Ghosts of words and men on Bourbon St.

Image credit to Destination America

Older man now still chasing the speed of youth,

that magic release it felt like when finally

words would reel off the end of mental tongue

hang lovingly over the thought of pausing

crash headily into a flock of fuck-its

on a once clean and crisp page.

Chase that dragon and his friend,

slavishly bursting with a desire to create

fabricate, detail out something grand.

Have people questioning their perceptions

wondering where time has slid off too

drop by drop, carpe diem, another glass fragment

shifted out the bottom of the hourglass.

There are no epiphanies though,

no monumental Staffordshire bulldogs of arousal

that fucking bark and yap to be released in a crescendo of brilliance.

Just a desire for words it seems.

Something to quell the silence, push it away

give the erratic husks some movement back inside

where all those fiend spun neurons lie gasping.

Deeply depleted, running on random jolts

and chemical cocktails of enthusiasm,

diving for the closest rush of emotional splendor

so that I can etch away its finery

longing and pisspants whining for the chance at joy

but always refusing to bask in happiness.

Because all the words at my beck and call,

And it turns out….

….no, no, no, NO, not another one of these baleful fucking tunes.

Let them slip slumberous and scantily clad,

banshees at a jazz show on Bourbon St.

wailing in satisfaction that they are free and alive

settle down to some post-mortem beignets

a fresh cup of chicory blasted caffeine sludge

one last “hand grenade” to balance the boat

skin those yapping pups into submission

waiting for the dark to creep back in.

Blessings past death and the holocaustic ruin

peppered across an ignoble pursuit of the end of everything

weak-kneed, monochromatic, repetitious cycle rinsed and repeated,

a prayer to consistency and predictability

stability held dear during the wildest storms

even if just to dig one more shovelful.

You carousing, pithy skin sacks of arrogance and shame,

I see you there, you aren’t forgotten.

Clockwork paved roads that seem to spill wheels and gears,

springs and mechanisms all across my feet as I unwind another,

stumbling, less regularly, less urgent the staggering,

less is there that violet hue of madness thickening the air

glossing out the glow that once we all embraced in ourselves,

saw in everyone, sought to share with each stranger.

words and a face shattering grin,

perfect tone, chuckle, and off-kilter phrase

each syllable an expression of fireworks

ruptured too early and spraying fearfully shiny things

spontaneous wonderment at existence.

The belief that if I just keep writing,

The words will lead me inward and home—

—and I’ll finally have something special to share again.

Psychosis Poem

Schizophrenia inspired artwork
Artist depiction of schizophrenia

I keep trying to write something that grabs hold of the feeling of being in a psychosis–fully separated from reality in some horrible fashion. I don’t think I’ll ever fully be able to capture the experience, but hopefully some fragments of it made it onto this draft. -S

Pry them open to reality all flawed
time to see the breakdown.

Fragmented existence done in fractal recall
patterns contour the daily grind.

Never stable it will flow over you
vicious, merciless, and without care.

Trust nothing you hear or view
belief in yourself will be the only way through.

Find solid footing in personal identity
hold fast to it as the walls collapse.

Never accept what you remember
memory and truth are malleable.

Painted in a thousand shades of false
test yourself and survive.

Wiped out internally by the struggle
cleansed to nothingness, a relief.

Struggle harder and the pain will gather,
simpler by far to outlast it than fight.

Planes of existence and thought overlap
confusing rationality to no end.

Get gone boy
this is no game for children.
Sit back and let yourself be washed away
pray, pray, pray to any god listening
that it will end soon.
Sometimes they listen and sometimes they don’t,
but what have you got to lose?