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,
pathetic
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.

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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,
promising…

I’m not so naive anymore.

There are occasions I wish I were.
Mindlessness
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
hypersensitive
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
resonance:

realize that. Please,
keep that in mind.

(Noted.)

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
(comfortably)
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,
attack,

or otherwise
depress
or terrify.

Just soil.
A baseline
from which to grow

down,
in winding roots,
and far above,
blossoming.

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,
so-called
self-expression
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,
soul-killing,
to the degree

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

Followed,
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.

Donn.

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,
foreign:

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.

Perspectivism
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.

Strip.

Sometimes you need
to strip. Peel
it off, cast
it away,

so as to have the opportunity
to study
it in a manner more closely approximating
objectivity.

Sometimes you just have to stop
and question
something fundamental,
some sacred axiom,

some cherished belief upon
which we’ve built
so much. This act of rebellion

is fueled
by habitual self-doubt,
conditioned, imprinted tendencies
of suspicion
towards any Other.

These questions are supported
by the deepest roots.
These blossoming flowers
of uncertainty

bearing all spectra
in your broad-spectrum

distrust. Belief
is cheap. You need
to know.

Though given
you’re starving,
you’ll settle
for a little of that greater

understanding. Just

(please,
I need)

bring it on.
Keep me strong

as it topples
everything.

Slowly,
cautiously,
with psychic empathy:
please.

Still:
keep it coming.

Liberal.

Fine.

Consider
your insipid duality
entertained:

gun to the head,
I must make a choice
between polar positions.

No gradations
available.

Up or down?
Right or left?
Blue or red?

Backward
or forward
now?

Try to evolve
in a hopeful direction

or hold strong to the past,
strive for static?

No question.

Everything is flux.
Our journeys define us.
Aversions and desires
drive and constrain us:

what is it that lies
and reveals the truth
beyond the tinted window
that I experience my wild
reality through?

I must open,
but cautiously.

Lift the curtain
to find the face responsible
for the reflection

that I am, smiling,
laughing

as hard and insanely
as I’m frowning, drowning
in my insipid sorrows.

Accept. Struggle
to embrace. Stand my ground
but with open arms,
manage to integrate,

Find some balance.
Gain some clarity.

Mix life up
through marrying
my calculation

with her fearless
spontaneity.

Find meaning
again. Build purpose,
and then live

free.

Dying, Yet Deathless.

Superintelligence,
or so they say. If indeed
you are what they claim,
shouldn’t you have figured out
by now

with your highly-evolved,
tweaked brains
how to tell me the truth
without eliciting

such soul-shattering fear
and increasing my maladaptive
relationship with the societal structure
I am embedded within?

End of every cycle
leads to another, nothing
to link
them but memory,

nothing left in the wake
but an empty husk
and an abrupt end

to an unstructured,
run-on story.

In retrospect,
it seems I’ve learned nothing
from it, grew

so little from it, offered next
to nothing

to it. Needless suffering,
pointless wading
in a stagnant sea of endless
bullshit. Is this the message

I am
to be left with?

All in vain,
all for naught:
shit happens inevitably,
without purpose,

and I am
eternally anchored, dying
yet deathless
in the midst of it?