Buried Canvas.

Fuck you, and all of this,
I just want to be

left alone so to create
something. I am
in control, so: no, you can’t take
this from me…

no, not

without inspiring
war, risking
my complacency,
this conditioned, brainwashed,

hypnotic-erotic
programmed docility,
easy-peasey

with respect to handling,
believe you me —
if you trust me.

Do you trust me?

Status report:
lab monkey aggressive,
uncooperative.

“So? Appease the pissy primate.
Pacify that silly simian.”

Drawn into their black,
almond eyes
or her vivid green ones.

Just can’t win with him.
Keeps jerking off, throwing
his own filthy shit at us.

“Kill your subjects.
Purge the disobedient.

Leave them the buried
canvas they need
to satisfy

their dark, hidden
objective…

they have their claws
if they can find
no shovel.”

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Still Part of This.

Won’t help you welcome
another generation
into slavery, exploitation.

Buck stops here,
motherfucker,
so I say boldly:
no, never.

Refuse to be a part
of this, to force myself
to stomach
your endless deceptions,
selfish agenda.

You display no empathy at all.

In that light, I am happy
to be one of your dead ends.
Frayed, stretching out
into fucking nowhere, aching
for more space…

My ethical abyss.

Spine strong
with such effort,
and then you hand
me this.

Bonding is blackmail.

Backed into a corner,
hands tied, please believe me,
I beg of you,
trust me:

if I could only find the will
to kill you…

Own Name.

No confidence, apparent ambition
or sense of direction.
Cradled and pushed every step
of the way.

Hanging onto established patterns
as if it were a ring buoy.
If a dream were in arm’s reach,
should I, would

an arm extend,
fingers reaching in thirst
(greed?)
for something more?

You owe so many so much.

Guilt is just self-flagellation.
Living here smothers the soul.

Can you push
through, pay back your debt
in some way, or are you fated
to endure shame: awareness
that you just rode coattails

and in the process,
forgot
your own name?

Revolt in Quarantine.

Singled out, poked
with a sharpened, eager finger,

(so thin skinned)

a bubble pops. A bud
finally blossoms. A star implodes,
explodes,
in a beautifully violent supernova.

Jack in the box
fully realizing that in the climax
it’s all blown
wide open, no walls left
to provide

any semblance of a womb.

Somewhere a pimple
is popped, pus
spraying everywhere.

An asteroid slams
down, leaving an awesome
crater in it’s wake. Paid
back all the pressure invested

in keeping this out, holding
this down,
quarantining

the Truth.

And so it comes
as no surprise:
before you,
the dead rise
and have their way.

Your body, mind:

their feast,
their arcade.

Insomnia and a Strange Mood.

After a few hours of intoxicated sleep, I awoke sober and restless like usual, so I ate a bit and watched Better Call Saul on Netflix. It was passed ten in the morning by that time, so I tried to lay back down and get some more sleep, but I heard this high pitched buzzing that annoyed the hell out of me. I finally got up, trying to determine the source, but eventually gave up in frustration, crawling back into bed. I fell asleep — but awoke abruptly yet again. The buzzing was gone but I knew something was wrong.

Turning over, I looked at my alarm clock. It was off. The light in the bathroom that I always leave on was off, too. The electricity must have went out. I checked the time on my phone and went back to sleep.

At about 1:30 in the afternoon I got up, happy to find that the electricity was back on. I made some coffee and sat down at my laptop only to discover that my wireless router was fucked up, all the icons violently blinking blue. I unplugged it, plugged it back in, reset it — it made no difference. I had to plug cable directly into laptop.

It had been raining, so it isn’t necessarily strange that the electricity went off. Even so, as I sipped my coffee and watched some YouTube videos, I couldn’t shake how weird I felt. I was tired, but it wasn’t just that. Something just felt wrong.

In the shower I discovered a scratch right below my neck that burned when the water hit it. Had I scratched myself in my sleep?

I felt sort of strange yesterday, too; today has just become a more extreme manifestation. It’s that dark, intense, crisp and clear state of consciousness I occasionally have when the weirdness starts up in my life again, typically accompanied by increased anxiety. I feel “all eyes” — as if I my consciousness has withdrawn into my head and I have forgotten how to blink or have somehow gotten stuck on ocular high-beams. So are they back again? Or am I just paranoid and playing connect-the-dots again?

I have been reading Secret Life by David Jacobs. My mood seems connected to my reading the part regarding “visualization procedures.” These were the aspects of abductions I had not known about until some time after the flashbacks and incidents in high school. Having read it for the first time, I felt confirmation anxiety; I had not known about these aspects of the phenomenon through my reading, though I had experienced them since the beginning. Now that I’m reading the book again, cover to cover, did I trigger those same emotions? Is that why I feel so weird?

Adaptation to Termini.

Stare down
into me, bound here to a cold
table in a cool, sterile
room with no exit.

Immobilized.
Terrified.

No way out,
without or within, as you ensnare
me within your web of illusion.

Eyes blacker than black
yet a mind revealed
via telepathy
to be richer than reality.

Simply daunting.

My star, eclipsed.
Lost now on a wayward
rock growing colder
by the second

as it spins
onward and inward
towards
its inevitable deaths…

If only I could bear
abandoning ship —

but I can’t.
So mutiny it is!

Anything to throw
a wrench in your gears.
Anything to dam
your river.

Bizarre and Beautiful.

Focus has shifted,
so it appears,

or in the case
of dissociation,
coalesced.

Ethics, evolved.

Now so subtle
and subliminal while telling
rather than demanding,
her tales spinning,
ensnaring:

though as if woven
by a spider
growing empathy
for the lost souls
caught in her web.

And all the while
still employing
the diverse
toolbox of techniques
forever amassed.

So bizarre and beautiful
to witness,
get tangled within.

Fearlessly.

No, clearly I don’t know the ropes,
always getting tangled
in them and all.

Forever afraid that ultimately,
inadvertently
I’ll be strangled by them.

Yes, I refuse your puppet strings.
I’d rather be a rag doll,
an immobile heap
on the ground
that in the very least
managed to salvage his soul.

Ambition versus anxiety.

Fighting for authenticity in a world
blinded by its own fiction,
lies that infect me,
obscuring my vision.

Constricted by this skin, gasping
for air behind the mask.

Something needs to fucking change.

Must learn to learn,
gain control of my path,
be myself,
show my face

fearlessly.

In the Glow Beneath Stars.

If you knew me, felt
me just as I feel..
If you could hear my thoughts,
remember this history,

you would hate
me, condemn me, watch
as I burned

at the stake, glowing nice
and bright
at night comforted by a thick
blanket of stars:

then I’d know…

If I knew
how you would react
to my naked face
I would hide…

Just like this.

Ignore
my odd glow,
then. Mind
your own business.

I’ll make or find my own home,
unleashing my passion
in broad-spectrum

resistance
against you.