relentless agony,
find an avenue
so you might breeze
right through all
these transitional pangs.

Know that I know
you could never deserve this.

You do not deserve this.

Another Prison System.

“Insanity in individuals is something rare – but in groups, parties, nations, and epochs, it is the rule.”
— Nietzsche.

No more refills, so the time is here. I should call on Monday to make another appointment, to continue this guided pharmaceutical alchemy. Buspirone, 15 Mg, twice a day. Fluoxetine, 40 Mg, once a day — though yes, yes, I should have taken her suggestion months and months ago when I last saw her and taken the increase to 60 Mg. It has taken such a downturn since then.

Or am I being too dramatic? In any case, have I become entirely reliant on the hopes of medication, of drug use?

Psychological medication is just our most current popular attempt to forcibly adapt our bodies and brains to the artificial culture we have collectively created. Depression, anxiety, ADD, ADHD, OCD — everyone has a mental aberration, psychological dysfunction or emotional imbalance. Why have we all evidently gone crazy?

Maybe we haven’t.

This may be a symptom of our declining culture, of an impending societal collapse. The way I have come to see it, its a lot like when there are a growing number of citizens filling up the prison system in a culture: it is the culture that is failing, say cultural anthropologists, more than the people foolishly wed to it.

This is the way a way of life travels when it is headed for extinction.

When more and more fail to fit a culture’s psychological ideal, perhaps the truth is that the ideal, the culture, is the real fucking problem. The occupants, molded by their society since birth, born into cultural contract, are little more than prisoners.

Candles and Incense.

Candles
and incense, a stream
of smoke
like a river flowing
to the sky,

shadows dance
around as flames lick
the darkness clean.

Seductive whispers,
conflicts
still haunting me.

Keep finding
my way back here
with my circles
getting smaller.

Enchanting eyes,
a kiss goodbye,
resistance eroding…

Burning away,
dissipating.
Something is wrong
with me…

Wrath of the Reserved Libido.

Deny the impulse,
starve the animal.

Take matters
into my own hands
to relieve the pressure,
to release the demons,
expel the poison

when it’s far
too much to take
at the end
of every day.

Still it fails
to go away.

It bloats,
throbs,
bleeds
on through into
everything.

Perverse eyes,
filthy mind,
projections,
slips of tongue:

shame stains me.

This is the wrath
of the reserved libido
infecting my life.

Must escape the desert,
swim in the ocean again.
Only way to end this.

Green Eyes and Guard Dogs.

Ignoring the uncomfortable,
avoiding all I fear.

Facing them
just left me bruised
with broken bones.

Inner struggles
become exhausting.
Is there no way
to escape this,

to fight
off the guard dogs
at the boundaries
of my quarantine,

to kill
this jealousy
in me for those who
have the strength
to grow?

Try and push
through just to meet
their glistening teeth,
unrelenting viscousness.

I will bleed,
take something for the pain,
overcome the limitations
of my feeble state.

Embrace hope and will.
Fuck seeming fate.

Killing the Seed.

Self-contempt,
self-sabotage:

it’s not found
in your disregard
for clearly-marked
boundaries,

but in manipulation,
in stacking up evidence
suggesting that past
your comfort zone
lies only certain death:

a death that feels
worse than this unlived,
slowly decaying
life, no less!

Do not create
your masterpiece:
such an aim,
it is suicide cranked
to high pressure.

Burning alive
without reason
is such a fucking waste
in any case.

No, create
your best move.

Leave room for the next
step in your evolution,
a gap full of tense, yet relaxed
fertile awaiting.

Do not constrain
yourself to the current
limitations of your vision,

no matter how far
they may be.
No matter the depths
to which you fear
this prospect
of blossoming,
in the process:

only sort of killing
the seed that you are.