Hyde Resonance.

Bond over smoke,
drink, other textbook
intoxicants.

Find
your mutual Hyde
resonance.

Strip
your second skins,
dance violently unified
in the ashes

of mutually assured induction
as you are hypnotically
sealed to one
another in the aftermath.

Keep true to soul, to work.
See her own.
Be empathic,
yet strive to drive things.

Divide legs.
Part lips.
Dive in.

Work up.
Cover bases.
Bring it home.

Interface.
Ocular. More base.
Encompass.
Elevate.

Blissful,
transient
dissolution.

Embody. Represent
the Transcendent Function.

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Suture the Plotting Soul.

Despite the absurd
dressings
— maybe made out of layers
of petrified
bullshit, a cake composed
of poisonous strata:

creations
of an autonomous,
mental malice caged

within — face
it, reconcile with your identity,
gaze directly, unwaveringly
in the eye of the puss
of the should-be-fucking-obvious,

a selfie
of an alien soul
resigned
to an even stranger land.

It all will surely bring
to you what you want, get
you what you need,

so push passed
this denial

of just who and what
you are, shine
now a shared laser:

eyes on your wounds,
frozen in time,
melt them away,
let them bleed out the pain,

then suture the soul,
and get
on your way,

out of the swamp
that slows your pace,

as this wayward
path
hungrily awaits
your plotting soul.

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?

Final Threads of the Wick (Answer to Ishmael).

Perhaps we needed
the Agricultural Revolution,
our great divergence
from the history of our species,
and on top
of that, the Industrial Revolution,

despite all the damage
it has caused, all the horrors
it provided, like the ghosts
and ghouls haunting

the countless stories divided
into rooms associated via
hallways and steps

in this stairway-to-heaven rivaling
skyscraper,
my double-whammy apocalypse,

the foundation,
my mountain.

Maybe we needed the gun
held to our heads by a hand
with a known

trigger finger
to finally find in ourselves
the capacity
we all had all along to summon
the power to change:

to conjure the will
to climb
to plant my stupid,
fucking flag

come to this point
of Crucial Choice:

do we want to pay attention,
educate ourselves, be decisive,
and fight

to preserve as prosperous
a future for our descendents
that we can manage
or do we

want to live fast
and die
young, burn

the candle
at both ends
till they make it through the wax
and kiss as they consume
the final threads

of the wick and far
more quickly fade
from the big, glazing bonfire
memory

we continue to hold
in our minds to distract

us from the present ember
fading
in a thick
nest of ashes?

Hotel Firewater.

Where I drink:
from an ever-rushing
river, so fluid.

Where I smoke:
an ever-raging fire, so
unpredictable, consuming.

Might as well draw
a chalk-line
of a spinning
pentagram/pentacle
on the ground and place a lit candle
on all five corners
and watch the flames

weave, leaning
this way, that, up, down,
as I stand

as the collapsing star
it represents,
born and surely not
without the gift
of chaos.

My multiverse.
This universe.

Surely the essence marinating
every stratum;
each room along this spectrum
I call a body,

in this hotel
known as my soul.

Nearly Naked, Exposed.

Sand-blasted,
the heavily-masqued,
costumed rebel

finds his way back
to his bunker,
seals the door, strips
nearly naked, hides

from the impacts
and other catastrophes
above and outside. Kept alive

with purpose. Meaning
is the only fuel
left, and how easy, the bold
line betwixt,
so black and white, dividing

the right
from the wrong,
reason from insanity,
hope from a bottomless pit
of despair and anxiety,

no fret now defining
the sides
or electing in liberty
swelling from the core
just where he stands

so he forges onward
after a little
indulgence in the necessity

of R&R, part
of the pattern that keeps
his motor running,
ensures he can keep going,
engaging
in this asymmetric warfare.

And he dies,
a victim
of them. In amnesia,

still striving
for truth, still fighting
despite
being blind

to the who, what and when,
the most ancient
of memories

and the most pressing
of these future calamities:

too
déjà vu
(again).

Awake and Aching (for a Circumstantial Reality Check).

What I
want, need

is creative inspiration,
the drive to produce,
will to sell pieces

of my soul, to stand naked
before them despite
knowing the odds

with psychic arms open, hands
stretched wide, exposed palms
crowned by fingers extending
out like rays of our home star,
yearning for their extremes:

all of me, I think, is ready
and willing to embrace
the world, wisdom

offering adequate
compensation
and the promise of ascension,

rising to a level
where I can make a living
off of doing
what I love,

nurturing
my sense that all life
has meaning.

No matter how blind
that may prove
to be before this ends,

just let me have it.
Please.
Give all this to me.

I have to try. Must prove
to my soul
that I’m really not asleep.

CE-V?

Contemplating
initiating communication,
sparking
some semblance
of a dialogue,

as I wade
here aching
for answers, slowly
swallowed by this stagnant

pond, up to my knees
now and I know
before long this filthy,
fluid skin

will swallow
me up to my neck
and toy

with me before proceeding
with the drowning…

and I’m naive
enough to think
that your input
might ultimately save me.

The Sewers and My Work.

When it all goes down
this time,
given I survive,
you’ll find
me deep underground,
in the sewers,

gathering my strength
to rise
above again, red eyes

tempered, my tamed
black dog
following the rhythm
of my soles,

ever-obediently at my heels,
anxieties overcome,
and we’ll fight
for a far better world again…

this time, fed by the failure
I became way back when…