Stuck

Stuck on,

Wash, rinse, repeat,

Stuck on,

Reading the same page.

Stuck on,

Making the same mistakes,

Stuck on,

Being stuck on.

Topographical

Not so specific is the way that it should feel. Like a chronically ill patient who has that stomach twist around that nobody can identify. It’s probably just gas pains, or a thought caught in between sternum and outlet, one or the other seems most likely, but who knows at the end.

Hyperbolic is the chance meadow we sit in, a graduated course outline on desperate measures and abject failures coated in sin. Nothing but molehills as far as the eye can see, though the weather on the far side is anything but sunny, I’ve heard wind and snow.

That’s the kind of character building exercise I’m all down for, you know how they mean. Where it walks up dizzying heights and then crashes into the burrows beneath. Even rodent beasties are terrifying if given the right scale and these ones have eyes the size of saucers, lips peeled back in screamless fright, tongues lashing about with tastebuds signaled that there’s blood in the water for their sharkish moods.

There’s even games that outfit gumballs with the kind of attire to tackle this kind of noise, give ’em gauntlets and the like so as to hack and smite. What about limit broken soldiers with shuddering penflaps and a sackful of ink leaking all over the place. What about the child outside blubbering with an appeal that it can’t sound out between the emotional climaxes stuck to the morass of its shattered soul?

What then are we to do? A minefield abounds and there’s literal fancy footwork needed to parade across the land, I’d hazard event a courtesy or two to be handled as appropriate.

Bloody topographers got it all wrong this time mate, time to ship back the other direction and pray for anything but the doldrums to keep the ship going.

Not a Normal Zoo

Tremulous chattering in the van like we’re beetles in heat. Something like that anyways. Its fucking cold but it sure beats being on the street. Time to start on one of those commitments. That thing where we write everyday, try to spew out the content that drives each of us bonkers, makes us sicker and crazier than anything else upstairs no matter how much we beg and pray.

There’s joy to be found here. In the way that our interactions have changed. Its subtle, so very subtle, but present and there’s no denying the pleasure it brings. Instead of side eyed looks they come straight on, a touch of passion, and I’m even back to singing terribly constructed spasmodic morning songs.

Like a drunk man who’s way too sober christening each second with noise to blot out all of the thoughts before they come screaming to his room begging for their toys.

But it’s all got a rhythm to it. A banging irrational rhythm.

From the awkward sex making in the cubbyhole cavern with blanket draped window we reside, to the front seats arm deep in residue from yesterday which resides. You’d think we were animals, but that’s far from true. The hallucinations today have me convinced that we’re clearly not part of the normal zoo.

Summertime Delusion – A Letter

All credit to The HamerĀ https://www.deviantart.com/the-hamer/art/Little-Soldier-Boy-182842008

Despite every frothing nuanced prayer that initializes my psyche, the distorted grimace of broken promises and lost understanding, perched atop a wistful hallucination, a misted and cloaked recollection of the past run doggedly down by the present pretense.

If ever there was something akin more to the listless and forgiving welcome end of the fight with the embittered arrogance of senses beguiled by a world at odds with the wasted conviction that drives each of us to draw determined store each day.

I don’t want to see that shit.

It’s going to remain a figment of some darker god’s plaything.

Poor darlings chained up until the scent of dread and hate and playful desperation and longing and weakness and fear cum resignation. Soaks the fingers loose from greased clasp on steel.

Fucking breaking would be the sweetest of releases.

To find forgiveness in deceit , blunder through fields of denial, laden and swollen deep with the putrid rage at self and world.

Just take one more day beautiful.

Please.

I’m begging through this weakness and shame of my indignant mistrust.

Please.

Please show me I’m crazy enough that I won’t die in my hate lust that these fears have spawned.

I’ll be your puppy faced joker.

Your sterile cat of misapprehension.

Feed me your sin to mirror mine and kiss these wounds to sew them shut against a clot of your mercy. The sheen was lost so long ago and hasn’t been a clean reflection since you woke me to a world of normalcy bathed in the crackled genius of the wounded.


Errr….and then words….

Composite a spectrum,

Diagnosis alternative nostrum,

Qualifier doctrine placenta,

I’d call it a kid if only it were one.

So, birthplace be lobed,

Rounded and gray matter globed,

Because words man,

Them is the things that I once loved.