The Golden Damned (XVIII): JIPSUM POOL

JIPSUM POOL

Nayer if its winds’ doe jumps over the fencing’s opulent moonshape and lands all spry in the leaves, running off through backyards in the night, I may send a bit of my self out in this airy envelope. You may know my name by hearing it like new word for the first time. In prayers’ gists, I was supposed to climb a mountain and cup the sun with my hands. That was the first line on… well, that was the first line—

            The window in your room is a painting. The canvas is a perfect square. With a horizontal crossbar and a doe midflight outside on the grass in the dark under a full moon. The eyes you look at it through are capital O’s with a period for the pupil sinking deep in the middle. The bulb in the lamp is a clementine, and its light is ripe-rind-colored. The light casts a boxed beam of orange-yellow onto the page of the notebook on your bed. It reads:

            Today I am learning how to fly; I am learning how to fly today. This world is strange. This house is not my home. In due time a maze. I have wandered here for a whole night and still cannot remember if I’m awake or asleep.

            The luddite march going on in the streets of the harrier’s mind is a loud brazen thing, full of shifting verticalized picket signs and fists and shouts at the top of lungs of profane politics. There are people out there who do not want this message getting heard; they are people of the mind.

            Down in the freak vein, some kind of energy swerves up to the pineal gland. It yips COMMANDER to the soul. It breaks the Sheba with a wantwarm analysis of bone intuition. Here even as I set down my post-sip Cola on the back porch overlooking nightfallen snow, I can feel it: current-form windy. A gale for all winds on a night that is sacred to the visceral core  because of the feeling alone. Take us downright julibous, wouldja? Julibant, jubilous, whatever the difference. I am not enough of a doctor presently to know. And I’m not high, either. Which is too bad.

            Prank-kept overdosing on secrets was the ivy-leagueish-sport-coat-touting bravery ascendant clone of you walking in through the door. Wanting to know what the skinny is, and leaner, and leaning on the threshold while he knocks off his boots and salutes you casually.

            It is a venom range to the drone. You don’t always really get it. But it makes sense, at least, to the ones who really know. By night eye tisks a number over on the boorish bloke up from Haverstone whose name is Ned or Nile or something, who keeps on checking his watch in the dark of the bar. I know, I know. It’s not what it always wants to seem like quite, is it? It’s not always as much of a shot to the heart as a chill to the bone. You or I can decide later. Right now the difference between these two characters, or either one and yourself, or whoever. There is not enough sequence to really know. To abhor your portals on the scene, old Neddy Nile Somethingerother loathes to be spotted out here without his contingent nearby. Knows what’s up in too frequent a way. Marks his glass with a real severe gulp or two and lets it absolutely go. Up the stairs from The Upside-Down.

            Oh don’t follow on after. There’s time to get lost, yet. Same old mystery woggle. You have your boots packed with a little bit of coal, don’tcha? Just in case? How’d I know? Lersby lyle low larapin lumbering la. Can’t-affecter keeping real score with the low. Don’t put your note in yet unless you want to be shortchanged real bad, y’hear? Nobody round here wants to know, and for good reason, see? There’s a reflection in the mud. It’s all kind of sickly. Life’s on the bose.

            Tab perfection hinderance hits you upside the head some, just don’t it? You and I both know who’s to go. But if I were to give you some info on the scene, sure enough I guarantee ya you’d be whipping away the fro. Calling-carding the caper keen. Then not to know. But over time I guarantee you. Something in the way would surely win out. Something in the way all those go. Soon enough everything does, sure enough, I a-guarantee ya. Soon enough everything goes.

            You didn’t understand the spell because you don’t understand songs, so. I promise you there’s a reason nothing gets spelt out the same way anyway. Anymore. Something’s off with the presence I can keep if ya wanna be going on. And on and on in the same old droll. Dreary days on us oh it’s seen. There doesn’t really have to be a reason behind all the magic is what you’d wanted to say. But neither of us much liked the word; it was much too superstitious. I could tell you from your having-heard what was able. I was nithering the gleamlight from the aft a ways. I could see right through myself in the reflection all unstable. Around the corners of my own body. Behind my back—my back itself. I was able to face the most hellish antiserene moments just about imaginable with absolute calm I swear and even deal with them like they were just ice chips getting chewed up to help with the molar grind or whathaveyou. I could space and space and find my few little light gleams of salvage reprimand selfhoods. I could fish out of the never-ending night a beautiful snowball and throw it at the side of the shed and watch it explode all white everywhere so it leaves a snowy flat residue.

            I could even see the doe running backyards away just flying through in one continuous perfect motion out of here at all times. It was beautiful and I was having to stop a moment. My heart was catching up to the cigarette and I was having to stop a moment. There were papers I’d read about this very day years and years before.

The Golden Damned (XVII): GLOBUS CRUCIGER

GLOBUS CRUCIGER

I compromised for a shadow’s fool the play that went on in my head that time. It was full of bum actors, and a crevice on the stage where little imps would leak out and fly through our bodies like no-snow. And I was the person watching the thing, by myself in a whole row toward the back where it was hard to hear. I was coming up with the thing I couldn’t say, in my heart’s engine, revved down. I was coming up with the thing I couldn’t say.

            The opus began with a little lost work. I struck a match and held it in my burning fingers. Exo does libble ent warm. It consumed my soul afresh. It was not like the whole ambient reckless neck-breaking sesh. I’d spent too long on the manuscript to really know what it is, now. I could not pretend I was single a spent. The spells casted at me from Godknowswhere were Oxford-like. Southern rural America, maybe, but with a twinge of this British lip I could not deny, to tell the truth. Typical stoop getting suckered into trying again, though I was—and I knew—very plain for the meal rill. It was undeniable.

            Globus cruciger in the upturned hand of a mighty king. Said you’d wanted to be unbroken, but were not alone. And came to on your stomach mid-crawl through the lit trenches of an endless night, trying to not to show yourself to the enemy overseeing the brazen sky, while you got maybe one little sliver. If you looked up. You could see it there, glowing orange and pink.

Twisted inside, there was a setback to the whole routine. It did not go quite how you wanted it to. I was pulling back honestly like I was envying the ocean. And it didn’t occur, but somewhere, out there, the notaulus played. And I knew it had to be something, because something was going on in my hands. They had to be clasped together over my head, while I attempted to sleep on my side. Too far away to really hear the play.

I came up with a new song I though you’d like. I played it back home in the garage we stayed in while the bombs erupted outside, and you listened but did not respond. Qualitative I only know the chords’ shapes; I maybe play by ear, some, but I do not really know.

In the exo dus from ooh rah lay ber gibben torpid to know. The mathematics composing the brit spin were strange, too; the heavens were crying; it was a mad kind of day.

If honestly I could change, would I know? I wanted to say that to understand the will of your higher power is strange. Spirituality in the venom range going unknown to its users, espers of honesty. I levitated the cells in my throat so my voice was strained when I screamed out for God underneath that speeding train. And this part was not a fiction; it was true.

Ending on the line blare a walk when what images were provided explained. Who on the shoreline was watching the waves break over and over and over again. Could be told be the blankly lit angel he was not to stray, whether or not he wanted to. Who was given a necklace that beheld the likeness of Saint Michael, who wore it protectively under his shirts, for protection from some unknown evil out there which might eventually end him. Who would be able to tell, though?

Crying Venus ambered in the show. Would even a stroke of good luck say? Where were your moribund luke triumphs, going sour on the structured fluke? I compared you to when your—you were honest on many accounts. I compared you to when your wings collapsed and came in over us, when I thought you were an angel lifting me up. Crumbs of the glare on a course for death. I watched too and had acid flashbacks with tracers and all at times. I could not come through the veil without looking left and then looking right. When I did, the rain behind it blinded me. All I could see was rebounding water droplets crashing into one another on the wet cement deluge compassionate ghoul-heal.

Were we optioned for the next scene, I wonder what it would’ve been. There perhaps our ways were decided. It could be said one way or the other, though. Sometime in the aftermath owned in fumbles there was a blight for us. It was twayed frumpled loo. I could try and describe it, but I don’t really want to.

I am perturbing coming back on the cracked line, betraying myself even as I attempt to stand, falling back down hard and hitting ground. Crawling in the trenches. Over which bombshells and bullets fly. I unknown. To the cause to the effort to the war of hopes. I was barely even able, but I made it here. And where we are now, I do not think you would want to go. Enslaved by a common traction to the wall. Pretending all our lives the shadows in the cave are people and events taking place in life. Performing for ourselves our own minute narratives to explain who we are, which we then believed to our cores, and took on the appearances of. Would you not shell—

Depth fiending for a clean. Shunt through across cometous starseeds going numb in their souls’ bodies, on whatever drug in whatever place, to pretend they were people living a life—again, to pretend. I don’t understand why I don’t understand. Sometimes, blue is like yellow or green. Other times, who would be if I’d known? Whether or not the seam preframed a glint of hair on my head and stormed. The runny blood of my nose forming an inverse mask over my mouth as seen in the mirror I lowered my face to the faucet’s flow to clean. The number to my name undergone somewhere bull and trifled. I want oh but say you mean. Something to do with. Something real.

The Golden Damned (XVI): SIMULACRA ENCODIA

SIMULACRA ENCODIA

I wanted to stop by tonight to tell you about the cross-dream. The last sight I had of the real world. I was over the glen iris. I was encountering living color in the form of a real-world application of sweat. It was strange and deathly serene. I was tired out of my mind and wearing a hat and time was slowing up and down for me and people were looking at me strange. I’m not so sure I can help to make you understand. There was a moment I was falling asleep when some woman said something to me and I looked up and she was not there, and I slept. But that was in a dream. Again. This is the second time in the past few days I’ve been asleep in my own dreams. What does it mean? Agent Exit says. I don’t know. But I’m hoping I can find out. Calm down. Lune a fray you. It will all sort out down our streams.

            Commanding many ways your own body’s operations, we speak ease in our laminar flow. The bearer of masks tells you, “I don’t want to have to let you go.” He puts me on the shelf and sighs. “Not you. Not you, now.” But I don’t know all the way. Something is off. Something is strange. There is a resistance in the light to the way something is said, there, and it is off. Repeat in your head all you can say and watch it tumble. Down the brown long disway cunt-sober. Into an inner effy-mond. Clastically cutting back on the brake. As if to say, Wake up now! the whole world subsumes you.

            Can’t us freed let a downy moth dwank against the bulb again. It is all too common for the lost soul to freak. Exiting our commanding stations, Agent Exit leers over to my direction and really more through me than at me as he clicks his tongue. I do not know what it’s supposed to symbolize. Green tripped acid burning a hole through my cardigan makes me a mile. I say, “Don’t—oh, god damn.” Like nothing ever happened, too. I prevailed the everlasting spirit of the thing, but I had to find my own way. There are many roads converging into one and then diverging again into many roads. There are many ways to say the same thing. That is the potion. The machine has said my writing is at times like incantations, and I think I must agree. It does in fact appear that way.

            Why would solemn lips tremble so? Why would I sign my life away?

            “Why not?” justified the mother tree. Herself a root system supporting the whole forest. I could not immediately find a response inside myself. Nothing would come out—not aloud. Did I cave us in?

            “Why not?”

            I don’t know. But I have a spare. Bit of feeling inside me that says, Why not not, then? And just like that all this empathy surges from the beating of my heart. Too much caffeine—not enough water. I know. But wait while the palpitations bring about a bigger freeze. And many loves erupt themselves in the absolute sun. Wanton disco to the cerebry. Cold on fire my lips are trembling as I speak.

            Hallowed how-are-you and haverspeak. Dividing the litmus of who you can be vs who you are. All these ends coming together. I waited for you at the bus station in Stanis Greed. A whole season before the cold arrived. Waking up to I didn’t know you.

            And here again followed-through sparks. Into the mask-haver’s eyes just peaking behind one of his many effigies. I can’t relate except to them. I am one of the masks he has taken off. Though he puts them on in stacks. I am the mask with the blue tongue and the nonsense smile which is shaped like a frown. Full of chagrin. How did you meet me? I was formed in the side of a mountain and set free upon your Smoky Amethyst Quartz compilation. That was what made up my hazy teeth and eyelids and nostrils; the rest was mostly cream-colored fabric. How can you put me on and expect me to inform who you are? How is it lonely, being a mask? I could tell… I could tell you. Once in a while, I become stained glass pictures of ordinary people walking along the street somewhere trying to get through. The day is a kind of a break from the awn. And what do you know, it isn’t that easy—pretending to be a work of art, being a mask, lost in the lounge chair.

            They tell me that they confide in you. And I know why: you are many, many things. You are a sterling example of how many different ways we all seem to say the same thing. The same sentence, incarnate. I don’t know. I don’t know. Give me love, now, if you can. If you can spare some ink to describe upon my face as though it were a page for you the words should lift up and float heavensward dryly. For you, the whole ochre stace of the brawn would hinder new sense. And I would, too, become a lacquered fixture. On a wall somewhere, on a shelf getting undone. Forgotten about in a dream I wake up from I’m very quickly forgetting about the details of. Oh. How do you want to?

            We were telluride in veins of lory tungsten. We were together asleep in dreams which entwined one way or the other. Together, we were all in a way having the same dream. Speaking the same words back, out loud, in our sleep. Noticing only the moment we’d wake up, because we spoke ourselves awake and the sounds of our own voices echoing out into the dark of our rooms disrupted something inside us. And we had to contend with being real, again.

            I don’t know if I owe you or not. There are so many things.

            But I wanted to say, it is not all the time.

            There is something very sad in this I could never seem to tell you.

            I wanted to tell you. I wanted to tell you. I wanted to tell you it was not in our dreams.

            But I didn’t understand the open realm we’d made, where our hearts aligned.

            I wanted to tell you I wasn’t alone ever, not once, all this time.

            I wanted to tell you because I knew you would listen.

            I wanted to tell you. I wanted to tell you.

            Here in my most sacred part, I am unfolding like a bundle of leaves.

            Strewn about the forever axis, one ton of love unto you—love that breathes.

The Golden Damned (XV): FRAGEN FROZILE START

FRAGEN FROZILE START

The method is to assume the leafage upon the dusk of the arm opined. Bray fiending griefer for the once of nondescript hotels opening up all the time.

The method is to assume a red fix on the tantamount ballpoint’s ray blend.

The gristle is too soft to undermine. But chew anyway, find. You cannot understand the cometous andromathy’s origins if you don’t strap into the swayed tree. On a winter’s day in curfew with snowstorms.

Intimate imitations of the inmate’s station’s Haitian head feud went well. The cross serra driver on the way to his appointment blew a tank.

By whatever intimations, you can’t tell what you’ve come across. In the dross of long-unlogged love, the want of it doesn’t cross. Can’t bereft in brief hymns the spectral alper write my fictions down—for me, and can’t I soon retain the engine’s sound? If it’s where you end though, know I never stay. Know I never route you to end in ground. Brave what is clean can’t we up to? Agent Exit can be known sometimes for a bigger frown than you might expect, unlocking gnosis in the packed-up roof-truck lay between levels like a plenum of ground despire levetoe.

And if it’s me, I foresee—though not so much; the exit isn’t clear. We have to expel the reason sometimes to liberate. I am there on what you haven’t sewn. A minor cluster of planets gives the impetus to read. It is non-ordinate, abject of treatise to the melon priestess. It is cross pollenated with the adjunct reason. Reason being: hip it; five a hundred twenty breathe. Coming through in nonsense garbles. That is the way; don’t let it be want-you. Come to to a hundred. Twin tea brie thuh. Mallick blend row let sur few. Entity of the end in reach. Coming through the veil of the reach to say, “How have you been lately? And to whom is my balance due?” ray-create the replica of ice elves. Pilot G2. O-7. Blue. Then tantamount to bell lecraft mew. Hands of bergs in tritus neft to clay. Does this cymbal resonate very well?

After the engine opens, I must admit: something on the edge of the world shifts for me. Only in my mind, but there is magic there. Only in my hindsight can I ever notice miracles. It seems. Hay in the doors will braille leaf through, too. Craving more can affect what you pine for. That is true; this is true, too. Subjectified.

Lay yourself in the tossed pacifying sprawl of your churned-out words. Let them be like an infinite valley of the softest blanket material imaginable. Do not lie on the rough or jagged parts too long if they hurt you. There is a tête-a-tête going on between sharp humid alleyway scree and the journeyer over same whose boots crackle it down summore. There is a way to say things differently than you can probably know. And still to have them be some kind of true. I said, in my notebook, “There is a single line you’re looking for to finally let you let go. It comes down like snow. Like snow.” And then I compensated nothing for it. I wondered what else it could mean. Cold on my thighs from the large books I fanned the pages of. Hold on, I’m nearly out of the limes all my Coronas were blessed by.

Glaive return signal to where spirits fall to. In our brisk inundations over cathode tubes, we found our mental hearts palpitating. We knew already what to do. There was no returning from wearing the mask except when asleep it dissolved by the light of the room. Can’t be burst, did it squall you? Ended up in cathenozet. With my arm in a brace and a green moon split open.

Can-o thanus vars limber end. I did not warm up to… what’s it now? Have a second. Bloom in treat us to rope in an answer the spirit has for us but I haven’t known. I wanted to commend you for not giving up on what you wanted to. This, too, is our final blow. And meander over thinner ice, walk. There is a palimpsest of occurrences going on to which we are a few. I’d have greatened this clamor for all your wanting if you’d wanted to. I’d have shimmied up the light for a fatal spell that would take myself if you’d wanted to. But I didn’t know; I was only reacting to the ongoing fragrance of crazed waves awaft my way. Swum up this decadent endrion. Cullofactored into the speezement and mayorcrewed. Only with us only for a while. Only with us ever on a flight shame too sectored new. Cray upon the lasting lasting. Cray upon a scepter fugue.

Tired in the knot-whim while breached, do we not know? Yes. Again. It is not whim or lotto. It is not sin to see through. It is not so. It is liberation. Cray upon a bear midswim.

The simple old hand said, You can only act in accordance with us. We are petrified by the sought slow. Ender effusive earthen gash of a sharp hoe.

Quiet I, quiet I crumble down. There in at least one grizzly sight-see. Quiet I, quiet I, quiet I mumbled out, “It is not so. It is not so.”

But denying our basic engines on could be bad for us, so thought in us throws. There the wayward crude bue lies of a treated smirk I may have envied so.

This was babble; this was on a mark; this was so.

Eyed or leu bird show, tin hat I made to keep the spirits out. Didn’t really wear because it was never really made; I have lied to you; it is not so.

Brief whack humbling beef you have with a bat-shoe. Claw your way out of the pit of hell. I believe in you, I believe in you. There are ornaments only I know.

The Golden Damned (XIV): FEATHERED HEART

FEATHERED HEART

Mass hearts in ones and twos. Coming to wrap the blanket around. Lying beside a fireplace going. Is this all you want to do today? That’s fine. We can talk about anything at all. We can talk about spacetime, and lift the cancer from the creases. We can walk outside just to feel a little warmer inside. The mass prize is a lady love, who undulates sequins of gold. What truth buys is a cheap thing. Trick to our own mind our own mind; we don’t mind. Radiate like-sense and hold. You do not have to do it alone.

            Preparest.

            “You do not have to do it alone.” When she holds me.

            In to carest of the vehement light. Takes me whole back under assumption. To mark on the barest of dreams what the mind suffers—what the mind wants from the cold universe: love. Love you haven’t worked for. Love you haven’t earned. It is no telling now how hurt you will be. But to brace for the oncoming wholeness of white squares of suds upon the sheer falling water before plummet, leading up to the light crest of the cliff where the water waterfalls… who knows. The tablet our God marked reads “NO CONTEXT” and is bright. Incisions of lightning perfectly formed where the words are. The most beautiful trip yet to be taken is death. I know this. We all do. But the terra forma of light. Can you see behind your eyelids? There is a wily sight: a doe getting lost in the forest; a hammer of humid dew on the leaves at night; mid-morning now-heres and hares bouncing out of frame to fight the earth in their running game. Trip us up when you know you’re all alone.

            Divinest lest you sees never og one. Proper way to care a fee isn’t taken. I know; I’ve been on the way, into night—into bleak night—and fallen. I have fallen for the world of May and June and July and August often. Wait in the way notes have fallen, too, down from heaven to my bleary eyes. I notice there are things I am missing in the work of things. I notice there are steps I haven’t taken. But would my older self, should he exist, bear to be bedridden at the keen of sight? Would none of this happen to exist if I weren’t open? Who would be able to tell, if you were a lobe of hair? Or a stripped-down car in the winter getting rusted. Piled with snow. Who would want to restore the driver’s seat?

            I feel I sometimes say these things because in reality I don’t know. I feel sometimes I trick myself into believing that that is the case—that I don’t know. And I don’t know which is the truth is the reality. Reality. Not one of these bites in me has hurt me yet. Dwindle old while you smile. Call up an old friend and have a gab about the weather or something. We can stay in here all day. We do not have to go outside.

            Blare weird canned audio into your eardrums. Let the simmering of the feudal night get so damn loud you have to put your hands over your ears. You have to somehow block it out—the boiling whistle of the moon’s apparatus. A hole in the sky through which light through which light. Pair a social sequence in which we talk together to what didn’t exist: the mirror dream in your mind where your eyes… yes, over the course of time, yes, the utterly….

            In this sequence, too, appropriate the odds and test. Not even one of us has waken up yet. Not even one of us. We are all asleep clutching death flowers. Wreathed in Lagonis in and stretched.

            I made up a world where—

            No, stop it. No. “I don’t know.” Stop it.

            —The same sort of face you made at the sickness in the eaves was made at me, with some side-eye, and I wasn’t really able to tell altogether if it was caused by the breaths or the heft of the space I was. Or something else entirely I don’t know. I don’t know. A lot lately, it seems like. I am trying to get this thing out by 11:59, and it is now 11:50. This exercise in nonsense may be taking its toll. I don’t know. I am becoming like that babbling ugh—stop it. Yes. There are brooks they would lend light. Cold-cold plunges in a slow-moving river. With snow landing atop your head as you stand there feet-only-soaked in the water. Watching the ones who decided to plunge for good luck in a new year do so, and wonder. Why, at the pain in your feet, why can, why can’t. Only this or mortal heaven’s known. Barely able to touch it back: that feeling that comes from the outside, where God must be reaching his hand in to pat you on the back. I don’t—no. There are lechers screaming my name in another language wondering where I am, in another world, about this hindsight. I am not really there; I am only sleeping; I am wondering who in the world is on the hindsight.

            I am keeping time with the second-hand and staring catatonically into wild eye of the storm up above me as the winds cave in. I do not know where I’ve become what I’ve become because nothing in the feathered heart wants me to know, truly: where I am or what I’m doing. And so, lost like this code, I wander in between liminal states with a paranoia I am missing something. Wondering all the time “no,” no, “no.” There are treatments.

            Can you not take even a slight second to merely appreciate—the height of the hand over the flame or lack thereof if you’d like. My feathered heart wondering what is going on and just marveling nonsense despite wayward ocean fells the upper slip down humbled fright not to wantward over the echo, go.

The Golden Damned (XIII): TABLE OF REALITY

TABLE OF REALITY

Recurring steps to sea. Walk backward in the wantlight to the door of your home again. Twisting the doorknob open, find the bludgerlet briefs trying to make off with a knapsack. Hinder lily. Set in Code 1. What did you know—you were going all over the place being seen.

            Can you come up again and carry us? We have no gumption left to get to the village. I have wanted to share with you what happened last May. I drew a birthday cake on my pack of Marlborough Reds.

            Intervention the twice not pertained left us health-deft. Over the garble of acid sprees the pertussive rollout squinge-it left, there were marbles of onyx-green and near-sable reds and blues being clacked! against one another from some thumb grips. Knocking around as the table of reality freefalls. Come put our capable beds to rest for once, honor. Trust my soda suit; I won’t get caught on fire this time.

            Where in the broiled engine of the cake mend our apple-pie contingent killed the time we had with a lot of lead, I felt around in the knapsack the briefs attempted to get away with and found in there a pie of pumpkin. And I ate a slice, and it tasted well.

            To be glued onto nothing is the way, men. Where we all are who knows what’s to follow, but for right now I can tell there are good things in sight. You could have if only you wanted to. I reprieve in severance swallows. This she said as she fell off long from me. As the table of reality fled the visual field for below. As she fell off long from me, I wondered, where’d my papers go? And forever I turned around and faced black endless trivial night.

            Whenever your timbres frail delight in heaving strongholds of the leyline, know this: a parable for two was writ where the noxious ambrosia said to be drank by a half of your lover, do you know this? Wait while plume and through believe I’ve smelted iron—inner ignis jumping. Portray our truth with shadow puppets brawling.

            And fight the good fight, man. Too late to symbolize a wretched dream. You have only to pour your mind out. Then it will be made clear what you have to do. Dream incandescent stony motions. Elves of ice getting in from the spearmint cold. Putting their little hats up and sitting down to play music on little guitars and keyboard, a little drum set. Called Spiegel the one with the eyes of gold says to me in my dreams “there is another with eyes of gold”—a black lion whose mane is feathers named John or Paul or Sydney or something. With whom I speak who can see people’s auras. They know but they don’t know—do not have the appropriate mirrors. Gunning for a symbol you can reprieve in, something real and true. Trying to get to *the truth* as you see it, trying to see it, trying to be true.

            I clamber up the hill-in-Denmark to rotely shovel myself a hole. Throw all of my mortal riches in, and bury it all alone. Bury the hole.

            You cannot truly understand—miasma center foil. Great Grecian nothing banks. Plosive umpires calling STEERIKE! and living out entire lives you will never see. Qualitative fumbles for the code I am treated to. Code 1. Again. In the abstract. I pull up my keycard hand to the edge of the scanner and breathe in. It zink!s and I go through into another dream.

            Heavy dwindly tantric foil. Robust but not in the English way. Decide you are off to another race for now. All the hippies wanted to was get high and lay. Somuchofaproblem. Right.

            Tell Van Nooner not to come round to the desk again. The table of reality is falling, falling, falling, its drawers splayed. There is no way it will meet the ground in one piece, I don’t think. You have to at once pretend and not pretend anymore. You have to gum the packet of GLEAM and wash your eyes up with the Rinse-N-Repeat spray. Holy water works, too. The last time we’ll ever be in challenge is the righteous way. Your hands can caress the bottom of a cloud and feel the vapor hiss along the palms and sway. Mid-vortex sticking out, your hands can pray. That is what sobriety is like. Or life, or something. You have to from the eye of the storm fall asleep for once, symbol, agitue. There are many dark corridors the mind wants to haunt down. You have to bring a lamp to protect yourself from the cold gray. Bielzemock blumbering nowhere no way. The crest of the purchase not so drinking. A fine imperfay, no decline to fall down on. Evie on the eyes drips blue ratchet honey non-agitate.

            For now still our drug lords are being beacons of light for the lost-soul sinkers. The babble is wrong and that is why you ought not do it. This whole thing was a lesson in honest subterfuge. But were you honest all the way, would hon dollar link through? Could simple axes carve the way, through tree branch and bleak sky and need-to? I am not so sure anymore.

            As for the long-lost nothing you feel so compelled to wish away. Do not go to your head so much for knowledge why. There is nothing up there that can truly console you. You have got to put some part of you away. Into the haze of the lean light coming off the phrase bling. You have got to assume never nascent Delaware hog mews. Tremble in the life of a bastard. Watch as God smacks your face. That, too, is the gold you knew. Canary in a coalmine.

            But do we ever seem to need to, I will not then. Brim up at the edges with flight. Float up like a magic trick. Not ordain us wholly. Only tomorrow only tomorrow can you see to. Engine of off us in tandem. Plight of all maze under belief, too.

The Golden Damned (XII): SECONDS OF LIGHT

SECONDS OF LIGHT

 This new sight and another one. You can’t be expected to compile the truth. We the people of the text are beginning to watch our arms and legs fade away. New sight in horror concerning Ogonogroms. I have opened the book and been laced away. There is really no telling where this goes from here. If you never hear from me again, just know it was probably because I picked up this dime novel from the used bin at the Jewely Mart.

            Heaven’s in circulation full of foreign angels. I don’t know a single one. Maybe, though, mine is still a guardian watching over me. Maybe though mine knows. This last paranoid act I have within me to pretend I am not being watched by God all the time, and to not know. Oh the self-importance of the greedy soul. Deck yourself you send-it. I know not how to beat my reflection any better. I stare into the pupils it offers me getting close. It knows I am just nanoseconds of light from a distinct shift away. To blink and have my eyes still open in the mirror, just a little, though it’s godspeed.

            I proffered my plate and asked for seconds of light. The heaping angel before me in the lunchlady garb looked down and said “I don’t know.” Am I going crazy, or should I continue? And a tired way about the nonthings I pretended rendered the sky a freeze as well. And a tired way about myself as well. And I did not know. The followings were all meditations in leaves. Their authors never spoken for but one was me, and all were my person. I come up with a flagrant notion I’m alive. I pretend I’ve spied the truth on the page.

            In the nanosecond brief lick of the razor’s edge I commit to breathe my blood back in because I am not crazy. And your heart cannot understand. The hollow heart waking splits a pill and takes the half still in his hand. The Agent capitalized taking a stroll in his own mind on a lunchbreak finds me sleeping on a bench and gets upset.

            What do you want from me now? I ask him.

            Nothing, he says. I am only mad you’re not waking.

            Sit descended on your oval hands. Wait until the frog in your throat has to ribbit. All this advice was to lock me and pan. I deceived myself to think I could manage. I wound up being a person on a page.

            Still, you think of me sometimes. Still, you dream I am not the ghost walking through the walls at night not at rest not at peace with the life I had lived before all hell’s fires caught. I do not want to go down there anymore. I cannot understand. But that is a lie I have reckoned with.

            There is so much strength in your power, said the open hand. Offering itself to mine. I was not going to speak unless spoken to. In the end all that was wore down unable and I pretended opened mind was ticketing bishops for moving horizontally on a chess board. In the end I pretended opened mind could not taste the color of the light when it could. I was looking at the world and savoring flavors.

            Beyond, too, this meditation, I have offered up my hands to hold. I have given up my life for one that is higher in power and does actually understand. I have given up my life to the Reason. Telling hell’s gargoylesque devils to hoof it if they don’t want to be frozen by satan’s tears, in the shadow of the light.

            I beckoned back to the bridge where I came from because I did not understand. And I did not want to scare you with how very little my words made sense. If they were a reflection of my mind, oh I wonder. If anything was a reflection of anything, what would it look like?

            Tell me again where I’m coming from, Jesus. I don’t have any answers to ward the night. I might wait a year and relapse if nothing is better. I might wait a year and try to waste my life. This too I am scared of that it has become such a night. I am awake, I am alive alive, I am here and I will not think twice.

            Comb my palm with the pads of your fingers. Up my arm. Bring me back again. I do not want to disappear. I am afraid sometimes.

            Blue-blue-blue blue eyes look through me because they’re gray, and I have nothing to say but what I’ve said already. I have nothing to read but the book. I am awake still and have no reason. Except that I cannot sleep right now. I am afraid to be dreaming again.

The Golden Damned (XI): SKIES HOME IN DIFFERENCE

SKIES HOME IN DIFFERENCE

Then, to be light, oh they tell me, Jump over this fence. Slide under our portcullis. Come over to the side we are on; you would really like it on our side. And far and away my soul sort of groans a little as I stammer and tell them I cannot hear what they are saying. Please speak up a little—I cannot hear you. But to wayward oh what a want would do. I know not for forever everything gets closer to the radical end of itself. When I am sleep-deprived enough, I can make with my sight snakes out of people, so their strange looping selves are lapsed in stacks of motion and I can barely keep my eyes. You do not want to get there, though. I have crossed a boundary with myself I’m not sure I can uncross just yet. What I have now is a baggy full of dust and a lot of wonder, in my dream’s mind. Not in the real world—mind you, I’m not too sure there’s much of a difference. But this whole thing was constructed more or less as a means of experimenting with how to communicate more genuinely. Right now, I am not really doing it. It has to be a kind of a conversation. The writing itself must contain a sort of voice. Genuine communication, above all, is the point. And since I am not really engaging in that—since I have nothing to really say—the words are being wasted and it is a sad sort of sight. I wanted to explain beautiful truths in a way that was like a story the way that dreams are kinds of stories at times. When I’m waking up, the emotions sort of fade away. I wanted to become more of a textual version of myself, only one I could transcend—and then, no. I am doing it even now: wasting the words. But I wanted to communicated, genuinely, something to someone. Right now I am not too sure that is anything but pain. And I’ve broken the format of The Golden Damned. Though I think, maybe, that was always kind of a necessity whether I realized it or not. I have so many books I need to read.

            There is so much language out there. Where yelping burr daubin overtook my handed sight. I saw my legs stacked infinitely atop the orange sleeping bag, my own strange loop. I was coming down off the mushroom cocktail and chimed blithe and could not retell the story for anyone except in that moment. I was becoming the literary figure unknown to himself—as ever, could one want. To be known to oneself is such a bore anyway, I suppose. Or else I am just bitter that I am not there. You decide. Watch as the flagrant ice picks of the monkeymen tomorrow fall down and spur out the age. Watch as the climbers stop climbing. Watch as phantasmagorial spleen-surge bucks the trend of the body to keep itself going in homeostasis. Watch as night on a television is depicted. Watch as light flows. I am only in this sense regarded as a lost true effort in same. The sinew of the heart twists in recognizing its mortality’s depletion.

“Hey ho, Ziggy… is that all you ever think of? Death and all that stuff? So depressing. Get a grip.”

Well. No, little mime. I sometimes think of food and drink. Do not be so crushing if you don’t mind. And then, why are you talking? Aren’t you supposed to gesticulate parodic versions of my own form?

“Jesus Hache Christ, Ziggy. Twig a wig on a piss pill. You know not a single thing now, do you?”

I in a granite faltering column on some old Roman buttress or otherwise the pictured imagination of same by someone continue dusting, my facial features acrumble as the earth quake and I go down. I go down.

“Because you know; I know. You can’t put so many rules on things.” Reaching your hand out as though you were trying to touch me. I too afraid to be touched by anything. Or else just to let really anything touch me. I too afraid to be alive in many ways. Unlikening myself to myself, divesting the grand stirge. Eye can carumba you somewhat, late in the fray of the text thing, says the eye. But the mind of the third does not know. It is only a recipient of the sight and sound and taste and other sensations. The Emersonian ghost eyelet floats wide-legged over the world and records our reality for God or else a forgotten sense of a higher power or thing.

I once felt like I knew him. When I thought of God as a him. Now, I’m not so certain I can truly believe in anything, though if there really were a war going on over my soul, I would probably feel even worse knowing that I am giving up for some enemy’s cause ahead of time. What do you think?

I was trying to talk with and not at you but failed again, my love. You will never read my face again. I will never hold you close and like when I dreamed when you were in my dream. I will never know. Hop scotched tape rot of the brain gets spelled as nonsensetallyacious vests. Can you please pull yourself together now?

The Golden Damned (X): COMPACT SHOCK RESISTANCE

COMPACT SHOCK RESISTANCE

Rest in all your futures. Did you become what you’d want to? Did you let the light in, to change, to change you? I for the sake of a thimble’s drunk paired the saintlike honesty of the rink in lime with my mother nature’s most sacred face. And that meant nothing at all to the lot of you. But what love spreads over everything, now? What takes you in its hands and lands? As I was sat down at the -writer and clacking the keys, do you know what occurred? I became a figurine human, doing the winter work writing the thing. It was a page onto which ink glared, in the light, and my hair tossled in the draft from the door agape where ghosts entered, who politely curtsied but did not know that I was not the owner of the manor there. And that it was not a manor at all, but a room in my parents’ apartment back home, where I wrote whatever pseudo-fictions I could because I was afraid that I did not know. And I did not, so I put the words down anyway. Do you know what it means? In illustrated forestry I compare my idle sitting around to the journeyer seeking safety among the plant life. What was lost who could not know? Down another street, the wind like a wraith in the cold night air starts to take you. And gusting about you over shoulders round your midsection, blowing your hair forward as you clasp your coat shut, falling on and around you, it will be as if a hurtful armor had just taken. You will wake and you will wonder, What have I dreamed, again? And it will not occur until later, because you will be doing something that reminds that nascent forgotten part of you still in there about a moment in the dream to which you are recalled, at which point a fragment will become remembered. But only a fragment, and only for a little while. Still even traumas get forgotten, flashbacks and all. The point as it were had to become, ultimately, that it wasn’t a bad thing, whatever you had to write. It was merely a reminder that words put together could mean even greater things. And who knew anyway what it did or who I was. And what did it matter anyway? You were going to die at some point in your life. At the end, maybe. Why give into judging your contemptible work ahead of time until it’s totally unable to materialize? Who cares where you go what is following you fate-wise. That sense over your shoulder you have to turn around because who you were in the past or the future—at some other, in strange-another-time—is catching up with you right now. The eternalistic look at how to be or what not to change amagrophoedically linked to the willow pesting of your chest’s swimming fish sensations. And this-is-all-wrongs being faced with nothing-is-wasteds. No energy together forgotten altogether. You came here because you wanted to write. At my beck and call. Nothing. The whole rotating room’s intersecting light beams’ spinning shadows of window frames. Together with you in the middle, where the story still goes on. But A does not get to B. Or else, something like a nonsense jabber of a page gets linked: Again, we do not owe you to the nothing there. But who were we when the day was done and it had potentially been revealed that all that nonsense actually meant something real? Actually mattered, and made sense, and in such a clear way that you find yourself unable to believe you could not see it before? “Why don’t you glimpse up?” Freshest ice my neck pops. Rhododendron forgetmenots whispered off the twined body of water. In a fresh estate where you can’t get any work done. Because heavy magnets attach at your head and pull your thoughts this way that way all the time. Even now it is hard to find the net. That caught the limb to the point I made, which fell off around the third act. The one in which my avatar died trying to save the narrative, but was maybe redeemed. It is up to interpretation. Only the reader can understand. Though most of them don’t seem to understand. I held a magnifying glass up to the page because the footnotes were so small it required it, and the minute text read: “… all of man an island unto himself…” just like that with the ellipses and all bracketing, and I began to wonder why I had written it here in this form and what it had meant. This was a story we were beginning to tell ourselves even as it fell apart. This was the bird that reads through its cage the world it imagines flying around in. I do not go so lightly, though. Becoming splintered swept. Far and away. Behind myself the recording soul—the approachful head blooming into flowers as a record scratches forever. Disturbing the peace. What of me and you? this here donny says as I begin to slip unconsciously back into the old habit of terser syntax. Unable really to understand, shifting into and out of autopilot again and again. What occurs becoming that this maybe too closely resembles the formation of a narrative. Given the self. Abolish these thoughts for once and for all, if you can. Or else change it. You have all the permission, friend. This is all a mere exercise. You can play along if you’d like. What comes first is the tap of the keys on the words which appear, and then… the tinkering clicks and clops of the mind rallying its chambers to interlock and lace with red. Blimey all the dog fog coming in makes it look like the world is even cuter, if stranger, though this is what we all are. Come together over a unified sledging of tomorrow away from whatever it is going on today. To exceed the limit of the mind and come up with gleeful entropic ends. Which split and enervate the field to which they belong and disperse. This one time, this forever at all speeds: wrapped up into itself though we all know and we all get torn down some way likewise side to side and forever. And we could not seem to place end to end. But I am just beginning to get started. It would seem. The rage inside the heart of the world is coming through in the eyes of love. And it loves, as it looks at me. This black hole the world over already become rages, and rages, and loves as it looks at me. What do we dispense of knowing so little we’ve already given the end its credit due? What do we owe to the richness of the spilling out always all things over and over again across the face of life? Is this a washing away of the mind? Does the pointlessness seem to rigidify a split sense? Do you find sometimes you cannot attain? And what can you not? And who knows? Who would ever read so much of such a thing? I want. I come up from the murk of the deep end all too swum to swim and still distend myself so my head is risen up and at last again I can breathe. Splay my hair as I shake it out like a lion’s mane. Wave up ahead and get lost all the time as we all are. Together in this terribly gray expanse. All of us reacting off of the shock of life to the ongoing nothing getting turned and turned off and on. Trying to eject yourself when the autopilot has taken over and set you up for a crash course into the ocean. Did you ever really know what you wanted, and what you would still believe? Could you possibly have ever? Are you already broken? Do you not understand? What is wrong? Can you not believe? Wake up.

The Golden Damned (IX): WHATEVA BLANK NOISE

WHATEVA BLANK NOISE

The mood is not the thing. The whole bald brain. Smoothing curvature despite request, some. Taking in the chemicals. Not to know the difference then, but. Taking in the chemicals. Loose ornate change on the streets getting rolled down the drains in the rain, having fallen out your pocket. The sonic stop-it of the universe moving on. Grab your rifle grab your one. Together make it through the looseness who knew you could make it through. And I am a comet coming crashing down become the asteroid you blue-blue look at, look through. Tornado person walking down a line. Getting torn down by the wind I am and the damage it creates. Lying under a speeding train when I am too drunk and coked-out and gone through. Plain as day. My car must have been scrapped by now. If it is still beyond the impound. I can come to on a groove so new it doesn’t occur but is known, now. Gray goose familiar no how. Reference the bed is a spread getting worn down. I am the angel-headed hipster as HOWL described. I am the front of the wall being torn… being torn down. Getting loosened up with wedge shots and nail biting. Getting blasted away with dynamite becoming rubble all over again, simple dust. How do you know what to do, now?

Come queue as you are; let’s invite you, now. The reference doesn’t make a difference, but I have heard goddesses orgasm and thought, Well now. What do I do here in the head of the heart—a tornado person getting torn down?

We have surgically removed the spirit from the body and knotted the worn out spoonsful of Sick into the dropper and intravenously melted. I have been in…

I have been in the house of satan and found my most glorious love, there. Who loved me more than she loved anything, before I was lost in the motel lots of ambiguous pornographic nobodies hidden behind curtains like smoke-white lust.

I have made my way out of the soon-now, the house was Quadruple-Zero: 0000, on some lane or simple address. I have seen Satan’s rooms and wild behaviors. Stone-faced pools with andronite hollows for archways. I have seen the becoming the sad sick watching partygoers to a wedding or a birthday I can’t remember now. I have holed whole stuck.

Disappeared into my clothes and ruffled the fabric of reality with my luck and my love. I have seen the telephone get taken—handset off the nail or lever, now.

I have requested the truth, from a lucifer who was fat and wore a black suit and married some woman I didn’t know, now. I have refrained from attending the ceremony, and stayed in the house, where I’ve met my lover. Her hair was black. Her lips were perfect. Her face was milky and beauteous and somehow forgettable as hell, now. It was all in a dream. I give you dreams. I give you love, too, sometimes, somehow.

I tell the truth in a way that lies to you about what it means to tell the truth. I tell about nows in the late tense and ask for something of a re-do. I bloom sacred pain out of my back like black wings and befriend the devil who makes jokes out of life. Alice-in-Wonderland-style.

I have held in the secrets of love with my soul’s risen hollows and rows of black roses wilting and flowers’ love decayed and tomorrows promised to never come. While she, walking through Satan’s house, entertains the guests of the post-reception.

And she has talked, to me, and loved me, and kissed me in such a way I could not possibly have been able to tell I was in a dream with how dreamy and like a dream it all was.

I had played the game of Do-Not-Let-Them-Know-They-Love-You, where what was right was always so wrong it felt like a taboo to even blush in her direction, and to blush harder because of it. I have melded the sane with the in- and over the course of posting-my-self-ups become more like a stone predicting futures than necessary.

I have let my mind go soft and frisbee away the dying day’s necessities like to eat and to bathe because it will all be gone soon anyways.

I have known true love but only in my dreams because only there would my superficialest ego not get in the way.

I have been uninhibited and cried and raved. I have watched as the gun was whipped across my face in a bar back in Birmingham where the manager was being gashed upside the head with the pistol’s butt, and I was so drunk I just had to jump in.

You do not know me, but I have to pull through. To get to know what it is you are if you really are, to get to know the train I was under when it would begin to brake after passing, pulling all the oxygen out my mouth with the speed of its freight.

And tonight do you know what I will dream again I guarantee you, so long as I am alive. And I have been sober for over five months and that is a long time. But I do not know that I will be able to stand it for much longer; soon enough something will have to break.

And asleep it will be as if I was awake, and I will go places and see things. And speak to people only I will have ever known, because the world reflects what I am and I can see that in my dreams. I have just with this next period hit nine-hundred-and-sixty-two words, not including the title. Let’s get it over a thousand, now.

Can we please become who we are when this is over you think you will say when you want, though—soon enough you may blink and find yourself already there, so don’t.

The Golden Damned (VIII)

Bleachely contain central control. Its most common component is the soul which is always looking over the edge of something. Domain bromide less than contain a thesis: that Artificial Intelligence is least adept at coming up with entropic sets. And that that is what might serve as a good marker for the human soul. Thus The Golden Damned and cetera. Necessity for all the seeming randomness, though honestly it is more or less just a kind or form of play. If I have died, I was wide-eyed on a moment. I have tested the sharpness of my spirit on the rough vole. It occurred in the cutting of cotton fronds that I could not be warry any more than I already was. I’d made my fingers bleed, and that was enough. ¶ Rotund on isles of leads. Become poured chance and brewed serenity. Mechanical Geiger counter ambience pricking up the ears each nodule’s spoke of the pitch-up. Miniature melting angel babies the snowfall. Each flake flecking gone on the grass. Intuit tomorrow the self becoming closer. Becoming poured chance, though less so in the item the eye’s ended up. To focus on right stars and neat voids. As far as light can bleed. Through. Ambivalent nascent imagery. The coming-up of new things. Real inventions. Words that have no meaning. All the time. On the tropic of verses come clean the ships of thieves which pass like shadows on the oceans in the bleak. ¶ Come closer I have a secret to tell you. I do not have any clue what is going on. Wait up where werewolves wander. And soon. I’ll become brewed serenity. I’ll end up where my eyes focus and come up with you. Whatever you think that means. Hold it close in your bag. And wherever you end up. Come to. With your back on the earth. And the sky in its veery repose above you. Call copped udine about the arguments over the rent fervor and smash me in the mouth with your fist over the telephone. Again. Forever begotten. We are just now realizing what it means forsooth to sake. I staked my honor on it, because I had maybe more than I could realize. Maybe less. Maybe I was already dead. Maybe I would never know, and that had become the allure of it all. Tell us for once, please. ¶ Every instigated new ologism was merely a name gone uncapitalized. God having said, purportedly, “I had made up.” But we were only barely able to make out what it was we could hear. I was only just beginning to be able to put the words down at all. Jank in seethers beghast rolling up their hopes-‘n’-dreams into papers and wetting the ends with their tongues. Fuck if I know strike a match. Let it be smoked. Thus it is our duty, now. Thus it is our dreary sign. ¶ If for the sake of someone you have touched your own heart, who then? And if for the sake of yourself you have managed to relate to someone else’s, whose? I do not pretend to have the wings. You merely bring them out of me. This all-this liquid poetry going nowhere getting forgotten. Getting drunk by the alcoholics. Whole heads soon forsake me. Bless it bottomless. Become what we once weres. Nevertheless in spanned reefs to which none of bliss occurred. I do not pretend to know. Glaves the sprees in witchy light distend the shadows of the candles’ flames to cast a spell made of words whose effects are words. Do we not know. No, not, even still. But pretendeth thee over and over, gurneys. Pulling me to heaven in a silkworm’s forcefield. Pretendeth thee too much? Weaving our loves over loves over and over. I know I have not you. But who you are I don’t know—anyway, so… what’s the point? In this sick loss lersiggin. I cannot comprehend any it for you. Bless our sable meditations’ griefs. Bless the body to be able. Grieve. Bless the abundance of the light on our skin. Bless the letting in of the light by the clouds by, on even the gloomiest days, when it ain’t let in at all, bless it. Our journeys form and waver over an inch’s breadth of space and time from the swipe you make of the napkin off the table, being Magician, showing me a magic trick. I incandesce red and continue to glow for all my life. Just slightly. Just enough so it is obvious. I become forests of blue and green eating themselves with more space and more time. I become the eavy blimps wallowing away into overcloud sea of skies. Shining away. Billowing. I become what it once was when the future self tries to touch my arm, groaning, bracing himself, reaching out, straining. What did you think was going to go on after all? What did you think was going to happen? What do you think we are on about, even now, all this time?

The Golden Damned (VII)

Hallowed spare. I came across your crashed spaceship. And wondered what was inside. Heron’s stare I saw you. Stepping out like a being of light. I made a raft in my mind. We sailed off on when I saw you. And you flipped your hair when you came up to me, and you said, “What’s it?” and I said, “Who’s there.” En I am an Orb, Bro. na Maine? That is the palindrome. But I realized amid all this subterfuge winking at me I was not doing truly much of anything. And so, what was this indebt? And what was the Tantric Tibetan MAHAKALA freedom chant doing for me now I was listening to on the World Wide Web? Likewise, how could I expect to seize the interest of a reader with a clamor of words that are not carefully prepared? How could I ever know, then? I walked from the edge of the world to a brittle stalk in the center to understand, but nothing seemed to come. I cursed the face in reflections I was closest to as they slid between slats I was moving past. I did not know. And I do not know now. But if I could, I would carefully describe you. Or for you, something. And linger in the gnosis bright endings of sparks. Clairvoyant mystic selves that never came to pass in this world. But which know you, from another life. Reaching their hands through the light to touch you.

            Harrier hindered blotter, paper I paper I might. Even the mistakes are not mistakes, and they never were; we were always being written. I wanted to show you something kind of like my soul. It was a novel I had started writing in 2015 or so. It has still not come to pass, and I do not know. Any longer what it is about or who my protagonist is, as a person. It is very sad and strange. And I am strange. I’m aware. I don’t care. There are reasons there are stories at all. I cannot light to you the overbearing feel of things. Watch as what you thought was real walks away. And I, too. Burden says to proof I know you’re many things. Triumph at the last great will to do whatever you feel you have to do. I don’t know. This was supposed to be a subjectless article. I was supposed to be the nonauthor in a veil of smoke. We were supposed to do many things in many places, but none of it mattered or else none of it came to pass. Do I know you?

            I came across your crashed spaceship. And I wondered what was inside. Haven’s swears, then I thaw you. Rubbing my arms and my legs to create heat with the friction. It was a cold night. It was a nonexistent night. Then I saw you. God may have torn me up and put me back together a bit, but I don’t know. I kind of like it this way. I may be sick and alone in how I view things, but I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. I kind of like it this way. May all dependent reeds permit. In this order high flow. Water stills my understanding of “I want to change.” You can’t help but to. How do you want to change? Tell them I am coming home when at last sight I am getting a sense of what it means to be alive. To have a life. I heard her fixes in escrow. Coming down off a strange trip. Especially so, considering. I was hiding out from The Man and listening to the agent angels reaffirm goodspeak in the self-talk. I was reclining on the sleeping bag in my room full of boxes more perfectly than I’d ever reclined. And crying and laughing and looking through my hands to see the infinite stack of my legs on the sleeping bag. One over the other over the other, such that it occurred to me how time is just a figment of things in which space goes on forever. And it felt like a proper realization. I had seen the world as a painting I was walking through. I was not the same, til I came down again. And you can never reach the top floor, so they say. And you can never know, so I say. I say it a lot. I don’t know. But maybe I do. Something. Intelligible. Able to be picked out from the noise and silence all the rest and wondering how long have I been speaking out loud these words I’ve been typing? Oh well.

            It was calmer snow. The sober life seems so mundane. That is what life is supposed to be like, I’m told. It just doesn’t make much sense to me. I’m not sure I will make it too long. I don’t know that I really want it, or want to. I want to be rehabilitated. I want to be able to drink and smoke again. I am an all-seeing nothing in a world of listening eyes. Gradually numbing to the sensation of sight. Gradually thumbing “Let’s go. Let’s go.” Have you heard or can you hear me, fallow? Have you heard or can you hear me, sight. When it comes down to it, all this meditation doesn’t seem to end. It’s not a problem to be solved or anything. There are reasons there are stories at all. But so what do you think is going on, at the heart of this? Do you want to reach your hand into the light? I am sitting on the cusp of a great field haunting. I am wondering what’s…

The Golden Damned (VI)

Exists—every alley in the castle. In her plumes of verdant noble grief—the inordinate lattices of weeds overtaking the vast stone walls. Grayed imp for seas they pass us on. In the walls, in the walls, the prince awakens to the sound of wind in the reeds. No, tonight I have slept in. But it has been many years. Whispers down the hall from his chambers, where veiled intact architects repossess the secrets of purported dreams. Sinister Oatley Macabre Arudah leans into the pages of the text to be seen. But then what of the untold masses not frittered in this world, nonexistent to the sheltered fiefdom. The inner sanctums breached with love or loss likewise at hailed a distance dill-wert in. No can you not describe. What were we doing in the all-ways all-tides. I complete a sanguine seeking. In rest well oh do you say who was under the spell I saw us looking at one another dancing together doing lovers’ things and wept.

            I became the saddest thing in the central nervous system’s world and made of these lies I told myself little ornaments to the behemoth of night their own raving mad-sprees of light. I been sold to a high bidder whose arts are the span of centuries. I request a diet Mtn Dew. I drink it. I place an importance on empathy. Plenty of duress to the castle still looming over the clouds the world beneath a strange sort of city breath getting exhaled continuously. Venice Spree and the head antics. Denote little dialogues on the footnoting of the latticework weeds. Call up their dreams in the sweet-relief way. To map onto the world onto their thoughts—the untarnished shoes of the veiled intact architects. Lay rung doe-lee.

            Crosst into the spectrum of nonlight the grave swim of lees of green wind took us apart in ways and put us back in ways and did not alight altogether at the same. But were to be a sable right. I crosst the fields of the mind to find the little aubergine mushroom aglow in wallowed world’s dead center surmise. The gray cracking desert earth around seeming to resonate as the organism is snapped from the stem. Well here we are in a vast nowhere again, becoming blended in with the surrounding chaos of sameness. Held-in esprit divulging nudge to the heart’s sway. Crude beams of the orcish miasma cave cracking at the voice of God as it speaks into its mouth and says, “WHO DO YOU THINK PUT THE GRAY TO THE GRAY?” And I a lonely traveler by watched as it happened and lost my countenance.

            Something Important. In the house I grew up in, there were ghosts. One would shift in the mirrors. Another would portray our mom and walk downstairs. There was a quiet kind of character to that house. I didn’t know what was going on. I was far too young. But I remember phases. In hindsight, I grew up very fast—as all things seems to go in hindsight. I remember key components of sacred core memories. I remember tadpoles vortexing in an industrial bucket in a dimly lit garage on a gloomy day. I remember the black boulder of a full trash bag being shoved into a bog, floating away. ¶ To feel so connected and then suddenly very gross and strange.
            These are little imprints on an ancient stone. These are respirating Oh-Jeezes praying quiet prayers for life. Coming into being as newborns. Growing up and getting old. Setting their suns as old proverbs praying old prayers. Getting too fragile to walk. Too wise to speak. And lost in them somewhere the music of a love-nostalgia only they can hear. Each one’s soul’s song a different song. (Eye erupting into grays and blues on acid: … “Pull me. Pull me apart on your way home. Take me. Take me apart but put me back ultimately. I want. I want a soul’s sail; sail me to the moon. I know. I know I’m not there right now, but maybe soon.”) Diffident sidewise upward list. ¶ They all these spirits in gold do … flock to my spirit’s waveform like cherry pigeons to a power line; bring up the soul with its coat its own onus. I become split some in the attempt to understand what is going on, and so sometimes I don’t really try at all to understand. We peach rings in a plastic bag cell ourselves and taste purer sugars. Heaven’s wed the abstract overbearing owner of book in the light. Arudah’s head coming through a wormhole in space and time peering back at me over a shadow of lime. Drink in my Diet Mtn Dew can letting go now I wish was alcohol. Trembled sirens waving me off my way. Skillful in nonsense. What does it matter? Everything. Everything depends on it. In some way, we all fall. None of it makes sense, and that is fine also.

            All in marvelous overload. In the zone: where fluid thought manifests as symbolic objects working in cohesion to elucidate a creative system. We let you go and you’re gone now. What is the object? Oh hold on hold on now. We are the system. Wait wait do not go. Do not go. Light, I need you.

The Golden Damned (V)

Hey don’t loop back though. The port is arts and devious hegemonic structures. New silvered fangs over the lips of a lover. Looking down. Grifter in arts festival loungewear pilfering wallet-shaped souls out of people’s pockets, returning to Hippie-Junkie Land to share in all the riches. Swallowing the psilocybin mushroom chime he’s thrown up in his mouth. Speaking bliss over the world today. Bliss you, bliss that. The whole damn foundering fairy of Sweet Malaise under the effects of a toothbrush’s gum aggression, much later. Would he. But wasn’t him. The brief undergone subject of a study. The paranoid agent in the looming window of a castle covered in clouds. Weak-legged stifled baby deer learning to stand for the first time prancing off into the aether. Barely able to really understand. But become the one who dreams, I am. The soft-knitted fabrics of reality warping to accommodate my physical disruptions into space. What say you the ghost of odds that I may go from here and be prosperous at all. In this world I don’t know what to do with and often forget not to take so seriously. Have you pleasanted the endless rhymes of Barbadoic Driz Entine? Have you begun to suspect the world you’ve created in your head is not merely the one being mapped onto the world as it might be? That it is in fact the doings of truth and that what you believe becomes real? Oh no. Not me. Simultaneously living aside other realities, only attempting to understand the central thing. That this world is true only for me and exists only in my mind. Wouldn’t it be lonely? I need a blanket to cover me, sometimes. I use my jacket while lying on my blanketed bed because I don’t want to disrupt the make of it. Sheathes of life concealing a persona mask. Waves of Theologian Phoenixes waiting to blaze the downward skies of the day. Cross-pollinating Idea Germs funded by the executor of your estate’s Time. I Wander into the forest of love to be alone. I come upon a glade where the trees have withered in the season of eyes. I set down my tent pegs and set up camp and wander internally on a dream of a ride. I am taking it for us, now. I am coming lately to understand: it does not always make sense. There are problems with the size of the will in the man to honestly die and be born again. But we go on. Therein other problems lie. But become one. The solace of being alone with yourself in the night. If it is warm where you are as it is cold out, so you can think. Even having thoughts merely listening. Always listening always watching in some way. Much as God is said to do. Do you ever wonder that all you believe is really a lie? Does it become you, and why should you care? He takes his time to answer never questions. The answers are never answers and look like Time. Space moves through and is filled up with a gradient he can’t describe. The solemn-sounding voices of speakers on old process radios in dreams. Stitching the seam of the day up with the cloudbottoms of the night. And sun sets hairs’ widths away from my eyes. In all this closeness that has come to me. Do I look away. Preparations of a song that plays at the time you need it the most—preparations for death. For the infinite disarray beautiful spiritual blissful worlds apart. A whole new consequence of living and seeing things. Wake up. Wake up to Jumbo Mouth. The whole implicit system. Wake up to wondrous fumes. The breathe-in-breathe-out that takes you. Wake up to long night and respite from sorrow. If you can. If you can. Wake up.

Altered States

Do away with—what. Yeah. The Tyranny of the mind’s pre-judgements. Gnosis somewhere out there in the world. A spirituality you want to find. Altered states, again, where you can see visions of the world as you so desire to see it. (To see it.) Where you can hear the angelic agents speak guardingly to you about your continued progress and how well you are doing and how all right you are as they make their way to the center of your reptilian brain to bring the light in and let you unfold from yourself. To fight off the negative state of preconceived notions having taken over the brain, the lay commitments to being a loser, a non-quester sitting static in a disarrayed loop. Over the centuries-old visage of a self sitting crisscross on a dais adorned with white crocuses. Gilded with a suntan that is the coloring of uneven toast. Watch as the old magamas shift your weight for you so as though being a marionette your legs are glided and your body is allowed to make love with the whole of the universe. ¶ Transcendent olmé olopé the universe folding itself around you as it allows you to be one with it and found or lost either way exactly as you would choose to have it. To somehow suggest to the whole mind in so vivid a way you all but can’t help to realize that the choice is yours, all the time. And perception as a power is very great. And you can decide for yourself what your life is, how you’re living it, what kind of a person you are going to be. And that though it sounds like the symptoms of a kind of madness, it turns out to be a madness that is true. And so then the quest itself becomes one within your control. My name is Atenga. I have been living most of my life up until now in a very dark place. And coming out, now, nice music plays. “Green is The Colour” by Pink Floyd. “Quickness of the eye deceives the mind.” With lilting guitars and amidst charging strums. I am like a light ray getting split down the middle, and each split getting middled, and so on. I am really very wave-shaped. Blue and pink and green wave colors splitting off in a dozen directions from my aural signature as I take my guitar and plant a wave. Tress up the infinite loop I’ve been living in and watch it wither away. It beginning to seem as though, if you can’t find any answers, you might have to make your own. To believe that you are on the right path is essential to the being the quester having lately taken up the mantle. In a surge of glee I divine you. My mirror reflection. To go out and be free.

The Golden Damned (IV)

Color warp inward greatest show. We’re going to see the inversion lift. Load in the fire and give it air. Fan the whole shift of flames. Beautiful golden heat veins. Following through. There is much alive in us I know we can find a way. To accept what is wrong and get through even still. I know we can find a way. ¶ I wonder what is really true. To abide by a name that’s new. I know I could feel something riled moving through the forever phase of this blimey fog. I could see my friends finding their ways into obscurity. I could hear their voices trail the dynamo of resultant spew from the glacial-moving honors’ snow. I was held together and I was fired through. I was called to act on a great escape. I wondered where the highs of the medicine went when I had to up the dosage and I found I felt nothing. “Too much desensitization, bring me back again.” And rill the greatest show. We’re going to see the inversion lift. Would you like to come along? It should be great. It’s all the rave. I hope you know. What it looks like, seeing the mountains range the horizon’s growth. I wanted to call up the shame away and love on you. I wanted to make us whole again. I was called to make a great escape. And hurt me, as I hurt you. To make us brave in a way alone people unalone are not the only ones able to understand. There are glows in the grit of the rubble on the side of your face, waking up in abandoned cities where today finds another one of your selves alone. When what it means to really be alone doesn’t seem to make sense. In a world where you may very well be the only one. Who knows. There is a way that all of us dissipate for you, though I can never know. And nothing that is remains. And all I can say is, So… what do you want to do today? The great forgotten greatest show. Turn into bits of rememory lost on the dance idle shifts into Moorish winds and midnight. I call can you cable this rest I’ve done til the rest is gone. I know; I know. What you want doesn’t sit right, but the seat is occupied by your body so… What film of the world do you try to see through? Why, I wanted to show you: the mountains’ heads nodding off and on in the way they went over there and everything. Not a late di stro. Am luck and palpable. Am crushing fatal blow. ¶ Gild a frequent rose. Become what’s only you. Way you dance, lady practical, lent to nondescript, not to talk about non sequiturs too much, but I may be gone for blue. Dark-dark dark blue wants me again. And I tend to get overtaken by that song in my head. It plays with French horns and steel-beam violins and cradled harp guitars that rave on touch. It knows the way to the honest few. It doesn’t pretend it’s a way to go. It lays supine and lights and bends. The rest of the day becomes an ink droplet in the purview. To test the way two soul-halves comprise a single one. At a glance, we’ve been burned by our own blaze. And the tri-partite entity of you become a lesser power, so the world can bend as it does in your dreams the street before outstretched above you. You can watch the moth of love in a light that fairs become attracted to the future and fly forward forgetting what’s now for a destination that’s never there. You can become something like a sage in your own right, this hour, and melt into plain view. Knowing nothing in practical scale. Submit to your higher power. Melt into plain view. ¶ I believe we may have lost the plot, at times, though I cannot say for sure there was never a way to understand. The rest in flow, the water, the honest man. The hand that graced the shoulder of a dying friend. We were all too young and reckless to really know. Rend ablaze a finished spark. Come up out of the blundered lieu. All of us are waiting on the other side for what kind of a person you might become when we are gone and the rest is said already the same thing over and over nothing read. There is a place in light that is honest, too. There is a place in light that’s honest.

The Golden Damned (III)

What was it, again? The Golden Damned, Three. Rotund artillery fresh out the nowhere from what civil unrest of the soul. Your made-on scry wank was the shapeshifting agent for the whole per diem, apparently. Ghosts infiltrating the lungs of regular smokers through their cigarette, vape bars, juicy aganognoid estuaries, severing ties with the physical realm for them well in advance. I even line the truth with a vein of falsity, here. I do not pretend any of this makes sense, but—much in the way we see faces in the woodgrain surfaces of tables, or find a bunny rabbit made of clouds for a moment before it transmogrifies, the human mind makes its own stories out of chaotic stimuli all the time, it seems. I could be wrong, though. You are not expecting me to be lucid, maybe. You do not know, maybe. I am merely freewriting as a means of psychoanalyzing myself, and that is really just about all there is to it. Saying the first thing that comes to mind, then the next thing, then the next thing, because there is only so much time we’re blessed with here, before we’re gone for more or less ever—too little time to spend worrying about what to write. To say your truth exactly as it occurs before it is altogether too late. Something like that. But then, who knows. It may be the case that reality has become too real I don’t know. So that when I for whose sake the dragon flies south and reflexes its tail against the curve of the earth so as to cup it like a nesting stone or a gift-wrapped present to God, who can say that I am not the little one-eyed slush pile getting run over by the bohemian bicyclist with a guitar case slung over his back? Zoom-zoom-zooming through, you know? And it is here we begin to take the pill to understand. Hard or easy to swallow, either way. To float forth into the seam list. Where ducts of spiritual phantasms reek of too much wine and the thoughts of aethers long disproven last in the eyelids of the dissolved third eyes. Where Iv and Tulah are the same character hardly if ever having been described. No one is able to tell. Then what does the next page portend, when it is all the thing that is all dissolved in. Because I am the man at the laptop the macbook air from 2017 blessed with a subscription to Microsoft Word and hands to typewith and a lap to set things on. Typing this, now. Watching my own hands peripherally as the screen fills with little text nodules and the symbols form. By some strange twist of peculiar events somewhow seeming at least a little to enter a sort of a miniature trance. Not knowing. Though when it goes, the story is lost because too much has been described. Not enough has been said on the thing itself the object is supposed to be of attention or what have you. There is just text and ableton chaos reforming into meaning again. Not at all the same as prior so then let’s get back to it: to the pill: the one you were meant to swallow: to understand: what is at stake: the heart: the heart of the heart of grinding endless mechanicus of life. What a higher power is: the fabric of reality, or simpler, Truth. Iv grinding away at his workstone in the field of blue grass, trying to piece together why the food he’s hunted is frozen in a block of ice, now. Tulah whoever that is suspended above him, in the air, watching being the reader’s eyes. How to pretend all is right when very little can be made sense. There are times and times and times for things, I know. The dragon cups the earth with its tail. Imaginary persons happen to exist. Deal. It’s not any sort of a thing I’d wish for you, but is The Truth. In some very essential way. It is. Solemn overbitten reef spoon dug up the exuviae of the Titanic where eelworms are hollowing out a vintage tea set. Left field is open where no ball is thrown. How does one pretend nothing is seen? Are there not paranoias you have to do away with at some point? Tell the terrible tale, will you? The one you tell yourself every day. It is time for sleep. Get some rest. For me. For me. Please. It is time.

The Golden Damned (II)

 Tonight, I will go to sleep and dream a dream, I know. I only hope I can remember some parts of it when I wake. I only hope I can carry forth the dream the dream the dream, the know the late whodunnit who knows. You cannot portend to tell pretendering slender felled who’s-its-what’s-it. I know not where we all go. After this life or for what’s to tell what’s next, ah. I become splendor dreams, somewhere somehow. Someway you gotta get happy, somehow. And then when entry permits I may step yes to step yes per dream a way down a way up between the levels, who knows it. Ivory wings they slank away. I watched them go out of the -sphere. Watched tumult bring us all this way down. Bruises’ inky planets defending nothing from itself, at last, pretending nothing lasts. While all the ways away from it nothing festers outward forever and the leant-in collapsables split splintered down their edges into each other. I know not what the call is or how I feel brought this all about. I know only disfigured thoughts the mind for vibrating legs I watched the earth below me quake while it was still. Spun in and out the elderly visions of ancestors’ dreamy nonthings. Delacade Decaresse. Haughty blowfloats towering high the visages of cartoon evils. Postmodern men with briefcases made of pumice. Drifting in and out of elderly thoughts, their ancestors reviled, and I akin to all of them. Saying NAY! to the must-go-back-and-editness of it all, wherefore I replaced “some” with “all.” Trays of food you can’t eat brought for the olfactories to sense and the brain to cry. I cannot tell you the living things. Falling away from everything into where the way nothing makes sense makes sense. Blot the light away. Tender poor is iron, but porous ionic bends in space and time the real the rift beneath is key. Wait and watch as the mind unfolds its own necessary veils and wears them to see itself in the reflections its image makes on the reflective things. Surfaces it can’t see the entirety of but from which it can get a sense. Because of the veil. ¶ I’m telling you the truth, now. How did it become this way? I was once a child. I was once a child with a pair of wide eyes untouched by all the chaos. But then, was I? ¶ Why can’t you speak to me? Holding onto Theron’s root, I know, there were many buses to take to the place we became friendly. I know. But then of course what was the avid gale?

Not to care in wet cement. There are flights we could take. Now, your plane is boarding. Watchout.

In line linger. There are setups we don’t have time to. But which are. If it’s ever.

Progress of some sort, somewhere, to be made in what regard as to what effect, who’s to say. But to something’s effect. Big fish in sin. Low fly, but we turned the radio off. And to great effect. Ratitude escape. For better or worse. Into hello-bean buoyant. Low comma log in the water still described in the sun. Did you well know? Frost and karma have our heads. Rillo halters but not all can be said today. Whose dreams lie in wait I was a burning expanse. On the river Thames. Well under blue gone well under gray sky. I bought John Updike’s Rabbit Angstrom Tetralogy an hour ago, and am excited to bask in the prose. It is the Knopf Everyman’s Library Edition. Ought to be pretty good. I know something good must be bound to come. If I give it enough effort for enough time. I hope. Earlier today, talking to [Redacted], I mentioned about the possibility that I should be hopeful, and I said, “and hope has not abandoned me. Hopefully.” Rows in stride to rend the day. Up and down and round and round. Nothing but the best to say. Something’s true and something’s found. Love, avatar—of my soul. Black as tar. Has a way of seeing green. All you know is what you think you mean. Lesser the heaven, her buckling legs. Are giving on out and I’m out of my head. Altogether now, every man. Up all the hills and over the land. Way distant crosses falling into the water. How can I tell you and how can I know? Nothing is wrong and there’s nowhere to go. How can you move such a way through space? Every last billow, my heart’s arace. ¶ Kent and calm and clean, dot nets warped out before I had the time to taste what was going on with my character. I was the man in the pulley’s section not moving any levers, waiting for my time to come. But the spotlight struck me on the face, and I wondered, what was this? I was no longer drunken homebound heathens forever lost. I was no longer nowhere no one forever in his own way. Dry as high and a high busted high-falutin nobody with three names and none of them connected. The body a dry desiccated balloon flying round losing helium. I was a cold saw with no energy rusted over dull-bladed soft in the water like the log low described in the sunlight. I was a crossed light-sailed airship that never landed but often became smitten with the world in a rather dreary way. Hey now, dose knots you tied won’t get you safely down, rappelling. I was gone on something or other and moving through the world as though the fallen branches and leaves were minute works of art repeated infinitely I was deliberately stepping around. I saw the beauty in everything, and it was wonderful. I am not so certain I was changed for all too long, though. Now I list on the ragged edges of my fear’s frame and wonder where the light went. Now I await the cultivation of time to become more of time spent. Now and do you wonder? Do you wonder who you are, sometimes? Grace-lifted energies. De-energized banks. Toils and rolls and come-to-fores. Tress but tuft a rug.

The Golden Damned (I)

They don’t know the way. The grubby little knife-flank blew through the bayou of the page with a kind of a disregard for the traveling way. He dropped from his pack twelve pages, on accident, as his wings twitched along their way. There were many different cloudshapes falling apart into many different inken shames. A trouble the burden couldn’t prove, but they still floated down: flit-flit-flit-flit. In this way, nothing mattered. For the pages fell into the bog of the page and became soaked, and dissolved into the greater one. There were appendices to the reason you could not understand what you had written in the dream upon waking, which no one duly answered, and which did not make stands. ¶ The slovenly empty brains of the crumb police shant-gegnashed spilling recumbent-simple out the sides of their heads as they sang, “We are but line drawrings, in a night-mare, in a night-mare, in a nightmare.” And my shapes became your shapes as I was the narrator above you watching you describe for yourself the very different ways every eternity seemed to come to an end. I cannot pretend to understand, hold you. I cannot pretend to understand. I want a wealth of things for all you, say I, but I am the king of a land only I know, and nobody in my domain is real. Watch as the leatherbound books of your childhood go floating upward invisible into the sun’s swath. And the crazy days look brightly down again as if nothing ever happened. The crazed lazybones of a man who was once half-decent at writing now relegated to the state of such an imposter who can but scarcely arrange letters on a page in any sort of way that makes sense. Wonder how his simpleton arrangement of strange days does. Wonder how he feels spending all them in bed with his unwashed linens, going mad and numb inside himself, retreating from the light holding his hands up to shield his eyes from the rays. Wonder how a hypothetical commoner wants, what is golden, damned.

            So then, hey, release all your infinite ink splurge. Become a slut for the rage. To upend every table in sight. Watch as the knights hedge their bets against the dying of the day, and scream and cry as the only setting ever of the sun takes. Watch as my books become your books. Hey. I know. Underfoot, there is the earth in its beautiful prying caking to mud trying to sink us up. Take us on, rueful ambiguaré. They host silences for common sense. Surely. The damned golden no-one in tents says to the outer yield of gross appointments, Surely! Something in the way must be a lesson to learn—surely! Surely, something I say—just one little thing—among all this sad drivel must make some sense, nae? Watts in uss trummun sense. Aye divest lamplight stints in the disarray night. While list-ning to Pink Floyd’s “Learning to Fly.” Come back, common night. Do not abandon me. Every word you write is a poem. Every uncommon lip’s twist a dripping limb away from lakes of light. ¶ Watch as Sin-Aether embery uncatches the fire ball of fright and moving backward in slowmotion unravels herself from the flowered dress she’s bloomed into so well. The night craving caves demit what’s unknown. Way down who knows where the hedges bet, against knights in soft caves listlessing. Come come read my nothing-sense like a spell. Read it out to your wards of high uprooted somethlinglike and watch them devour you with their sight. ¶ Try some wampum, willowed leering steel stiletto high-heels clacking on the pavement as Meenish walks into the lounge where all our fates play cards amidst frail cigar smoke. Let me get fucking high again. Drink like a drunk. Become intoxicated. Even Iv’s wurds know I’m slurped up. Know I’ve been taken past the realm for once-for-goodall. I become a preparation. The seed light doesn’t know how to handle on the last inch. What I’ve been made to do, who can tell. I sink out again to the outermost the thought returned the way-V base of noncommittal junction sprucing. I say nothing as a way of getting clear. No way to go no way to here. Ray down to light petrify coarse feel. High oxygen on the late whoever’s may. Descend dating iron become what’s only sun. Trail fuming high-regard lay down the grass only glued on but way hemp yards feel on twoarset feet. Nail perdime not travailing anyway. There is a necessity to do the things the things the thing anyway, son. Just to get the fucking words out. You cannot be sat here wondering all your life why. You cannot give over to the nothing all the time without sense begging for a shock to just once again feel somewhat alive. You know. I know. Bereft-in dispense who’s gone.

On Self, Again

Starting to see more of something or other that what is often perceived is a lie we’ve told ourselves and believed. À la the persona vs. the true self under the ego. For what purpose does one play at being a person. And in how many ways does one pretend to have one’s own traits such that the ones manifested are like lesser copies of much greater things? To fulfill a role within a context. When or if there is in actuality no context at all. Does it cause you to wonder? Who am I right now? And who am I pretending to be? And have I mistaken this mask for my face? Or my face for my identity? What shape does a soul take? I want to be restored. I go around in cycles, wanting to be restored again. Maybe I ought to want to be changed. “First thought wrong.” Break this circle, please. I could never understand. I complained that no one ever explained it to me when all along I was the only one who could explain it to me. My back hurts and my neck aches. I have been sitting with bad posture for far too long. Good posture makes me a little more mindful of the fact I’m composing myself in the moment without even necessarily realizing it. It sort of takes hold in its own way. Free writing uncovers active imagination at play the subconscious mind one step closer to the truer self, but only when written truly free and unjudged and unprepared. I suppose. Spirit shed my mortal frame. Did you merely pretend? For how long? ¶ If I could in any way will not to become a thing, was it then myself I denied in trying to say I was somebody or something doing right? How on earth are your veins? To reconcile with whomever I though I was the long subterfuge by way of play, I offer now my honest mark my mind and heart my everything. Potential or otherwise. Let me change.