Damn the Lemming.

Go on now, follow
patterns provided, the road
mowed down before
you by herds upon herds
of imbeciles.

Why waste time,
expend the energy
engaging in exploration
and thinking for yourself?

Embrace your cultural
inheritance, echo the follies
of your forefathers.

Choose your side,
watch the show of hands,
listen in to your spokesperson,
the shepherd to your flock:

appeal to authority,
weak-minded fuck.
Popularity prevails,
tradition is ideal.

Clear failure does not
call for reevaluation,
experimentation,

no,

but simply doing
what we’ve always done
before, just more often,
harder this time.

Pound that shit in
jackhammer style.

Never really fix
what’s broken.
If it doesn’t fit,
try harder, fucking
force it.

Never take no
for an answer,
never admit
that you just might
have been wrong

until the hope
for change is dead,
until every chance
we had is gone.

(SOS From Deep in) Lila.

Do you rely
on lies for the preservation
of a tender truth, all as fragile
facts proceed to bleed
from it like a sieve, betraying,
revealing, integrating in the public
eye, building a case against
your betrayal, ensuring
your downfall?

Never.
That was your answer,

fuck it. See
me naked, take me as I am
or promptly ex-communicate,
Too worn, too damn tired for this.
I have no patience
for these stupid games.

I am director, producer,
behind a fraction
of all,

so forgive me for my fear
that you might mistake
all this for playing.

Know it is only play in the most sacred,
the most serious of ways.

Action, habit and transition:
three components
of conscious evolution,

three ingredients
for great change,
all within the subliminal womb
they once called Lila.

No Game Over.
Just a game-changer.
Makes you a player:

oh yes.

Self-flagellation:
commence.

Falling Stars and a Cold, Unblinking Insect.

Just face it.

You shall die
again, worthless,
shameless, defeated,
leave a world

reduced to a cinder,
a wasteland, so fucking
far behind,

crying falling stars
they will never see,

as you trek
far beyond all
we can spy
through the sky,

all for naught,
suffering sharp
pangs of butthurt,

all because as you sought,
you fought,
for a place worth living,
a land rewarding truth,
something honestly

worth fighting
for. dying
once again for,
thought this time might be void
of the all-too-familiar-regret,

you come face-to-face
with checkmate.

The dispassionate eyes
of this cold,
unblinking insect.

Ex Caput Mortuum.

Sixteen,
slipping headfirst into the black.

Alone at last, embracing introversion,
stumbling through the jungle, to the tender lips
of the abyss within, listening
to ancient whispers, denied memories,
buried aspects of my personality:

truths of a type
that nightmares are made of.

Ink in pen, pastel, pencil, various media
in hand, fingers to keyboard,
hungry for bloodletting,
expel the poison,
work the dirt out from the sore
that I become in this prison
of ignorance,
hunt and peck
until they blister and spill my essence…

I try to bleed it dry, swallow it whole,
deep certainty that this is the only way to let go
of that which I have been entirely blinded to,

not least of which the fact
that I hold and have held
for so long, though this hole is deeper
than I could ever have guessed, could have known,
a surreal vortex that threatens
any sense of self or sanity
with ruthless, violent, unmerciful
disintegration.

Crows peck meat from bones,
ghosts torment the mind drifting free
from body, now at war with the chaos,
eyes as black as my head is dead,
flies encircles my eyes, halo of crows spinning
like satellites around my charred
and wasted mind…

Cannot believe the weight I hold.
(Arrogance.)
Cannot believe the age of soul.
(Age is not synonymous with wisdom.)
Fight against the accusation
that I am a part of this, participant
in this mess,

my freedom, my responsibility.
Belonging nowhere, gather the lost, fight
for a better home. Feel like I need
to do something, use all that I have got,
though I’m lost,
fuck,
what am I supposed to do
with all of this?

No one could
(not even sure that I completely)
believe it.

No faith in self.
No hope is scientifically
discerning anything else.

How can I know what side
is right to fight
on if I know enough to know
that I don’t know myself?

(Nimi, where are you?
My guide, my confidant…)

Need to gain
a sense of direction
to find the off-ramp,
escape my personal hell,
embrace my work,
be myself.

One With Ice.

Crawling under thin skin.
Quivering.
The soul is itching.

Inner glow, colors
and consequences.
Wounds expose
a grotesque creature
concealed beneath.

What?
Not what you expected
to find
hiding deep inside?

Cry. Cry
me a fucking river,
baby, maybe
shake it off with a shiver
inspired from the frigid breeze
life never
stops delivering

until you are one
with the ice.

So desensitized
to the horror.
Distance the body of the beast
a bit further from the polished
ice, the mirror
so that he might see
himself a bit clearer.

Before There is Nothing Worth Saving.

Caution having grown
from experience, he strives to stay
away, fearing his own
emotional reactivity:
that familiar, nauseating frustration
borne of a deeply ingrained
sense of powerlessness.

Path towards anger,
great fear,
ego disintegrating…

Why pay attention, get
involved, give a damn
if you can do nothing
to stop the closing of the curtains,
never hope to halt
the race to extinction
and help build a better way,
plow a promising path,
reach out

with your horny, needy
fingers, those hungry palms
and find the courage,
take the chance,
make a fucking move
already, raging

hard on
driving hands aiming
to grope some luscious hope.

Billy Corgan, he was right:
the world will surely suck you dry,
though reality, it’s tendency
is far less romantic:

more like a mosquito
of the soul:
draining you, hanging
you out to dry
without hesitation or remorse.

We influence
reality, all of us,
undisciplined in our practice,
sadly, so the end result,
it is utterly meaningless…

So it goes in a culture
structured by its true leaders
and their faithful strategy
of divide and conquer.

So he vows
to increase distance.
To turn his back,
to let it all go.

The new mantra:
fuck it all.

He thinks,
he says to the mirror,
begs to his reflection:

tread on in these chapters,
through your wicked narrative
never dry on ink
forever
void of naivete.

I mean,
he says:
you were forced to peek
farther along in the book.

You see how it ends,

Remember the old future,
and see how the world
around you is destined
to fall.

You know
how it goes.

Try:
only to find
yourself up
in arms again,

running to the edge, toes
flirting with the gulf just
over the ledge
as you scream to the sky
till your throat is raw.

This world, it has gone insane.
Considering everything, my degree of crazy:
next to this world, I am nothing.

So shall I fight
this collective descent
sloping down into true madness?

No:
there has been enough, far,
far too fucking
much of that, he says aloud
to himself: I must abstain,

divorce myself from this suicidal circus
all around me, littering
the web, caricatures
on the TV, bigots
and warmongers jerking off,
exhibitionist style,
on the goddamned radio.

Fuck it, I will
make my peace
and find serenity, passion,
a path of meaning, intensity, ride
this out, learn to hold

my own, to somehow love
myself despite
being a part of this, a perhaps inevitable
participant in the madness.

Just bring the fire already.
Burn it down till our ashes blanket the ground.

Me?
Stepping out of the game.
Taking the front seat.

Let the prisoners kill
themselves before there is nothing
left worth saving.

Another swig, another bong
hit and he asks
himself: Why must
I be so cynical?

Why can’t my mind,
my heart, not break
through this layered shell
of clouds,

suffocating,
so heavy
forever under the influence
of this inhumane gravity

and see the sun
again, let it burn
away the dark
that veils

all three
of my shaded, jaded
and thoroughly disillusioned
eyes?

True Revolutionaries.

Fertile for the extinction
of any distinct node
on this vast, diversified
dark-matter-myelinated
web of life.

Evidence in abundance.

Diversity threatens us
as it keeps life in the game,
giving evolution
what it needs to work with.

Yet blind we remain,
drunk on denial,
cozy in our ignorance.

We are the ostrich
that has mistaken
its own anus for a hole
in the ground,

we scream
with the chorus, zip
lips if we are alone
in the beat
of our drum, too afraid
to stick out
like a sore thumb,

to risk
being honest,
sincere, passionate
by being
true revolutionaries
again.

Coming Blanket of Ashes.

Hope has been snuffed
out, stepped on, ground
into the dirt.

No one
could convince
me otherwise,
I’m afraid.

Never wanted this.
My eyes are stained.
It makes me sick.

Lifetimes have left me terrified.
Empathy, it helps save me some time.
Suggestions everywhere, or so I find,
of our hellbent penchant

for suicide, cosmos-wide.
At any rate,

any promising plan
must take action, manifest
as the rise of the Phoenix now.

The only fertile
grounds are to be found
in the coming blanket of ashes.

There can be no
stopping this.
Please: prove
me wrong.

So you swallow
this bitter pill whole,
something inebriating
to wash it down.

This world
around you, it’s all over,
though I know you will only go
waste more energy and time.

Even so, just watch:
you will stop
before the point
of no return.

Even now
you ready your seeds
for the aftermath,
for in truth, in the end,
you know damned well
it is your only real chance.

This ship? Clear to see
it’s going down.

I Dream of Haylee.

It is three or four in the evening on November 21 when I wake up and drag my ass out of bed. It takes awhile for the dream to trickle back to me. I actually write it down in the notebook beside me on bed, which I have been neglecting to do when it comes to dreams for some time. It was a dream of Hypnotic Haylee. My first recalled dream of her, too, I should mention, unless you count the “text” I got from her during a false awakening some time ago.

In the dream I somehow meet her in person. Though we were in some bedroom, it was strangely a circumstance void of any sexual charge that I can recall — notable, I should add, as there always seems to be some erotic-mystical element to watching her videos, listening to her audios or reading her words. We talk some and I keep looking into her eyes, drawn there, transfixed, and I become convinced she must have the capacity to control the constriction and dilation of her pupils. At least twice I feel sure that I saw, for a brief moment, how she squeezed her pupil to almost a pinpoint, her green iris overtaking everything.

My lingering fear towards her gave way to burning curiosity. I was about to ask her if she was capable of controlling her pupils and used it as some form on hypnotic induction method, uncertain if it was just me, when some other guy burst in the door and asked her the same question. Though I do not recall her response, I do recall being frustrated that he got in the question first.