Interpersonal dynamics with a radon bomb baby. Burning it straight down to the ground, scream at me like this whole one sided diatribe has become nothing but a song. I hate that our hands touched with venom grasped tight in fists. Cruelty measured in blood ,bruises and spit. Sex without the pleasure and no one ever comes. Where are the guidelines for this shit? I’m no masterpiece and my words sometimes seek wound instead of ears. Verbal lacerations that excite the darkness in both of us until the monster’s out and there’s no going back. Channel that stunner of a mother fucker, find ourselves in prisons far more concrete than the inside of our skulls and with far less forgiving guards. Wasting away, lost to hope and life forever…why? What was gained? I don’t ever dare to ask the other question…what was lost?
Tremble, baby, tremble,
come gnattering at my door,
the last I heard the story told
I found myself the whore.
Through dancing devils and despair,
where rainclouds covered black,
we’ll smoke these cigarettes this eve
talk only of the facts.
While vapor mists exfoliate,
come wrapping round my lungs,
tell me, oh, my dearest one,
from where do nightmares come?
In that lingering silence,
where faces seek to fade,
electric will the tension sit,
my question on display.
Clever feelings will run loose
till they gather heads of steam,
together waiting for the rush to burst
rip loose like Satan’s scream.
Forever tick the seconds,
into idly running dust,
I know not why the torment,
but darling, dearest, I just must.
Sincerity is cleanliness,
stops putrid stains from spread,
but Botticelli had more words
from his canvases so dead.
Stoke the embers of your heart,
go on, let the pyre burn,
never is a long time from now
and it currently is your turn.
Play often with the boundaries inside you head
before they harden into labyrinthine walls.
Doubt the truth of what you know dear one,
for nothing is ever so simple as it may seem.
When the philosopher writes such common tongue
as “I think therefore I am,” dig deeper into
understanding what is meant. Uncoil the beauty
of knowledge shared and questions expanded.
That uncomfortable pressure inside your brain
is nothing more than the price of admission
to a world of creative and well intended information,
each and every bit, a treasure in its own way.
Once there was optimism to see silver laced clouds
till the world shook on its axis and decidedly bowed.
Psychosis (they say) is to go quite insane,
lose touch with reality, but they never mention the pain.
When all that is true breaks at the seams,
life becomes survival, desperation and screams.
Mistrusting your judgement since all you see is false,
no more gut feelings to rely on, you’ve got to just halt.
Buried beneath the weight of taunting monsters and more,
the theories roll, there is no staunching it despite how you implore.
Eventually, the doctor will finally take note,
through terror laced tears you sought out help and hope.
The medicine works! That’s great, saves the day,
the 50lb weight gain, well at least you’re not in a grave.
Time will return that the world is no longer asunder,
blessed peace will come back, beautiful and quiet as thunder.
There isn’t much that the mind cannot do,
it a remarkable system when it runs smooth.
So if you find yourself in that darkest of nights,
keep hold of your love and never stop searching for light.
Psychosis is agony, there’s no hiding it,
vulnerability is the solution though surrendering seems amiss.
Give trust to those that care about you,
seeing through their eyes might keep you from the thorazine zoo.
Recognize, none of us perfection incarnate,
schizo or not we all have a life to live well and stories to make.
affect flat and bare
thoughts locked in mid-battle
weaving chaos enough to wear.
under visions of winter sun so bright,
sitting with view turned in
reflecting fiercely in that light.
focuses on action, body, and soul,
a smile branches out
as new knowledge chases out the cold.
There’s a damp wetness that hangs inside
like some putrid pit you cannot shake.
It consumes and expands within you
always seeking to find new areas
ones that are filtered with love or confidence,
special and precious to defining who you are.
As the viscosity of the pit expands
you become enveloped in a melancholy,
a great creeping sadness that obliterates joy.
Dreams become suffocated,
ambitions become fantasies not to be attained,
emotions roll dead and to the beat of failure,
the internal monologue becomes a tirade,
life itself becomes a chore,
and one that is hardly worth the effort.
Enveloped in that wet darkness,
it takes great strength to continue on,
Each soldier who walks that path,
fights a monster inside and well beyond
anything that you can touch or taste,
Merry be the wounded ones who chose to fight,
their battle is so often invisible,
that others aren’t aware of the war being fought,
It is though,
one screaming resistance and determined action at a time,
they battle against something never asked for,
Hesitation on the edge of perfection while the wind whips back past the lips of despair and a trajectory that ends splatted on the rocks below. A momentary pause for God knows what reason, soliloquy rattling like unquenched armor inside a skull aching for reasons and meaning.
No jovial tone to be found other than the laughing hysteria that comes choked off with a seemingly endless parade of tears. Coughing, bawling, howling, begging, giggling into the yawning darkness and discontent of a reality set to dissolve beneath the weight of a mind misfiring badly.
The beautiful tableau awash in sunlight and a fucking million possibilities all riots against that creeping sensation that “all is not what it seems”. A centipede who can no longer walk because he thought about how he did it. Natural instinct sold out into chained slavery inside the boundaries of nothing and infinity. Conjured by poisons and released by fears it’s set loose as a hungry behemoth on the landscape of mind, the carvings of soul, the sculpture of heart.
Hesitation on the edge of perfection with the barest sliver of hope overcoming resignation. Nothing is ever as it seems, and the worst of the world today may become the most redeemed beauties of tomorrow. Shake off the terror and walk into the fire to be forged anew.
The edge of perfection recedes against hope. Time slips forward into the next scene.
There’s a heinous wind of wanting that sheds lightly bound despair to the trundled carts of cash swept from their bodies.
Aching insides so very desperate, desiring the next and the next until the vacancy between their heart and soul is refined.
Never use the words “better than” when referring to your own, it makes you seem shallow in a wading pool of sharks and minnows.
What was the purpose? The sheer ecstasy of the reveal, the acquisition, the placement, the perfect moment of satisfaction felt so briefly?
What wiring madness has been mounted to the mainframe that this ceaseless task marks consumers as those to be consumed?
Eaten alive beneath wild stacks of treasure all aglitter in the pelting wind, eyes glazed to a rapture of earthly delights.
Have you ever sat back and tried to just come up with an original thought? When you really look at the way all our experiences, from the most mundane to the most intense, shape our perspective on the world and how they get filed away for future access points it becomes a daunting task to disassociate from all that information to find something new.
It makes me question whether I’ve ever before had a unique idea or whether I’ve been following some intangible labyrinth of stimuli of my own generation internally to lead down pre-trodden roads. Reducing it further back, it strikes me that if that’s the case then the initial filtering mechanism that we put in place to process the incoming data points might be where originality occurs. In the values, the beliefs, the morals, the ethics that we choose to ascribe our viewpoint on the world and as the lens through which we perceive it.
If that’s the case, it stands to reason that having unique values and beliefs would in some ways lead logically to having a more unique capacity for thought generation as the pieces would connect in more abstract formats. Do that to such an extreme however and you’d find yourself completely ostracized outside the realm of acceptable societal standards and awash in the lonely seas beyond. Not the end of the world, but certainly a challenge.
Alternatively, I suppose it’s possible that there are so many variations on popular concepts that there is room for nuanced navigation of their boundaries as constraints to actually finding new ideas, truly new ones, that are compatible with a larger subsection of the world. Are there enough variables to the belief that “honesty is important” to allow for new concepts to form, or is there a rigidity inherent in any belief system that prevents it from expanding conscious thought or creation beyond a certain degree. Do we have to play out the scenarios sufficiently that we can form an experiential backlog of data points from which to construct or are we stuck forever in a sequenced arrangement? Is further elaboration a mechanism to create more niche thought processes that might stand out as truly original? What if we said, “honesty is important because you should match actions to words in order to be a responsible and trustworthy individual.”?
Of course even that statement can start to get broken down further and further as you seek to define responsibility or trustworthiness and why those are important factors to consider when going to through your day to day existence.
So pulling it back to the beginning…what does an original idea feel like? Something generated from within that is ahead of it’s time, or stands out on the curve as beautiful in its further question inducing qualities. Shouldn’t any new idea beget other new ideas? Are we all just vacuumed into a state of static accepting the status quo of our lives and the world around us, how it works and the mechanisms of it’s action in our lives or are there roads out to pursue?
I guess this whole thing is getting pretty esoteric out there, but apparently that’s what today’s writing is going to be about since it’s on my mind and I can’t seem to generate anything truly outstanding or new, so instead I just keep questioning and looking for answers. Thanks for reading.
Wrap me in the mysteries of your dreams,
oh, sweet one with your eyes of green,
where the magic pools and smiles go
to dip beneath that inner glow.
Wash us deserving in the shadows of your pain
where the struggle is real,
no longer a game and
all that once was becomes real again.