Spacetime & Alien Vibrations.

Age circa six.
Playing Space Invaders.
Blind to the significance.

Carried along by my river.
Dumb to its alien process.

Up above, all around,
the gears are turning,
moved by hands

governed
and fingers slaves

to strings
inside

pulled by puppeteers
from out there,
up in the sky.

Yes,
they are here, unseen
and more than merely
observing.

If I knew
what I know,
what would I do?

Close and latch
the windows,
draw the blinds?

Lock and bolt
the door, go to bed

with a gun,
one eye open,
and only with the lights on?

No psychic
or material
boundary
is shield
enough. No armour.

No cocoon
of suffocient
strength.

One mind
can’t take this impact,

at least not
all at once,

and the resulting
dysfunctions
don’t ripple

out to the lake’s edges
in a day. Pluck

a strand
and embrace patience
as you wait

for the whole web
to vibrate.

Advertisements

So FN Hypersensitive.

My insanity,
it just might be
that it is an effect

as opposed
to a cause

of this surreal
circumstance.

Keep that in mind.

I know those infinitely
more stable
than I, psychologically
and otherwise,

who have seen a vast
array

of things that should not
be, many experiences
which are far

more than merely vaguely
reminiscent
of the weird shit
I’ve seen, all the strange

that has inundated
and saturated
me. The only difference

might very well be

that they were merely fortunate
enough not

to be so
fucking
hypersensitive.

End: Transmission.

With every panicked
breath

its micro-inching closer,
closing in on
the psychic skin

behind this bald,
self-domesticated,
tool-wielding simian

mask and costume,
threatening to strip away
this false epidermis
and facade
of doom

to reveal a curious child
caught up
in an elaborate play
nonetheless important

to subject
to analysis and research,

experiment and exploration,
digestion and expression,

then provide
for consumption.

End: transmission.

Plaything of a Higher Intelligence.

So sorry, boy,
but you must’ve mistaken
this universe

for a world in which things
make sense.

If you wanted it all to add
up to coherence,
if you held your breath
white-knuckled hope
for answers,

all my sources say
you came to the wrong
fucking place.

Logic is not
the dictating force
here, or so

experience would indicate,
and if it does,
it’s a far

more advanced flavor,
one that clearly
rests
within the headspace

of a far higher intelligence
that seems
to be using the ant farm
we call home
as its own plaything,

a tool to amuse
its twisted, malicious,
extradimensional mind.

You should know,
you’ve lived all the red flags.

You’re the product of all
its conceivable signs.

Simulation of Blindness.

Suspicions
of conspiracies residing
behind this, portrayed
as a manufactured simulation
we mistake for reality, coerced
through confusion inspired

by perplexing scientific discoveries
coupled
with the blatant absurdity
erupting politically. And of course!

It’s an easy out.
It’s all a dream,
all you need is to wake

up and out
and it’ll all fucking be
okay. Yet if it’s a lie
and there’s no hope

in fighting
and the only option,

be it
blind, stupid faith
or bug-eyed rebellion,

is the dream,

then please, just go
to sleep,

fall deep under
again, back
into your naive reverie.

Stick Around (Behold Some Answers).

Life feeds on life, so
it is self-sustaining.

And contrary
to infectious
belief, it needn’t
always be dismal.

Minds wander,
with them their glowing

core, gathering
patterns, donning
the masks and costumes,
playing all their roles
in the games, doing
what they need to
so as to survive,
always including adapting
to the spark that hides

to beat
the heat, to battle
the cold

found inhabiting
the islands
caught

in the revolutionary
pull of the stars.

Self
is forged in the chaos,

soul
is revealed to itself
in the fallout.

This set of cycles
just align
another angle,

so don’t bail
on this adventure,
hypersensitive

lost boy,
old soul,
alien inside,
wanderer,
starseed,
indigo,

madman unknowingly
on the precipice
of enlightenment
or psychotic break,

and a cornucopia
of other diverse
hypotheses

of nature, origin
and (where applicable)
purpose.

No.

Hang out
if only in the spirit
of Might As Well.

This time
around, the track

has more than a few
surprises left up
its sleeve…

Trust me,
you don’t want
to miss that.

Behold some answers.

Transitory Conjuring.

Invoke thee. Summon
this dark,

lively and lovely damsel slithering
her finger forward,
towards her, in tandem
with fixed

and quasi-submissive eye contact
into the bullseye
of my overgrown, weed-infested
field of visions,

coercing

you towards her so seductively,
as if this bond
could work, as if this twisted

dream (half sun,
half moon, half-baked, fifty fucking percent
simmering
beneath elegantly shimmering,

reflected light) you spin
in your mind
could inspire much-needed growth, shake
you right out of the ant farm

and onto a path
that you’ve never known: one that leads

closer to your alien,
mystical,
freedom-loving,
passionate
and powerful center

of self

and lures
you into expression,
to bring it out.

Call to Grandmother Spiderwoman.

Dying again
for an explanation.
And I know
you know something.

Made the connections.
Know now who you are.

Weaver of the elaborate web
we’re wound in,
a blanket to comfort
or smother:

answer.

Aching here to understand intent.
Good will, bad? Dispense
with the justifications.
Feed me reason.

Tell me why.
Tell me why not.

Is there hope?
Is it all for naught?
Or does it mean
nothing at all —

dispossessed
by our projections,
anyway: the precious pareidolia

that imposes meaning
on chaos fed
to us through our narrow
perceptions?

Or are you crawling closer
with your right long legs,
ready to sink
your fangs in?

Its still so confusing.

Of Alien Spectra.

That which makes
perfect sense
in a specific state

is not

necessarily the case
with the rest mind,
asleep or awake,
in this vast spectrum
of consciousness.

Wed
to the mood:
thought, concept, ego.

Faith
and fidelity vary
with respect
to the rest

of it all, this warped
and fragmented,
twisted, divided

hall of mirrors
for an alien soul.