Of Fists and Iron. 

Tired of mere
memes and hashtags, 
they gather en masse

for peace yet in violence,
to polarize or to build a bridge:
at this point they don’t give a shit.
They meet enemies to share
wine with or to chew
and spew glass at.

Just hold back.
Hold back. 

No. No more.

Many gathered as one.
Overwhelming numbers.
And not for the slaughter this time. 
Posters and signs. Pent up, they’re reaching
for, curling fingers, white knuckles:
they’re fist-fucking the sky

to the soundtrack
of growling, howling voices
drowning out
that dull noise of the daily grind,
the machine of their oppression 

Just hold back.
Hold back.

Blood for blood leaves
one dehydrated or bloated.
The iron rule seals its own doom,
for it is the path of suicide. 

Fighting fire with fire
just feeds the flames
till all
and everything is reduced to a sea
of ash with smoke blanketing
the sky, walling off our sun
and smothering us.

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Way of the Ostrich. 

Blind my eyes. Keep me clear
of the headlines. Deafen
me to the shitstorm raging.

Just a sponge saturated.
Bursting in my state of overload.
Rip my heart out so 
I just can’t care anymore.

Seems no way out of this.

Just another scene
in our hopeless situation,
another tick of just another time bomb.
Swear I’ve been here before.

Still broken and powerless.
Find the right hole,
stick my head in the sand.

My red hands are tied, my back
is against the wall, conscience screaming
in my face:

I hear
cacophony,
I feel
complexity,

I am finally simply numb
to it all.

Deceptive Ghosts of a Broken Bough. 

Grow up, feeling trapped
in a small cell
in a slightly larger prison.

Mother’s second womb,
hell on display
for the first and only son.

Etching that groove
on the psychic vinyl,
watching the ol’ nursery
rhyme play itself out…

Rocking, drifting to sleep,
secure until she suddenly snaps.
Breaking out of her world now
and I’m never going back.

Born again, fall into a girl
and then the story threatens
to play out ad nauseam,
soul in the midst of a war
between her
and who I had become.

.. and when the bough breaks,
the cradle will fall…

Fuck that gravity.
I’ll live close to the ground.
No hope to cope with true community
until my true self is found. 

Fuck you.
I’m fine with winging
me till my time in the sun. 

Wishing so deeply
and passionately that it was true,
lingering awareness of the lie
I nonetheless proclaim, screaming,
asserting that I need no one.

Choice.

Enjoy your lie
if it, as it stands, 
is truly what you want.

Who am I to say or judge?
I am nothing.

Fucking nothing.

Desires are as diverse
as the souls that inhabit
this plane, warped
as it is by tears of suffering,
lacking any semblance

of reason.
Where is reason?

Show it to me.

If you seek truth,
in dedicated doubt join hands
with mine, move towards
something better,
rational.

Return…

Oh, how I’ve missed
the reign of empathy and reason.

If unfilled, as predicted,
just strive to endure
your suffering.

No heroes here.
Saviors in absence.
Welcome to honesty
before painful reality. 

Take a chance.
Make your choice.

I am, you are:
we can be.

Neon Nothing and His Prisoner. 

Head bowed
beneath the blade.
Dodge, covered
before the blazing bullet.

Kill me, coward.

End me now,
My blood spilled,
it would mean a big neon 

nothing,
nothing. 

If you think you have balls,
let me survive, face
what’s coming.

Battle wounds fuel
me, fatality only sets me back.
Before my tombstone,
breathe no

sigh of relief. I know well
that I shall return.
That we will survive.

For myself
I’ve got to make sure
that you see, that you survive

to suffer, that you will be
my prisoner.

Dumbass’s Guide to Species Suicide.

Feel the deep kiss
between barrel and skin,
though the bullet
never comes.

Growing desensitized
to expectation.
Numb to the state of the nation.
Suicide is your choice,
no longer mine.

Chasing hiccups,
just a waste of time,
and sure as death, rebirth: 
the fucking clock
is always ticking.

The future you ignore
will be endured
by your children.

You will
be among your children.
Your best bet is empathy,

empathy.

This is such a sick,
true manifestation
of your insipid concept
of original sin.

Epilogue in Aim. 

Till these knots inside untie
I spit in your eye
as if in some futile quest
for satisfaction.

Till the time has come I work
on being one
with myself, reconciling
the opposites

juggling within, hoping
to rise above the endless tension
I cradle like an infant.

Childhood lit my fuse,
death has become my muse.
Where does this end?
Where will I go in the wake of it?
Are you, is this all worth
this pain and suffering?

Live, learn, die, hope
to come back with some insight.

Blackout.

Feel myself slipping and so I go find
my anchor, a conditioned
reaction to such an easily accessible
stimulus. Go, kill myself

a little more, blinded by bliss just
long enough to miss
the funeral, rise muddied yet virgin
to the shit that drives
me to all this the following morning:

awake enough to push on,
asleep enough to do so
fully aware that it is all done
without clear reason.

Above This.

Reflection has never
been so clear,
of such crystalline
clarity
than it has been today:

you do not
belong here.

You’ve got to swallow
the lump in your throat:
that bitter pill.

Just to state it simply,
no matter how heavy
or cold the prognosis
is to hold,

ready your shoulders,
for this is what you asked for:
this is what effort
has earned after the hardest day.

Understand that I knew
this day would come.
Me? Not like you.
No, I’m a bit better:

I know you.

Knew you would come fists
bleeding in their ill-advised violence
upon my door.

Fear not, I am prepared.
You wouldn’t believe.

And you will survive, brother.

You shall rise
above this just fine.