Lament for a Narrow Corridor.

Deep down,
I still am
who I was then,

only more evolved
in the light of cycles
and the passage of time

despite the amnesia,

the parts
yet to arise
from the great depths
of my psyche,

the dissociated aspects
which I have
thus far failed to integrate,

and there must
have been something

so meaningful
in my cause which I would risk
my life to fight against…

something
more than anything: a narrow

corridor
I must confess

that I miss.

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Strip, Dance Naked.

Spinning in my mind:
aching, agonizing.

Makes no sense
when I place
my heart in my mind.

So I said this stupid,
nonsensical or insensitive
thing I’m concerned
that I did
or did not mean:

how might they perceive me?

So I behaved in that abominable way:
so shamefully,
certain
I made a total ass

of myself in the midst of choking,
gasping for air, in the relentless,

psychotic,
white-knuckled grips
of my necessarily
sadomasochistic anxiety
exacerbated,

I feel so sure,
by trying too hard

to be the part, act natural,
play it cool.

So I wrote
that horrible poem under
the influence of a cocktail including
sleep deprivation,
alcohol and cannabis,

so sure that I betrayed
my total lack
of substance and talent,
linguistic mastery and general
intelligence,

entertaining thoughts of finding
and hiding beneath
the perfect rock

for the rest of this feeble,
dysfunctional
corporeal existence, stopping only
to flagellate

myself for being so narcissistic,
so infinitely
and hopelessly arrogant, to assume

for a fleeting
fucking
passing moment

that anyone would ever really
give a shit…

So what?

Strip,
dance naked.

To their customized hells
with them all.

If gravity reigns supreme
and I’m going down,
thanks anyway:

I’ll control
my own epic fail.

Up or down,
left or right,
plowing forward,
tumbling backward,

or entering
an entirely new
dimensional axis:

I get it,
I got the wheel,
here, my enemy,
my friend.

I’ll own it:
this path is mine.

Of the Devil and a Potential Superluminous Supernova.

Freedom of expression
is tantamount.

If you fail to believe
in it, in the right of your devil
to voice his views, share
his thoughts through ink,

or bleed
his presumably charred,
grotesque soul onto the canvas
or paper

through pen, pencil, paint,
pastel or charcoal,
mould it, animate it,

then you do not
believe
in freedom of expression.

If you damn
an outspoken asshole,
you might silence
her, him,
but you don’t eliminate
the asshole,
and may in fact feed
his assholiness.

So what is your objective
in slamming
the hammer down
on the freedom of expression?

You’re not seeking
to solve
the problem, only
to bury it,
muffled with heavy
dirt of shame

so the Devil’s rage grows
in the shadows
till you have a raging
superluminous supernova
on your hands,

blinding your eyes,
rupturing your ears,
shattering your psyche
with its intensity.

Monsters in Multiple Skins.

Standing
behind the bedroom door.
Taking cover
in the closet. On my belly
again, hiding
beneath the bed

from monsters
in multiple skins, alien
and human, as a passive,
detached witness.

Always fucking
with my head. Forever
worming ’round

in my mind. I’ve got nothing,
you took
it all. What more

do you want
from me? You leave
me fragments,
fucking puzzle pieces.

‘Till you in the least
help me understand:

away with you.

Interrogation of a Maelstrom.

Down below: so volatile,

a maelstrom
of internal violence. Guilt,
fear or rage:
uncertain.

Memory: taken
from me once again. Hungry
mental need

for understanding left
starving and thirsty,
hope for enlightenment
now dimming, dying.

So it goes.

Carrying on. Plowing
forward
despite it: regardless…

If my history — both
the certain
and questionable —

has taught
me anything
it’s that even being lost
and empty

won’t stop me, can’t kill
me. It’s never over.

Never ends.
Death and rebirth
keep spinning, contaminating,
bleeding into one
another so fucking naturally.

Even in the wake
of bloodshed, carnage
of which I am a victim,

I’m there, observing,
ever-eager
to cycle back again,

despite
how dumb and dizzy
these suffering
circles, spirals,

clearly make me.
All the while,
deep down

knowing

there is nothing to fear
but this anxiety
itself, so aware
that it’s infintely stupid,
silly and futile

as shit, just serving
as positive feedback
to the emotional impact

conjured and ensared
in the romantic, erotic
relationship

betwixt
this chaotic world
and my hypersensitive soul

circumstance manifest in an epic
panic attack
kept at bay, stored so deep below,
so for now,

I can encase
it in an interrogation
room in my mind and watch

it from a height
through a one-sided mirror,
dispassionately,
and frantically take notes,
all in the hope

that intellect might hit
its target
through this subsequent
dissection,

aggressive analysis
of a strange,
dark mood, promising
persistence…

I persist.
Digging deeper.

Faith in nothing save
the fact
that ultimately

I will
find my avenue
to answers.

Sickest Form of Suicide.

Are you high on love
again, my old,
estranged friend?

Still blind
to your insides, shooting
for last through the role
of the nice guy,

orchestrating
your own demise?

No judgment here.
I know all too damned well
that the oldest habits
are the hardest to break,

and I’m surely no expert
when it comes to solutions…

Still, this time,
if you want it to last,
why not just try and go
a different road?

Don’t wait
for her to try to carve
her way in
and through just to pry

open the can of worms you are.
Don’t just leave it to her:

be open
and honest
from the beginning.

Anything less
is just false advertising:

cruelest con, most self-serving,
self-destructive deception
one could hope
to weave.

Bait and switch

just so she leaves
you could and empty,

serving to justify
your cyclonic descent
towards the sickest
form of suicide.

Lost in Deep Space, or: Kim.

Piercing
through projections,

wayward
and embarrassingly
intricate projective identifications

to achieve a state
of true inner sight,
the seed

of insight
planted in the fertile
soil provided

by my eager,
rich garden of a mind,

where it’s my world.
I am the sun.
All revolves around me.

Narcissistic
manifestations forever
infesting my psyche
as a consequence
of its nature.

I am god here.
And I am

what I fuckin’ am,
so damned solid
and unwavering —

least ‘till
you came along,

queen of disorientation,
and led me to believe,
succeeded
just before you

severed
the umbilical,
cut the lifeline.
Starved

and thrown off course,
I was lost in deep space,
riding the baseline
left in the wake
of your impact

on me and its echoes,
reverberating
through me
like a redundant soundtrack
to my heartache.

Pluto in Libra in the 12th House.

Lock me in a box
and bury
me to see if it serves
to muffle

all I’ve expressed,
the messages I’ve sent:
communications transmitted

and all of it at the behest
of my relentless, inner call,
this oh-so, desperate cry

for honesty
out of your deeply-rooted, hellfire passion
for the truth
and this burning need stoked perpetually,

all to embody integrity.
Maybe I’m hopelessly insane,
or maybe I’m projecting

an old future
from a dead world
onto the new,
heart still beating

as it dances
on the lips of its grave,

as it just giggles,
mistaking the soft
and subtle prompting
for tickling.

Let me make a dent
so that I need not call him up:

my demon,
my shadow,
the other

who makes me whole,
in some way,
and comes to reconcile,
seeing

the forest and trees
and yet has no resistance,
is given no good reason

to risk the life
of this individual for …

Release me. Let me before
the whole thing explodes.