Of Writer and Reader.

Using language
to fashion images
through inspiring
the subliminal
aspects of the mind

to arise
and conspire
with it

(the voice)

by compensating
for its lack
when and wherever

Nature abhors a vacuum.

You build the infrastructure,
govern the scaffolding,
you set the tracks.

I am but the god of your gaps.

Amidst Bipolar Politics.

Post truth. Fake news.
Alt Right and Regressive Left:

growing influence
of the bipolar,

Would you rather go
central, rest on the faultline,
or set up camp,

half-cocked, half-blind
on either side?

Divided and conquered.
Raped, murdered and left for dead.

Quakes and breaks exceeding
damage already done
by the wealth gap

and more cracks
in the foundation reveal

spreading like a zombie virus,
infecting everything.

War, Hope and Love.

Rise up, engage, fight,
Don’t take it lying down.

can raise a middle finger
for all of you
when your hands are tied.

Images are bombs.
Words, weapons.

Still, be sure,
though to

toe the line whispering
subliminally, echoing,
etched in stone so deep
beneath the mire.

Ends forever
shaped by means…

Fighting flames with gasoline
only serves to feed the fire.
Please: serve yourself,
service us all, remember:

fear is the great immobilizer.
Death is just a fucking state of mind.
Hope, love: might sound hokey as fuck,
these ingredients for survival,

but they must survive alongside our war
with the rival or his end
isn’t really
and we might as well die.

Heart, Head: Deadset.

Stare out
into nothing
till it gazes
back again:

till you lock eyes
with the abyss
he warned about,

determined now
more than ever
to pierce the void,
see right through.

Deadset. Head first,
heart trailing, nearly blind,
both struggling to understand
visions blossoming behind.

Welcome to the world,
midnight at this masquerade.
As darkness falls, we ignite the lies,
our torches as we make our way.

Masochistic Reenactments.

Why? Because they are real, 
you hate yourself
and they serve as your hell, 

so you perpetually regurgitate,
recreate in some attempt
at some sense of reconciliation
between your heavens
and your darkest depths…

Hypnotic illusions
that serve to distract,
echoes you find yourself
screaming through.

Blind to conscious
eyes, frantically dancing
to a skipping record
you’re hopelessly
deafened to. 

Intense, dead eyes
scanning your mind,
emotionless, cold and calculating,
raping you

from skin to soul
again and again and again.
Power playing, shadows enslaving,
controlling a puppet: you tool. 

Now hate yourself,
turn up the volume
to the goddamned max
as you fall into…

Karma: Cold.

I could have ensured a prosperous
life a decade hence.

Could have easily, so easily taken
your hand in mine
way back when.

Would have had a beautiful
family, ready-made
then, part of a package deal:
certainly no sweat
off my brow,

and now?

Now your fucking dead
to me. You would much rather
be than to bear the pain
of loose ends. Always needed
to march on into a new
chapter clean,

so we cut the cord.
Severed limbs.

In my hands awaited
a future I could have popped
like a pill, swallowed whole
and surfed on the buzz
till death, and don’t doubt
that it killed

me, but I had to try
to pave my own path
even if the effort failed
to meet its climax

by my last breath.

If what we had was real,
I know we’ll meet again in the long run,
though I have the sinking
sense you’ll be absent:

cold shoulder
till the end.

Lex Naturalis.

Broken bones
beneath bruised, lacerated
skin, callous toughening 
as its drug

along on an aching
soul’s unrelenting journey
across the rugged face of history

to make itself and all it loves
a home, help build
a world it’s proud to defend,
a bold, bright new beginning
in the dreary dust
of so many frayed ends. 

Pathway has been wayward
to say the least, so many stops
on the road,

and adventurous
tendencies to appease,

and, of course,
the occasional oases,

though as time presses on
the target in sight
becomes clearer,
the wanderer far
more fucking focused

as he paves his way
towards a life embracing
“each to their own” 
to the extent

that their their pursuit
of passion and liberty
does not impede
onto the same rights
inherent in other souls.

Of Anima and the Inner Child.

At the end of the day,
there you find her.
While you feel so safe
and secure:

enough drink
and smoke
and whatever else
to ensure
you were fucked up
till sun up,

then she creeps
up in your peripheral
vision to steal the show,

to occupy
the center stage
in your field of innervision,

stealing the spotlight
from under
you and all else…

Any escape from her ends
up with you wound
in the webs

of some other hypnodomme,
fighting free just to flee

back to her bosom,
crying in terror
just like the child
you’ve raised inside.

Ask Yourself.

You only feel safe in wanting
when acquisition
appears impossible.

As the vessel
approaches the shore,
you run away.

There has to be a better means
than this juggling, stalling
for time in hopes of miraculously
these diametrically-opposed
desires you have for intimacy
and freedom.

What is it here
that you truly want
and what do you fear?

Ask yourself. No,
fuck you and your deflections:

just ask yourself.