Alien Triad.

Inside liquid
black eyes,

by the mirror

that is
your warped,
knotted mind:

your reflection infects
you as you are suspended,
as if in amber,

empty puppet,
initially immobilized:

a marionette,

hung up
by its strings

on the weak limb
of some old

tree as the wind
a ghostly

and the oak,
she dances like an erotic

to the invisible soundtrack
of static
plus psychological projection,

completing me.

Tension Descension.

Here I hang
in the balance between
polar extremes:

questions I can’t face
my soul to spill,
bring myself to ask;

answers you’re too greedy
and controlling
to provide.

So I burn away,
chase green smoke,
rise above the firmament.

Descend into the flask.

Pop another pill,
prescribed or otherwise.

Find an entry
or take matters
into my own hands.

So: find a way
to get off,
get back
on/at anything, so:

find a spiritually,
and physically satisfying
source of orgasms,


That said,
I’ll probably just

Bitter Seeds, Forbidden Fruits.

You’re wrong,
though. I can indeed help
it. Proof positive
as I refuse to succumb
to. Subliminal mantras

do not sway
me. Calculated tones,
and microexpressions:

vibes, subliminals,

they can play
with me, true:
I have found my low, false self

taken in by false advertisement
(quite an embarrassment),
but then again, even

if they were true,
if I were a relatively satisfied

customer, I win
in the end.


I conquer my hells.
So you can go
fuck yourself.

Explored your style
of path (ever so
thorough) to collect

and just

though my motive,
to be honest,
also involved a thirst
for the rush

(glow of soul,
bait of mind,
tease of flesh)

offered only
by the forbidden:

the more justified
the status,
the more desirous.

Unwitnessed Crumbling of an Unnaturally Orange Fruit.

No matter the truth,
it fails
to impact this damned ego.

Rolls off like rain,
no dent,
hairline scratch in evidence.

To truly bring him down,
you must get him where it hurts.
Drag his name through the mud,
deprive him of audience.

Watch the weak,
man as he finally whimpers.

Only means
of summoning response.

Ego only
broken when he’s all dried up
and there
is no one
left to watch.

Then and there,
he crumbles.

One Digit for Dead Worlds.

In the dark,
the desert stretched wide.
Eternity, so far as I knew.

Wandering, running,
stumbling toward mirages
and into awaiting graves

or greedy, homicidal arms,
empty but promising,

I’m not so naive anymore.

There are occasions I wish I were.
does not come without its benefits.

It’s popular for damn good reasons,
but all in all,
at what cost?

Innocence is ignorance
though that only
feels nice till the world falls

on your empty heads
and you collapse
and you’re all to blame…

All I ever lost and hoped to gain
remained hanging
in the balance of this question
I knew all too well
that I just must fucking answer:

far wiser now,

I extended a middle finger
and moved on.

Poverty’s Offerings.

Comes from a place,
an alien space,

of no emotion,
least, not as known,
and into a world
inundated by it,

in which I am
to it

(I am but a sponge,
a radio receiving all stations at once;
jet fuel without a container)

and all its vicious vibrations,
agonizingly low
and painfully-pleasantly
fucking high frequencies,

and in
either case, relentless

realize that. Please,
keep that in mind.


I am surfing naked
here. All I know is that you comfort
and excite me.

All I know is that you’re all
I’ll ever need
to keep going. To drown
in your eyes

again. To have you straddle
me, invite me to climb
on, enter after twisting
you ‘round,

holding you down
and plunging
into, driving

you to a place available
through our meat and wires
where there’s no one left
but you and I,

so nothing to truly
hold or let down,

or otherwise
or terrify.

Just soil.
A baseline
from which to grow

in winding roots,
and far above,

Suffocation & Burial.

So I shouldn’t mention it?

Shove it back
behind the mask,
I guess.

Just push it down
till the unconscious
and subliminal pushes back
from the conscious pressure
like a volcano.

Kick it out into the world,
I suppose. Project
it upon some faction
of the masses represented
by some percentage
of my immediate social group,

all to distance
it from me like I made a play,
wrote my own part
and then went on to cast their roles.

Guess I’ll just censor
it, bury all this inside,

beneath regulated,
and compelled speech.

Suffocation and burial.

New Depths.

Can’t claim disappointment, as given
my depressive depths and anxious disposition,
I never once entertained the notion
that I’d get this far. Even so,

still stuck here, sinking and collapsing.
Static as ever, even if on higher ground,
and maybe I’m just a whiny little bitch
because I’m still thirsty for answers,

hungry for something more,
and I don’t know where to go
or how to get there, who to trust
and who might lead me astray,

so I’m left here with my spinning compass,
wandering in the dark,
jumping in fear at every little thing.

Must my well-worn, circular path
be the only mark I ever make?
Born on a small plot of land,
living only to dig my own grave?

Artist’s Journey.

“This is it,” he cried
from the foyer. “I’m escaping
from this nightmare theater.

Sensory experience,
that goddamned sensorium,
at least
through that last meat-seat:
it was degrading.

Always has been.
And subsequent

returns in rebirth
have not proven to be less so,
at least in my estimation,
and yet

it is required,
it has become reactionary,
to the degree

that it inevitably ends
in a “fuck you, instinct,
cultural hypnosis
and conditioning.”

of course, by
your abandon.

“I want
my time and money back.

You left
him only enough hope
and meaning

to keep
him going,
to stoke
his fire.”

And you left.

Kicked open
the doors, walked

outside without fear or even
that common moment of hesitation,
embracing this path out

of here, away from illusions
that kill the seer.

Once outside, sunlight
splashing down, he breathed deep,

opened eyes
to the sky, swung his arms
back and his hovering soles
rose at the heel

just before he zipped off
into the space
beyond the nighttime heavens
offered above our wary, spinning heads,

to explore, feed
his mind

with all the complexities
of the truth he could manage
to grasp and come back
with twisted tales and offerings

regarding what he’s come to learn,
how he feels (in graphic detail),
and what he’s come

to think
he understands.


Sometimes you need to try
on beliefs
like you might try on new clothes,
or break in a new hat
or new pair of shoes.

Do they fit?
And if seemingly not,
is that my conclusion
only because they are new,

could it be that I’ll grow
into them,
that they’ll grow on me, if only
I’d hold out, give
them a chance?

In any case,
are they based in truth
and have they any utility?

And your answer
to the first question ranks
far higher
than the latter,
but that does not mean discarding
the latter, only that in utilizing

it you keep the former in mind
and wear it on your sleeve.

Honesty and integrity
are everything.

breeding need
for Chaos Magick

so as to falsify
or verify. Adopting hypotheses
in the glowing spirit

of Campbell’s “as-if,” falling down
all these rabbit holes
of targeted reality tunnels, engaging
in my experimentation
all the way down.