Hot on the Trail of a Fire Ant.

Track it down, trace
it back in your mind:

what made
you say
that to yourself?

Who else
would you be cold-hearted
enough to talk
to like that?

No one.

With others
you would be empathic
and hypersensitive
to the emotions sensed,

manipulate the situation
to ensure reactions
were as pleasant
as possible.

Steer it all
against the chaotic
feedback.

Here? The claws
come out,
sharp and thirsty
to lacerate
the walls
within your thick
head.

Why here?
Why the ravenous hate?

Why are you so fucking
hard on yourself?

Just Another Freakshow.

Sorry. Try
as you might,
you just
fail.

Normal is
so fucking hard to fake,
I know.

You’ll never hit
the nail on the head:
you’re blind
in this respect.

So out of place, dipping
your heart and head
in everyone, everything:
you know
the strange prevails.

Nothing fits.
No one belongs.

You’re really just
another freakshow
in this diverse circus.

We all starve
for a way to get along.
I prescribe us:

a war for
empathy.

Lingering in Wait.

Slit the wrists.
Chase the pills
with alcohol.

Take the rope,
fashion the noose
around your neck,

try to enact…
face your epic fall.
Then follow this
self-loathing trail.

Bullet to the brain:

fail.

At least ultimately.
Lingering in wait.
Writhing.
Still nothing,
no release
arrives.

Finally,
disembodied eyes

fall upon the vacated container
and mourning unfolds:
through denial,
anger, bargaining,
depression
and acceptance…

Then: the cycle.
Go back, do it all
over again.

Never will they learn,
neither will you.
Habits will persist
as long as you exist,

so: let it burn,
dance naked save
for your mask
in the ashes:

all till
you learn to learn.

Dance Naked. Be Soft.

Just imagine
life if I succeed in stimulating
the outpouring, slowly mastering
the art of successful
advertising without sacrificing
myself, my blossoming

life philosophy, empathy and ethics:
my integrity. Say I could live comfortably
through selling snapshots
of my broken soul,

what then?

Bathe in the glory,
dedicate yourself to filling the space
they’ve cleared

for you: dance naked
and be soft

when dealing
with those who avert
their gaze…

Spark of Devirginity.

In the midst of my fear,
grinding
comes to a halt,
like a teasing, unprecedented still
as lips brush before a kiss.

“Is this okay?”

For the lack of a god,
yes,
please feed the wolves.

Riding me like a wave.

Succumb
when I beg for the top,
so apologetically,
gain it and ride
into such a surreal sunset:

and still burning alive.
Insatiable.

Blazing bright.

A Monster’s Bloodletting.

This would let me explore my monster,
release him from his cage, shaking
off all my anxiety, exhausting
my rage, extinguishing all desire,
stepping back,

seeing the painting
at a distance, as a whole,

looking away
and back as I smoked,
drank whatever,
found the right audio:

stimulation
of the creative outlet.

I’m so full I could explode
or collapse,
or both: could go,
I don’t know:

maybe stellar.
Supernova.

All from this particular pressure,
the question of my life:
which path leads to the best outcome?
I await, but my eyes

always turn inward,
towards myself,

and I get nothing
but more elaborate questions
amidst the fertile horror,

so, yeah, feed by bleeding.

I don’t know what the fuck else
to do with them,
with it,
or myself…

In the Wake of Your Reactionary Revolution.

In essence, I get it.
Please believe me.

When it seems clear that the same ol’
no longer works, change, however difficult,
is necessary, but the nature
of the change
makes all the goddamn difference.

That’s what you were missing,
what you are devoid of.

Hear me now?

So go ahead:
try to appeal to me.
Fail before my three wide,

open eyes. Beyond the pale,
in my safe distance from the herd,
so far
outside your target
audience,

I reside, cocooned
as a witness.

Makes me smile.
Vile motherfucker.
You fulfilled the most dismal
of my expectations.

Rounding up the herd,
get them in line, marching
to the war drums, rally all your sheep,
march them straight towards
the slaughter of us all.

What this machine
needs is a wrench in the gears,

not a dipshit,
narcissistic,
delusional,
egotistical figurehead.

Change for the sake
of change alone
is insane, ludicrous,
dangerous…

In Our Bubbles.

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Subscribed.
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Google Search.

MapQuest me some way out of here…
to my choice of playlist.

Personalize the advertising.
Specialize my reality tunnel.
Unknowingly electing
my own filters,

I can create
alternative facts,
proclaim fake news.

Fuck it, right?

In our bubbles,
we’re all post-truth.