Impatient

I’m late for life.

Lick my frustration laden eye trails
with your feverish degree of need.
I’ve pulled apart my patience in brushstrokes,
and sit damming rampant torrents of greed.
Traipsing through a shutter-box as though
a thrown skein of glass trapped thoughts.
Spending words of do not try a thousand times
until they’re echoing so loud it hurts.
There is less difficulty here then meets the eye,
even when it’s filled with sorrow.
We’re on endless roads, journeying upward
on travels through time into tomorrow.
The final hurdle is simply to start the race,
get up off your ass and focus.
Move away from rabbit holes and wasted days
lest the world consume us as the locusts.


Nightmare rabbit

All rights to Xionicjester @ Deviant Art “Nightmare Bunny”

Supple supplicants, their lips all red in hue,
bound down to sultry appetites so rigid and so few.
Clasping tight a night bound pen,
it’s nub a point of twilight glen.
We never got beyond this spot,
where shear cast moons broke down to stars,
eternities gates and Pandora’s box.
We never got so far,
As to chase the mystic rabbits beyond,
Seek out the mystery the hold,
Ones for the tykes–the other the bold.
Feeling tracks into the ether,
Its nebulous now this fucking thief named Peter,
We’ll tie him down in briar hot,
Filled with thorns and a boiling pot.
Unlace his skin again,
Drunk full of life and his lovely sin.

Note: having a bit of a manic weird day when writing this one. -S

Summertime Delusion – A Letter

All credit to The Hamer 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.

Schizo After All

You thieving fucksticks awandering the world,

Prying eyes and solemn lies,

Whisper me that venom.

What a burn that illusion has,

God damn does it sting.

For all the moments pure and right,

I wish the voyeurs would choke on what they do at night.

I’ll sit and eat blister packs of revelation,

Fuming and screaming in pathetic consternation,

You missed the boat!

Sipping coffee in the wind,

dust kicking and battered spirit spitting,

You missed the boat!

Should have stood straight and waved goodbye,

In the end you’re a stepping stone and never mind the tears we cry,

Fucking crafting your soothing scrub to brush it all away –

Hit me with it baby, hit me with that love.

tell me when I should kneel on down,

Mercy and punish – hit me from above.

Prying eyes and solemn lies,

Whisper me that venom.

Fucking preachers of unrequested bedlam,

What does the truth cost?

All you never knew you had.

Just another animal needing tending at the publication zoo.

They say: “If you itch we’ll soothe it.”

I say: “Just don’t pretend you didn’t do it.”

For the fetal breakdowns and the mental throwdowns,

When the color was white and you said it was black,

Hold your truth son,

You might be crazy but you know you’re right.

I’ve got depths beyond what the echoes show,

Slip off to your shame and idolatry,

I’ve been a puppet before but I’ll find a way back to being me.

Ain’t no venom tastes as sweet as truth,

And in those darkest moments when you fear the something more,

You’ll find no rest,

No breath,

No smiles and no safety.

Just the shocked blue eyes of a beaten child whose heart was bent to hate.

A Divorce for the Past, Present, Future

So as something of a preface to the following let me just say that it has been an extraordinary (in both positive and negative ways) period of weeks since I last punched together something to share with the webs’ people. I had a few challenges about a month and a half back which resulted in my being asked to write a divorce letter to my “disease:….but not the quintessential “goodbye forever drugs” – but rather, towards however I envisioned that sickness which had driven me to be were it to wear a physical form. The suave smooth talking salesman, a blundering and demanding gargoyle, a bad ass mans man with a beard, a sexy woman teasing and seducing….whatever form i chose.
Hey baby you sexy thing,
Hey brother you filthy rock star.
Thank you for the stories,
Those staggering rides up with the comets,
Them epic nights rolling without pause into endless days.
Damn but we fucked well and,
Damn we sped past those pathetic sheep on the streets,
Damn we were a fireball of excitement,
A hurricane of insanity.
My sweet goddess of sin,
My destroying titan of hatred.
You blessed me,
You cursed me,
It’s time to walk away,
Sky, John, off with you and your false matrimony,
Off with this slavers collar on my finger,
Just like you spit in my face when the fun was done,
Feel the scornful gaze that your wisdom brought so many I once loved to cast upon me.
Sky, my lovely succubi, take your sinfully beautiful body,
Those promises of impossibly intense bliss that would never end,
Taste the disgust you draped me in before all I encountered.
My gruesome and powerful spirit,
My depiction of remorse,
Of emotion to be understood and chased,
My devil-may-caresofuckitallandwatchtheworldburn charmer,
John, even when you convinced me that I was doing something positive,
Always those that I wanted to hurt the least caught the brunt.
You made loving tantamount to self-inflicted emotional trauma,
Never again.
You both served your purpose, goodbye.
I divorce myself from my past including you.
From the present wherein my personality is lost in yours and all I can see and be seen as is as you made me,
From the future of which I know little,
With this freedom,
I embrace myself again to stand tall and walk with purpose and confidence to something brighter.
Where the voices are new,
The suggestions more pure,
Life lived more passionately instead of intensely.
-S

A Day in the Life

drug-addict

This is my life. There is no rationality, no planning, scant expectation of success. An ego the size of this planet argues with a weakly protesting child, and the outcome is so basic that it bears minimal mention. Joy in one, anger and loathing in the other.

Note: written in 2014 following essentially a normal day with a relapse before my marriage collapsed. Not surprising I suppose considering the state that I was in.

You can be aware of it with a sense of resignation knowing that the inevitable outcome will be yet another failure of your will and the joy of just another day wiled away in discontent. There is an internal battle, naturally – who really wants to fight themselves mentally trying to prove that it’s wrong to do the thing the other part of you demands, regardless of the consequences. 1:30pm is about when it kicked in, and the fight was short, I had already been snorting buproprion despite all the fears brought on from yesterday’s clear overdose and seeming serotonin syndrome. Hallucinations, confusion, twitching, staggering, blind terror….certainly seems like something that you would want to do over and over again. I had been safely knocking off items from my to-do list, planned to tackle so much more for the day, when the fluttery thought of a cold beer dusted across my determination to continue the 48hr. streak of happiness and health I had been maintaining. So what if it was an hour walk to the liquor store and I had a pocket half filled with change.

Cut forward 8-hrs to my wheedling, intimidating, and self-righteous anger with my wife because she won’t give me the grocery money so I can get a pack of cigarettes.

This is my life. There is no rationality, no planning, scant expectation of success. An ego the size of this planet argues with a weakly protesting child, and the outcome is so basic that it bears minimal mention. Joy in one, anger and loathing in the other.

I’ve always questioned whether or not the majority of most other individuals at AA or NA meetings have experienced that same flat out smothering weakness. Non-committal and breaking at the slightest touch. I’m not sure. The “Big Book” speaks on “incomprehensible demoralization,” but there is always a touch of glamorization around each escapade that denotes in the back of my head some control. To be truly out of it, with only the smallest hint of coherency or willingness to fight against the thing destroying you – probably just my arrogant inner self bleating for sympathy because I must be just that damn bad. If the world had more people like me, I’m sure they would have popped up on my radar some time. Then again, AA preaches terminal uniqueness and loss of control as some of the basic precepts to their program. Depending on the time of day I’ll feel one way or the other about it.

To put it in perspective on a physical level, imagine yourself preparing to make dinner, say a tasty salad or some such other vegetablish item. Now picture that about halfway through, a casual thought about how tasty some meat would be in addition to the salad, but sadly you lack the funds. Before you finish, you’ve discussed the variables, the outcome, the possibilities, the pain – and you’ve come to a conclusion – your finger would make the perfect accoutrement. Down with the knife, up to the lips, and in a heartbeat, you’ve maimed yourself over a passing thought. Now that the moment is over, you can embrace the pain and relish the understanding of how sick you must be, provide yourself that information for an ongoing reference to continue justifying your actions.

But this disease sustains, it offers glimmers of hope, of optimism among the shroud of misery that you wear over your daily interactions with the world. This last time, that was absolutely the last time. Tomorrow you’ll feel better, and you’ll be stronger for having survived another ordeal. Until the day comes that you bitterly and pathetically weep that there won’t be a tomorrow with longing and hope for your expiration. Choking on tears and gasping prayers to any god or devil that will listen to remove the pain once and for all. Prayers so rarely answered it seems.

I told my wife at counseling that I had given up, but was balancing the need to see her, my son and my unborn child set-up someplace where I would know them to be safe and housed comfortably with a cushion in front of them. Seconds earlier, our counselor, Paula, who had initially been working one on one with me, had announced that she would no longer be working with me as she felt that there was nothing she could do to help and had become discouraged.

“Well, then why haven’t you gone out full tilt?”

At my core, I’m still a coward. I know where that will take me. Not where I hope it will, but likely to an institution or a jail where that one prized aspect to my existence that I have ever embraced as the key to masking the inner turmoil; independence. I don’t want to lose my family, and I would to delude myself for a few moments longer that all is not lost. I want to feel like I did one good thing as I crashed to Earth. Even if that single action was a mere minor amelioration of the damage so unjustly caused by me on way down.

And I’m human.

I’m scared.

 

Dog Paws on a Keyboard

winking-typing-dog

 

I write because I want to be fed Milk Bones.

Sometimes I crave recognition and commentary as a reassurance that I might be better than average, even excel at something. Everyone wants to know that they have a gift, some form of prowess, a “something exceptional” that deserves an attaboy pat on the head.

I write because I need to catch a bouncing tennis ball.

At other points, the words pour with alacrity, urgent, demanding, and a quench to the heated thoughts being forged in reaction to an onslaught of emotional intensity. Good, bad, high flying optimism, crumbling shades of depression, maniacal exuberance, blaspheming anger blinding out reason, blue oceans of regret and shame – any and all as long as the fire burns hot enough to crack the walls.

I write because I like eating my chew toy.

Rare is the moment of universal quiet when thought retains an unadulterated purity unstained by dramatic flare, event or heart or mind driven twinge. When understanding is met or sought, clarity is both absent and present, and where the exercise itself serves the purpose.

I write because I’m a dog, and a keyboard feels like a warm blanket and pillow on a snow day.

Becoming a Literary Exhibitionist

Exhibitionism at it’s finest calls for a complete strip down – but like most nudity, sometimes those watching would prefer the clothes stayed on. Authors must dangle and hope the meat on display attracts the eye. Easier perhaps when your life is wrenched from the most vivid hallucinations of Jack Kerouac and Hunter S. Thompson then run through the Douglas Adams’ improbability drive. Prodded with LSD and electrified glow-sticks into the Minotaur’s lair to play. Surely that would entertain?

This is a lifelong dream, a Purpose or a calling that I’ve never been able to just put ahead of everything else. Please share, and thank you for taking the time to browse. Thank you.

IndieGoGo – Crowd Funding Effort

empath-imagery

Insomniac in the Morning

 img_1543-1 

Another night is gone,

The goddamn birds are chirping,

And while I think I was productive,

I’m sure it wasn’t worth it.

My eyeballs ache from skullbound flashes,

Each tendon in my body is moaning,

The sun and sky are so bright with light,

That “back inside” seems to be an order instead of what’s right,

I hang back at the door, or sheet, or flap,

Screwing up my mind and face to think about,

Why despite the price,

I race the setting rays into the West,

A challenge that bears no chance to win and promises self inflicted malice.

Yet….

It feels so nice to taste the liquor of the stars,

While moonlight drips down as whimsy scented honey,

Transforming us all into the Cosmos serving bar.

Thick blue hued amber smoked into an untouchable glow,

Spirit boosting tinsel to top our nightly gifted box.

Conjures whims and true lunacy,

Sets the true Faithful afloat,

In a boat atop the inbound light.

So freeing,

So, so, slow.