Meandering feet fall between the scent of wildflowers and moss,
deeper into the mountain side this long trail winds.
Water courses on a ceaseless tract towards the valley,
runs furiously far below where the air is cooler
and the sun rains its heat against the rapids.
Heated Gaze
Summer becomes the tone of fresh and old love mingled.
Of exhilaration, fascination, inspiration,
all put in skin sacks, given names.
Each heat riddled day the sun bakes us,
we are entwined in passionate reverie,
where no mere words will penetrate the sanctum.
Your shares are appreciated, thank you.
Night Tan Under the Supermoon
Layer a white cold blaze
in circular pool
hung
where the reflection of day
carries to the infinite
teeming void.
Shadowscape of eternity
ever beyond
incandescent blue skies,
milky clouds,
beyond sun-blinded sight,
always sitting.
Wonderland of possibilities
bending even science
to use imagination.
Endlessly faltering
towards an unknowable end.
The Gods baubles
spin deftly
through the deepest darks
of cavernous black gone noir.
Never bound,
never stuck,
not clasped tight inside
of opulent bondage
as we marching mortals
on our madhouse Earth.
Into that idea –
that dizzy concept which
forged new words
to try and constrain
something so terribly VAST –
where all is birthed
through cataclysm,
fiery destruction,
demises so profound
dust from their corpses span eons,
rages as a furnace
crafts awakening
in billions of new forms.
Peace is found
within mirrored
microcosm eyes
of any
who would choose to pray,
take silent reverie
in joyful awe,
of beauty without boundaries,
and their own
immeasurable nothingness.
Your shares are appreciated, thank you.
Gods, Giants, Children & Men
Found this unexpectedly in my drafts folder, don’t remember writing it, but then again I don’t remember a lot of things in the ways that others do at least.
I don’t know that the entirety of any story,
will cover what I had wanted to say initially.
I don’t believe that the ideas are wholly there,
sitting more like clumps of clay
waiting for a better artist than I to mold.
I had a moment once where the world laid open its belly to me and told me to come close, listen at a heartbeat that thumped with mysteries beyond anything I had ever dreamed of before. A kiss to the forehead of reality and the absent blast from it’s withdrawal were the price. The air was a hazed crackle of something intangible and without form and face. A feeling left as an impression the walls of truth and the faded glories of all the wishes we had as children. When we were young enough to put our heads together and pass thoughts back and forth, pretending we were telepathic and could read each others minds. Racing the wind across the grass and stumbling because we felt we had grown wings to carry us at the speed of air. We were flying, brazen fuck yous to the established status quo of gravity bound worms that we had been, free to soar, smiles cutting our faces so broadly that they felt like they would never leave. It was a moment and a time when there was nothing impossible and anything you could think was only a moment of focus away from being achieved.
Close down to a belly thick with the furs of nature gone to shit and trees whistling with empty branches. An incoherent ramble across the soft pink that raised out a welcome heat in radiance and peace. Touch the skin with a shovel and pull the axe blade back out so that the blood could go free. Cinders and ash blasting away thoughts and giving the entertainment for the evening and the night as the moons went rising over the hillsides and into the ethereal realms which can be tasted in the heart and break the mind that walks through them.
Safely in the comfort of truth we could sit in the caverns beneath what you saw in the over world. We were realized and all to ourselves. Peaceful gods surrendering to the joy of being lighter than the air, more stable than the mountains outside. Fucking giants as children, children as men, and something gone to dust during the interim.
Your shares are appreciated, thank you.
Something About Trees and Monsters
Simulacrum bonsai spirit shining bright,
tendril bushings famously tiny
sit so perfectly tight.
Clipped to stand proudly small,
deficiency rests on laurels deep inside
where no one fears the height
but is aware of the fall.
Watered down trivia the company kept,
guessing games fuel creativity
while vices rumble and trouble
until tranquility arrives, envelops and sets.
Your ghost is born on silent words,
freedom found out where they fly
unbound from earth by roots,
out in the open air
where birds sing and lost men die.
Your shares are appreciated, thank you.
Fragile Bully
Tongue twisting
word misted
lofty ethics
suddenly shifted.
Verbiage awry
crooked context,
sand quickens
sickens the truth
with maddening lies.
Bullheaded bully
vacuum packed
morals gone dead
done right
presented cleanly
above suspicion
heartless lips
soulless head.
Accusations flutter
steer recklessly
fly rashly
land poorly
eventually die.
Miserable life
distorted denial
avoids change
ever always en garde
tromping a perilously pointless
and petulant hike.
Existence’s trials
trails marching for miles
dust caked grins always grimy
shiver obscenely
spit softly back at ’em
–shake the fear off and smile.
I’ve been on both ends of the stick I suppose at different points, something that I’m not proud of, but can admit readily enough. Whether it was spawned from fear, trauma, etc, doesn’t quite qualify as an excuse for how I behaved at points during my life, it was my responsibility to “not be an asshole”. Feeling someone play out their own internal sickness in the same way towards me is an eye opener.
Tattered, tired, and angry though someone may be, it has to be an echo of some truly painful and unresolved issues to advise an individual dealing with a mental illness that they are despised and everyone is in the eaves waiting for them to die. Shitty and deeply manipulative behavior, knowing that the recipient can literally do nothing other than just sit with themselves, absent means to defend themselves without seeming more culpable as a perpetrator of something justifying such vicious and cutthroat suggestions. There is no power in the words themselves other than what the recipient gives them.
Maybe though, in some ways, it might just be how a person deals with their particular brand of sadness and pain–the only way they know how, lash out. Go for the throat. God knows I’ve done it before more times than I care to think if not totally in that literal context. A whipcord reaction to hurt those that hurt you, even if it is based on incorrect judgement calls and assumptions.
Everyone heals in their own way, and while that doesn’t make it right, finally, I can put myself in the other pair of shoes and understand the feelings behind the words. Temper my own frustration and resentment at the unnecessary cruelty with patience and accept that it is what it is, and life will continue to move on. It’s not worth giving though or dwelling on someone’s words when they are bent on hating or hurting you, let ’em go by the side and don’t look back.
Someone once told me, if someone’s an asshole and lies or treats you poorly, at the end of the day, they’re the asshole, not you. I’ve been an asshole plenty across my life, and that makes a lot of sense.
We have only ourselves and our actions to control–for better or for worse.
Your shares are appreciated, thank you.
Shine the Light
An imbecile with brains to spare,
if only it didn’t get wasted on recklessness and flair.
A heart of gold that’s caked in grim so foul by
denial in fluid form quite thick with salty accusations.
The entropy which held his corroded soul?
Only his own beautiful and despairing wiles,
his mental contortions and poorly calibrated machinations.
Knowing where to breach the wall starts up a new trip,
destination target of personal acceptance where he wouldn’t have to be so slick.
So out the fingers onto board,
let introspection guide–it’s time–
now to scour honestly at what really is inside.
The good, the bad, the disgusting and the brave.
Let’s turn the light where it should shine,
come to love yourself and be unafraid.
Written during an interlude to personal evaluations that have been a long time coming. It’s not all black or white, and that’s how I’ve looked at it for so long–either I’m a good person or a bad person. Reality is I’m a good person who has done and does bad things wrapped up with a bad person who does good things as well–happens to support the delusion that while I’m doing one I’m not the other. I have despised myself, been hopped up and arrogant, placid and timid, confident and sincere, dishonest and truthful–but I have never really sat down and recognized the individual parts of the whole to welcome them in and actually come to peace….my hope is that for whatever reason, that process starts today.
Actually doing some of the work for once instead of just expecting understanding to shit brilliance on me at some random point.
This runs in conjunction to me getting back into treatment though I never thought I would and despite still (poorly) struggling with the old demons. And, while terrified that I’m just wasting oxygen while doing it, I’m finally engaged with a full PACT team of recovery specialists to help give me a pathway and outline to work within to get healthy mentally and spiritually–become a viable member of the community instead of a pariah.
Last thought I suppose, because I know I’ve ground out so much vitriol here on my vomit board over the years–self indulgent and caked with inconsideration at many points–unappreciative of much that happens around me because I don’t understand the workings of the world nearly as well as I once pretended. Today I’d like to express some gratitude for the strange things that happen, both the uncomfortable and the “saving grace” moments. Times when you find that missing pot which vanished, or you forget to turn your headlights off for two hours but your car still turns on, your friend just happens to be there right when you turn the corner, or that any of us find love to begin with. Thank you and my gratitude to the invisible universe that makes it all happen. I’m going to marvel at the beauty of it more and perhaps be less confuzzled and distressed by the parts I don’t understand.
Much love, and thank you for reading.
-Melting Neurons
Your shares are appreciated, thank you.
Ghosts of words and men on Bourbon St.
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.
Your shares are appreciated, thank you.
Bones and Flowers
Spacious and widely set are these woven walls
stinging nettles wrapped firmly around whipcord center
a promise of pliable willow branches,
carefully soaked switches
cut green, bound in beautifully colored leaves thick with thorns.
Laced with the fabric of breath, desire, mystique,
keeping the luminescent beyond–
–beyond.
However, in those laced moments that the air stirs first languorously,
then rising to delight in how it can twist and whirl
a joyful movement of shifting scents
breeze spraying aside the curtains
they, no heavier than dreams.
Rolling across the stones laid intricate with care
drifting to cross the lone pond.
Glassine and undisturbed as puddled silver
thickly magick and deeper than deep can be known–
–as the air quenches and remakes.
Where tendrilled branches cast ripples,
serpentine gashes play at being rivulets of liquid
cutting once pristine layers
on which reflections lay.
Alive and shedding mirrored skin,
sloshing possibility and promise
as ancient hearts cast aromas in the air,
only as decayed wood left to rot can.
Dust and brittle powdering husks
broken down from their heights to furnish food and fuel
that the next generation might cast ramparts of growth
riding high on the bones of the Old.
Silently they sit.
Gazing down at the scarred and skittering pool,
beaming hope in darkly radiant intensity
from behind eyes set deep with focus.
Reflecting, and wishing fitfully,
that as it calms,
they will find relief from their personal tempests
peace through the restoration of waters
returning to their unblemished state.
A cauldron of insight,
slickly metallic and alluring
where they might at last catch sight of their foes,
drag them into the shaded glen,
bleed them onto the stones,
leave their corpses ragged and torn,
that they can be reborn with the changing days.
Blissfully drift into their thoughts unfettered by care,
smile indulgently at the colorful cacophony
as it unfolds behind their drooping lids,
Oh!–what flowers Spring would surely bring.
Your shares are appreciated, thank you.
Obscenity Cavern
Obscenity cavern,
plastered with fucks,
gives rise to the new age
raised to bow low
keep your head down,
duck, tuck and roll.
Whispered in stories,
like the day it last rained,
awash is the removal
of freedom from failure,
honesty and blame.
Turncoats and bastards
(that’s what they cry)
mirrors twisted and cracking
impossibly contorting
as futility sighs.
At long last there is sense,
(though it echoes too loud)
in the canyons of absence
where each of the dead
is everlastingly proud.
