I just wanted to move back to that.
Emptiness in my childhood.
The irresponsibility.
Wasting time as a due course.
Sublimated by schedules.
Organised by no one.

Nostalgia is
That vacant stare.
The flat effect of forgetting.

The wind whistling in my ear.
And old adages.
Old wives tales told
To naive men
To help me fall
Into subtle slumber.

These purile placid waters.
Are dreary, dull, and depressing.
Rhythmically lapping against my barren shore.
The obligations of my regular raucus routine
Are unsatisfying
As the still waters linger in staid stagnation.
The excitement.
Evaporated.


These calm terse trade winds
Don't have much to seeemingly say.
Festering in this standing water
The pent up pinnacle of radical resignation.
To this biohazard of my life
Where the smell
Is as pungent.
As the mildew makes me mouldy.

The cascade of pent up emotion and energy.
Cusps over the pinnacle.
As the friction from the frozen emotions.
Deigns to break the dam.
Of the calm.

This is discouraging.
Dreary dismal boredom.
I crave excitement.
Bustling life and algae blooms.
The uncertainty of getting lost in the frantic energy of entropic disorder
The irregular arrangement of intrinsic energy and form.
Entices me with promises of
A sudden subliminal bursting
Forth from the chaos of life.
Into my own subjective sonnet of
Kamikaze choreography.
Music dripping with ******.
Kaleidoscopic cacophony.
The dischordant choir.
Singing the sanctified song of self sundering.

I pray

For Dionysian ecstasy.
The feeling of flying without wings
Light headed and lit like a sentry on the horizon
Dizzy on the dangerous down ***** drugs.
Weaving in and out of reality.
A phantom pharmacological pyre burning with spontaneous combustion.
I want the frantic fury of a fragile furious fiasco.
I want the sublimation of the self as a Saiva sadhu
Avatara of too much stimulation.
A caffeinated catastrophe.

The raucus road of righteous rage.
Leads to squander and squalor.
To trauma and decay.
It all leads to death.
Funneling me into
Minutes away from the 2 seconds too short.
Accidental overdose on purpose
Apathy announcing my altered state
I made a deal with the devil and the payment's due.
The deflation of failure.

The pain calms me down.

I'm living in that
One overgrown pauper's grave.
Where
Even beautiful boughs of begonias.
Dry up into dust.
Passion won't push me through.
This sudden mood swing.

So.
I keep at the Apollonian ordering of chaos and revel in the frustration of simple.
Altering this abject asymetry of forms into Euclidean geometry.
Predictable boundaries for
Classifying this chaotic confusion
This scatterbrain lawless lolly gagging
Into something sensible.
Something, coherent.
Rational.

Order.

And I'm less inspired.
More frustrated that I have to
Wade
Through all this linguistic graffiti.
Sprayed haphazardly across my neurosis.
Feeling the frustration of
The energetic editing that edifies
My fragile ego.

But I'm a husk of an interesting person.
My addendum is short, curt,
And concise.
I'm more genuine when I'm blunt.
More authentic when I'm apathetic.

As usual though.
I
Failed
At being anything.
Other than confusing.
Seemingly desperate.

I'm always.
Giving up.
Annihilation natters at my mind.
It bores into my skull.
That familiar earwig.
Lying about its nature.
A disappointment to fear.

Potential is better than failure.
Who I could be would be anything
Other than what I am.
A failed dream.
Like my unfinished books.
Like my drug induced amnesia.
Like all those missed opportunities.
All those possibilities slipping through my hands.
Each fantastic potentiality getting more and more.
Uncertain.

I start off strong
Then taper out into.

Unfulfilling.
Low energy.
Dysjointed from reality.
Forcing myself to review my past.
In these irregular self criticisms.
Longing for meaning in whatever I throw against the wall.

Afterall.
I understand my own glossolalia.

Happiness.
Is just a
Delerium.
I feel as it washes over me.
When I'm too high on.
Magic mushrooms.
Or acid.

I breathe poetry.
Like chlorine gas.
It infects my being.

And,
Who am I to extinguish it in you.
I'd like more of it.

To be honest.
More intimate moments.
Immortalized in a small scale.
Voyeurism.

Anything.
To see.
Anyone bearing their soul.
For that one moment.

Of.

I been there.
I done that.
I'm here with you.

In the static of self doubt.
I love poetry.
It courses through my veins.
Everything is a twenty lined poem.
Struggling to be born.
In the mind of someone.
Living.

You.

You should write more.
I like the threads out here.
In the darkness.

Sometimes it feels like.
Everything is falling apart.
Into another cascade.
A catastrophic failure.

And.
Things don't get better.
They accrue loss, misery.
Helplessness.

Left in Pandora's Box.
After the hope.
Left.

Proteus.
Stole fire from the Gods.
Much like Raven who stole the sun.

And,
me,
I grovel in filth.
With my perfect hate.

Should I give that to you?

But, it's mine
to jealously covet.
My sacred ****** thoughts.
My apophenia.
My self loathing.
Sleeping til two.

No desire.
To be.
Awake.

Sighing these suicidal soliloquies.
I'm just biding my time.
Til I die.

Fighting off the impulse.
To just.

End it.

In my anonymous atrophy.

Into sleep.
I recede.
Every day.
An opaque .
Nostalgia.
For depression.
And other.
Muddling things.
But I can't sleep.
The whole day.
Through.
Anymore.
Tiredly waking up.
In a tomorrow.
Too late to really.
Do anything

I am an impulsive thought.
An unsafe thrill seeking.
Psychosis.
Where I stack the odds against me.
And,
Do the dumbest ****.
You'll ever see.

And I am comforted.
By the intensity of the fear.
The rush of embarrassment.
The guilt of regret.
Terror and absolution through.
What the **** did you just do Nolan?

I kicked the hornets nest.
I always do.

For you it's a travesty.
But for me.

At least I feel something.
Intensely.

Even though the morality.
Of living dangerously.
Flying from the seat of your pants.
Is tenuous.

Maybe you wanna be content.
Happy.
Chill.
Relaxed and responsible.

But me.
I want the electric feeling.
That everything.
Is falling apart.
As the panic sets in.

I like to play with fires.
Too big for something so small.

Like me.

Another test to pass.
More odds to manipulate.
From here to complete.
Certainty.
Of excess for its own sake.

Without hard headed obstinance.
How else do I transcend regret.
Shame.
Embarrassment.
If I don\t seek it out.

With my personal vendetta.
Against existence.
I will be the snake in the grass.
An undefined variable.

Unpredictable.

Babbling Bible Babel babble.
I deign to write a prayer.
To confusion.

Alas,
I don't understand.
The words coming out of my mouth.
So I stay silent.
Dance.
Recede into the rhythm.
Of some hypnotic thing.
Ceremonialize my broken thought patterns.

Always finding personal references to myself.
In the words someone wrote for.
Someone else.
But, it always means me.
It's always poignant.
Profound to the demands of right now.

I laugh.
At the catastrophe.
That has become my life.
What holy men are not schiophrenic?
Who among you.
Takes vows of poverty?
Sings to magpies.
Blesses mangy foxes.

And lives.
As a beast.

One day.
I'll take a bitter pill.
And never see you.

Tomorrow.

I will abide
forever.

In eternal.
Emptiness.

I am inundated with the sacred script.
Of suffering.
The austerities of.
Starvation and self abnegation.
I am a blasphemy.
Darkness that never wanted.
The light.

And, who are you
to break.
My ritual of
self destruction.

If I wish to offer myself up as a sacrifice.
For the freedom to be an *******.
Then I will.
As I ignore your wisdom.
For the knowledge of the self.
I am I.
Bathed in night.

The drums beat.
The veil is lifted.
I sulk among the spirits.
Crawling in the cracks.
Of creation.
With the creeping things.

And none.
Will let Scorpion cross the river.
So, Scorpion stings.
Floats over on a corpse.
Of prettier spirits.
Triumphant and divine.
Scorpion is as Scorpion does.

And,
he asks no quarter.

Just as love never quits.
So does the dark wish to engulf.
The light in its megalithic.
Strength.

And,
dance.
Cause the venom.
Animates you.

Never listen to tricksters.
When they tell you they're good.

We're hungry.

I'm just waiting to die.
Passing the time.
From here to then.
In a miserable way.
Sublimated into a dream.
Perpetually unconscious.

As I testify before God.
They are nothing but passing memories.
I forgot too soon.
To really get attached.
And, the images change.
The scenery recedes.
I find myself somewhere else.
Knowing, only.
That I'm always right here.
And you.
Just a rotating cast of people.
I don't need.

They like to lament.
About the person I used to be.
As though them ignoring me.
Leaving me in the wilderness.
Means I have a defined self.

And,
It's always my fault

How dare I change from the ossified.
Memory they have of me.
How dare I grow my own way.
And, they cry to the heavens.
At the death of my optimistic youth.

But they were never there.

When I needed them.

They define me.
As someone I wasn't.
And mourn the loss.
Of the fantasy.

We're dead already.
And we're just witnessing.
The story.
Of the process.

Of death.
And, we lament.
The dying of the light.
In the dark we cannot see.
Anything familiar.

And.
Things are moving.
Unknown.
And
Menacing.

Perpetually broken and always.
Falling apart.
I take the refuse of my broken mind.
And,
Deal with my day to day needs.

Interspersed with what other people would call.
Deep thoughts.

But,  It's just a distraction.
From the eternalism of the present.

And, I sure hope reality isn't recursive.
Cause I'd hate to live this life.

Again.

Everything seems so.
Pointless.
A burden I'm putting off.
Doing.
There is no catharsis.
From this omnipotent overwhelming feeling.
That I'm doing something wrong.
Just marinating in the stew.
Of one more bad day.
Til this depression wears off.
Perpetually.

We are the last children.
Of ostracized individualism.
The dark creepy kids of the witching hour.
Drab dismal black.
Clad in ghosts.

Left aside.
Losers.
Rejects.

Caste out dalits.
Who could never fit into.
Whatever normal is.
Unless we are confined in your consternation.
The someone's who refuse your society.
A jail of good intentions.
And pride.

Unlike you.
We live in twilight.
Sleep at dawn while waking up right before dusk.
To watch the sun set on our dismal days.
Never to rise in us again in day time.

We are.
Delighting in darkness.
Dancing in shade with the oscillating shadows.
Of what's going bump in the dark.
When all of you are asleep.

Maybe we aren't pretty.
Maybe we are a melancholic menagerie of misfits and malcontents.

But how dare you call us vain.
We don't want your attention.
When like insects we scurry away from the illumination of your light.

We'd prefer to be left alone.
Ignominiously ignored infamous itinerant.
Mendicants of Midnight.
To own our own lives.
Ran on our own circadian rhythm.

But you.
Have dragged us into the sun.
Demanded we obey.
Conform to your cancerous cacophony of fragile ideas, tiny egos, and your desire to destroy.

So why then.

Are you shocked that we hurt ourselves.
Hurt you with our existence.
And lash out in desperation for the dying of the light.

Life was better when you left us alone.
And I will certainly shut out the rising sun.
With a cascade of blasphemy.
Pouring out of the sword of my mouth.

You wanted me to grow.
In the light in the cracks.
But, I receded back into my crevice.

And, you left.
I don't blame you.
Yet.

You never asked if I liked the darkness.

To be forward.
I love the night.
Hidden places no one goes.
Unspeakable things in unknown spaces.
Unobtrusive and unobserved.
I want to fluctuate.

Like
The undulations of twilight.
The peace when everyone is.

Asleep.

I don't really wanna live.
I want to be forgotten.
Erased from the footnotes.

Improperly quoted.
Gone before we got acquainted.

A ghost.

Embedded in irrelevant.

I'll etch these words onto my soul.
Embedding information on space time.
Til the black holes consume it.

I wish I was dead.
I wish I wasn't here.
I wish I wasn't breathing, thinking, seeing, feeling.
Anything other than hate, anger, and depression.

Dismal derided desolation.
Living low, down and out.
Merely getting through each day.
An eternal indictment of my distaste.

For.
Existing.

And, I take it personal.
That God won't let me die.

*******.
I didn't wanna exist.

Yet here I am.

Stuck with.
More unanswered prayers.

Another miserable day.
For me.
The odd offending out cast.
Ostracized imbecile.
Anti social apathetic apophenia.

Finding patterns in nothing.
Curt blasphemies.
Paranoid projections.

And, I'm frustrated.
With how incapable I am.
At intuiting.
Anything social.

And.

If this rage had a direction.
It would be inside.
Even though it's other people who make me mad.

Being strange is a sentence.
Assuming I'm a drug addict.
Cause I don't wear ugly jeans and terrible tshirts.

What did multiculturalism ever get me.
Besides being judged.

On how I look.
By musty smelling.
Strangers.

And, friend.
I don't look good.
To you.

Cause you have no taste or
spark of creativity.
Maybe try something sensible.
That everyone else does.
***** dismal polo shirts.
Tacky khakis.

I wouldn't care.
If I didn't have to.
Talk to you.

In your.
Broken English.

You mistake beautiful soliloquies to myself.
For stupidity.
Cause you ain't got a lexicon.
Enough to comprehend what I say.

And, your terrible mispronounced nonsense.
Is incomprehensible.

But, I guess.
I'm the strange one.

I'm the drug addict degenerate.
Who you won't hire.
Because of your cultural assumptions.
You imported.
Here.

My so called home.

Stranger in a strange land.
That used to be where I lived.

The walls of my life are falling apart.
Into the rubble of pathetic despair.

My body starts to fail.
Again.
******* away each fragile opportunity.
Until there were none left.

It gets hard to enjoy things.
When everything gets worse.
My hermit hiki ko mori stasis.
My isolation in my room.
Poignantly hits me.

And,
I am strange and unusual.
Poorly worded
and dumb.

I breathe self loathing.

Shrouded in the darkness of another.
Anonymous night.
Eternal dark, obsidian dawn.
I creep through the brushes and reeds.
To the sacrificial mount.
That the spirits told me were there.
The impulse of an evil God of hidden.
Places.

And,
These delusions can be made poignant.
With good enough prose or ritual poetry.
As my offering of tobacco is accepted.
My austerity of poverty and insanity, reinforced.
I do the dance that comes to mind.
Flaring out my peacoat.
In raven's dance.

I walk the earth with bare clad feet.
As the dirt embeds into my sole.
I become the black foot.
Pale skinny
Satan
Opposer.
The Gaelic gaoler of lost souls.
Wirey, taught, and high tension.

The one who said no.
I'd rather go it alone like Esau Lord.
Find my way in the wilderness.
Castigate the humans.
Too proud to bend the knee.
To an abysmal race bereft of creativity.
I bring nothing.
For you.

And, I illumine you.
I cast my own shadow on the wall.
The light shines out of me.
Into.
The truth in disgust.
The beauty in filth.
The righteousness in rebellion.
I die on every hill.
Kamikaze existential destroyer.

Clad in taboo things.
Dripping in the disgust.
Of the unclean.

I am a beast.

I am filth.

I am a warning.

Don't get too close.
I ******* bite.

Silence.
Here on this particular mountain.
Is deafening.

As I scream to myself.
For sympathy from someone else.
Or even.
Life.

But,
I'm still here in the ditch.
Laying in the grass.
Worn down and worn out.
Sleeping rough in the rocks

And,
No one hears my pleas.
For a meaning to all this.
Suffering.
Not God.
Not you.
Not anyone.

This is the furious rage of being inadequate.
While my scream pierces the sky and reverberates.
In my mind.
No one hears.
One of the few times I've been vlunerable.

Even if they did.
They wouldn't have cared.
What is a hobo to a man, but a moral failing?
At that moment.
I lost whatever faith I had in other people.

Nothing answered me in the depths of my rock bottom.
Scraping the jagged depths of my impotence.
Just the still subtle silence and the wind.
Blowing through my hair.

So I slept in the ditch.
Stopped asking for help.
Woke up in the morning.
Staving off another.

Reminder of how useless.

I truly am.

Abysmal desolation.
Washes over me.
And all I can think.

Of.

Is how peaceful annihilation will be.
As I'm always cast adrift.

In the doldrums of melancholy.

Life?

All this creation has given me.
Is a lust for death.

An end.
To my half remembered.

Mediocrity.

In these absentminded anxious anomalies.
Of thought.
I recede into self doubt.
Rampant overtly critical self destruction.
I am the hypnosis and torpor.
Of far too many drugs.
Far too early.

******* development.
Restricted ego.
And, the niggling doubt.
That I'm good at something.

These nervous neurotic moments are conscious.
An urge of self anihilation
Taboo words.
Forbidden ideas.
Mix with my suicidal ideations.
I am beyond the horizon of self doubt.
I fell into abnegation.

I think
I need some apathetic anti depressants.
To comfort me.
Get me through today.
So in tomorrow.
I can hope that a couple months from now.
Everything won't be so bad.

But that never happens.