Worm’s-Eye View.

No, you fool.

You see: its all true,
yes, but utterly
irrelevant.

After all hope,
all that was has been lost,
I cannot betray you.

No lies.
Relax.

I know you just
don’t fucking get it.
Tried to tell them. 
Well, here it goes:

we are not
rational creatures.
We do not function
on that basis. Emotion

informs reason
in our case. We see
things through holes,

frames, screens
and tinted windows
on the various
sensory-specific doors
of our perception.

We can never
maintain a bird’s eye-view,
as we are recurrently
bound
by our meaty anchors,
drug down

from ultraviolet
through infrared till
we’re eye-level
with the worm. 

Bipartisan.

Has the divide
widened too far
after all? Has the gap
become too great, the chasm
yawning wider
as time goes on?

Is their no hope
for a sense
of unity now?

Hang my words out
like a luscious
steak before the savage,
conservative hounds.

What better way to prove
to myself
that I just don’t give a shit
anymore?

How else can I provide proof
for my apathy?
Might this suffice? Fuck you.

Fuck me. We’re all
fucked anyway.

So yes, fuck
you. Fuck us all. United

in that we are
all fucked anyway…

The Moth.

On the ground,
sprawled out
like a thrown rag doll
in a ever-growing pool
of rich red, eyes

aching, a hand
extended, trembling fingers
that seem to blur

all but her voice
desperately
crying for help.

No. Stop. Let 
her bleed out.
Give her time
to dry out.

You see her strength,
let it rise within her, dominate.

To help moths
escape their cocoon
by wielding the aiding blade
is counterproductive.

Don’t leave her too weak
to survive.

Sympathy conveys
all that you
believe yourself
to be above,

better than. Behind
seeming abandonment

there hides
love, obscured
only by shallow
vision, superficial
conception:

the limits
of those too pussy
to penetrate
the wall,

gnaw through the thick,
silk web-work.

Fade and Shatter. 

Character, I know, is such a lame
excuse. Even so, I have vowed
honesty high

over creativity
when it comes
to conveying this truth… 

Why remain so blind?

One’s past
is their best predictor.

Their gravitation
towards, response
to stimuli
comes to define
their masque,

ego.
Spin
through another cycle.

Molest the clay
once more. Touch
up the war paint.

Show your thickened, weathered
skin, as you plow
through the battles stacked
up before you. 

Let dry, bake
to solidify. Given 
space, through time,
habits become character.

Open eyes, minds,
would have seen this a mile
away, so why draw

the shades, brother?
Why did you lock the doors? 
No, never dare to hand me that:

on towards the fade
till we shatter.

Isolate.

Diversity. Individual
liberty,
personal responsibility,

and mind (the reflection
of your soul)

within you,
as you, through
you, standing
before

you as you sit
there with your eyelids
scotch-taped open,
Clockwork Orange style,

forced to undergo
unceasing self-reflection,
isolated
from all other stimuli:

yes, you fucking need this.

Perhaps
you only see
yourself when alone,

steady before the inner
eye, stripping
until naked,
skin-deep

and then some.

Maybe you abuse
yourself and like
it. Hide
invisible scars
from consciousness

in dreams,
nightmares, thoughts,
emotions
and fantasies.

And what of these memories?

Grow
to see through it all,
free yourself
as you shatter

the glass

and nothing,
none of it,
matters anymore…

What then? Who
are you then?

Antagonist to Authoritarianism.

Go ahead: shame
yourselves.

Follow the leaders
off the cliff
like lemmings.

After enough fall,
I assure you: it fails
to hurt as much.

Follow
the line, single file
no matter
how seemingly

opposed and polarizing,
hand in hand, in lockstep,
hypnotized, marching
right on towards
the slaughter…

Have yet to hear
a single complaint
from a graduate

… save for the dreams
where the dead visit
to deliver a plea,
offer warning:

never
give up your own
power, despite

what Other
may be.

In Event of Emergency.

Wrapped in homegrown lies,
planted and blossoming
from such rich, native soil,

born between those cultural sheets.

Blanket? Familial
hand-me-downs,
so preached.

To the quire, no less, masses
saturated with gasoline,
adrenaline-shot to the chest. 

If I take care
of (your, their) panic,
can you tend to the rest?

Look at me.
Listen to me.

You can do this.

Hot on the Trail of Light. 

Burning alive. Spare
me the lies: you started
the fire and fed
it till it was but an obese
child, consuming

everything, weighing
down. Burning swift
and bight.

Quicker you go, sooner
the destination is reached,
at least as far
as you are concerned. 

In prophetic dreams,
you dance in ash.