Advanced. Civilized. Insane.

It’s strange, living in the context of this society and having to find a job. Want a good job? Be a skilled motherfucker. Go to college to learn skills for a particular career — one you might not even be able to acquire, which could suck, as you might need such a job in order to pay off your student loan debt.

No college? Dropped out? Learn a trade.

In any case, it’s a fair question: how exactly is it that you go about getting a job? Well, bare bones, it goes like this: you are free to choose who you are a slave to, if only you can master the art of advertising and can coerce them into such a purchase — because let’s face it, you’re really trying to sell yourself to them through a resume, an application, during an interview, by showing what an effective tool you can be in their toolbox, what a fine and dandy fucking cog you would be in their particular machine. And once you get in, once you’ve been bought, you go on to try to prove your worth, show what a grand gear, what a superior slave you are so as to earn that raise or promotion.

This? This is growing up. This is being an adult.

It’s amazing the suicide rate isn’t higher.

For 99% of our history as a species we lived in small, nomadic bands that hunted, gathered, fished and engaged in small-scale agriculture, wandering about within a fixed territory in response to the seasons, enjoying deeper social connections and far more leisure time than we do in modern society, free from the ills that plague the modern human, our ultimate impact on the environment moderate — but the agricultural revolution, the industrial revolution, where we stand today?

This? This is advanced. This is civilized.

This world is insane.

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Done With the Numb.

Managed to escape
and rest assured,

I’m never going back.

Made me so small.
Could’ve squashed
me like a pesky insect,

and I’ve been
there before.

No empathy.
Devoid of compassion.
Seems to be universal,
to be so cold
and calculating…

I embody
your counterforce.

My soul
was just marinating,
for I had
to feel it all, straight

through
to the marrow
to know,
and now I know:

You’re too empty,
I’m too full
to fill the chalice
I’ve apparently become.

I feel too much,
a fucking sponge,
you clearly feel nothing,

either entirely hollowed out
or you’ve grown
too numb.

Sorry, no sympathy
for me available
in your present capacity.

I’m not just going,
it’s passed the end.
I’m gone.

Fade to black,
roll credits.

It’s over.
Done.

In a Body of Dying Weight.

As the sun dives,
the lights
are on
and everybody’s home
in the mosh-pit
chatterbox
writhing between
my temples.

Try and exhaust
the mind, but every morsel
tossed in its direction
does nothing to satiate;
it only serves
to feed mental momentum.

Work on exhausting
the body, but how many times
can you masturbate within
the span of a single evening
before the damned
thing packs up its balls
and leaves you?

Tea
and other herbal remedies
coupled
with meditation
and relaxation exercises
fail me again.

Always up
during downtime.
Occasionally even awake
within
the subjective space
of dreamtime…

and as the sun ascends,
burning
my sleepless eyes,
so alive

in a body of dying
weight, I pry
peepers open wide
and drag

worn soles
through or around
another unforgiving day.

Restoring Factory Settings.

1/13/18

Pleasantly high and alcohol free, I listen to a hypnotic video on YouTube that aims towards removing unwanted hypnotic suggestions. As I do so, imagery pops up before my minds eye. I watch it all from the witness perspective. Sexual images emerge and fade as well as images of the stars, reminding me yet again how badly I want to lucid dream so I could feel the experience of flying through space again. Finally, I see imagery depicting the violent, consuming waters of a flood inundating the land, destroying things and carrying the scattered remnants away. When I awake, I feel considerably better, more together, more myself than I have in some time.

I listen again the following evening after smoking some cannabis and drinking some Kava tea. Again I recall having had seen apocalyptic scenes of destruction, though this time I’ve retained no memory of what those scenes entailed, or even if they depicted the same flooding scenario.

I presume these scenes are symbolic, of course, or at the very least hope they are.

While the drinking has become less frequent, I tend to overdue it when I haven’t drank in awhile, embracing some lame excuse that brings me back to it, where I subsequently make up for lost time. On such evenings, my brain reverts to writing poetry that I hardly remember writing, if at all. It also seems that alcohol and pot as a cocktail is what elicits my state-dependent tendency to revert back to the erotic hypnosis videos — otherwise, there is no issue staying the fuck away from them. No booze, no problem.

One wonders just how I developed this tendency towards watching and listening to erotic hypnosis, and I’ve come to the conclusion that it was my own manner of upping the ante with respect to porn. I’ve read before how I’m not alone, at least in the most general way: one watches moderate porn, but after awhile suffers from the law of diminishing returns and is then inspired to watch more extreme forms of porn. Erotic hypnosis became the higher rung on my stairway of perversion. The sense of intimacy provoked through sustained eye contact is what drew me in to Hypnotic Haylee and from then on it just got out of control. I began watching other erotic hypnosis videos — always seductive female hypnotists. I was always careful to avoid the exceptionally dangerous and cruel ones that degrade males, absolutely enslave you or try to program straight men such as myself into being homosexual. Even so, who knew what subliminal suggestions were present in any one of those videos? Who knew if a seemingly innocuous erotic hypnosis video might be a Trojan horse?

I tried to transition back to regular, mundane porn while drunk and high, but while drunk, it just wasn’t the same. As a consequence, I started looking for hypnotic porn videos on Porn Md. — and I found them.

Most of these were “alpha male” videos, which I thought might balance out hypnodomme videos. Last week, I came across one hypnotic porn video that seemed innocent enough but fucked me up royally. The following morning, I felt gross for some reason — brain-raped. Who knew what it might have infected my mind with? This shit had to stop.

I’ve managed to keep away from them for over a week, dodging even porn, falling back on old school still images to get my stupid rocks off. Two days ago, I decided to try to find a hypnotic video that would reverse unwanted hypnotic suggestions –and found one.

It seems a worthy form of experimentation not only because of the frightening hypnosis videos but because of how I feel certain television hypnotizes us all with who-knows-what and perhaps it might have some effect in posthypnotic suggestions implanted in my mind by those inhuman creatures…

Love, Broken Bones, and Bloody Pulp.

Always feel so close,
no matter how distant
in space our mutual skins:
a bond beyond measure.

My light at the end of the tunnel,
my deep love, a star burning
for me in this treacherous dark,

a hope to strive for, a soul
for which to yearn,

a glow
to help me find my way,

provide a target
as it fuels endurance
through meaning.

Two-sided,
so I have believed…

Forever telling
myself, in comfortable whispers,
that we shall reunite in time

far before
this uncomfortable canister
permanently severs
it’s wasted meat
from my mind
and I am

forced to cycle
back here or abandon
in frustration and hopelessness
this insane island,
seeking greener pastures,

though I must confess
moments of doubt persist,
plague what is left of me,

beat me to broken
bones and a bloody pulp,

for despite
or as a consequence
of all this space and time

my heart,
as well as my mind,

has taken up
an apparently permanent
residence
in my penalty box…

It is truly daunting to realize
that I truly
trust nothing,
no one,

that I’m growing
so cold, empty and blind…

Infuriating, Haunting Response.

Momentarily, hopelessly
scattered until the stimulus rears
its dreaded

head again, then collapses
into me, eliciting
another haunting response.

Watching blindly
as spilled milk
meets retro-entropy,

the reverse of weeping,
ocular rain drawing
from the puddle
of impact
through antigravity,

that small pool,

but a crying nipple,

my wide,
thirsty eyes,
passionately suckling.

Open up and see.

Let the spotlight narrow
to a laser beam. Target burned
by the radiation,

and you know the reason.
Attention gripped, no escaping.

Obsessive, fixating, compulsive concentration,
but no personal
acceptance despite awareness,

none of the behavior
typically corresponding
to such revelations.

You, you’re
so fucking frustrating.
How can you, how can I be

so fucking
infuriating?

Noose for Hope.

Candidates nominated
on the basis
of a popular
profile. Compartmentalized
selection, ultimately

broad. In each polarity,
attention narrowed
down to one.

Each competed
until the best

one (which is to say
the one with the most fans)
won. Most qualified in the eyes
of the truly powerful
among us (the majority fixed
on an insane singular):

any way you slice
it, that remains a fact
and it tortures

hope with empty promises of murder
burning, swirling in the luminous madness
dancing still, deep within dead eyes

as it decimates, eliminates
all I’ve come to call home. I must say,

the best
makes me absolutely nauseous.

My hope
for my species was hanging on a rope
not long ago…

Here I
continue to choke.

Please fail
to breathe hard, risk snapping
this thread

that I currently swing on.

Much rather die
so high
above ground.