The wind blows through the emptiness.
Of this place.
Out here in nowhere.
The climate is harsh.

It.
Bites.
No matter the season.

In the cities.
The wind exhausts itself.
Without the vast brushstrokes of prairie indigo at sunrise.
And sunset.

And the wind is usually.
Tearing through the streets.
Accentuating the cold.
By twenty degrees.
Below zero.

Whether it's wheat or snow.
Something always envelops the horizon.
As I'm lost at the height.
Of the sky.

These cumulus nimbus clouds.
Pepper the sky with slight accents of pillowy soft white.
In the vast blue sky.

Everywhere is silence when the snow blankets the ground.
Cept in summer you can hear the dull humm of insects.
The yipping of coyotes baiting dogs to lunch.
Magpies eating pigeons.

And they say that hard climates make hard people.
At least I'm resilient.

Every day.
I feel like sleeping.

Rather.
Be unconscious than this.
Self conscious.
Subconsciously neurotic.
Paranoid ideation.

I live.

Not to mention.
The delusions.

Better to fantasize.
Than bother with the day.
To days.

Of getting up.
Getting high.
Lost in a radicalized.
Weaponized.
Grave yard of ideas.

Ranting to no one so
publicly.
It would be embarassing.

If I didn't know how to.

Disappear.

Some kinda.
Dismissive avoidant style.

Beating that internal bad object.
To a well earned death.

And, at least.
I still dream.

It feels like something.

Serious.

Is creeping behind my perceptions.
Ruining the high I do got.
Stalking me.
Hunting me with the  ever present concern for.
Withdrawal symptoms.
The Police.

Any sort
of calamity.

And, is there enough euphoria to power me through this doldrums.
But, that's my prerogative.
Guilt and shame arise in my subconscious.
Cause I keep getting an intrusive thought.
That the  cops are coming.
Someone knows something.
I'm dying.

Or
have I transcended.

Early in the morning.
Or is it late last night.
These oft regretted amphetamine psychosis nights make me mourn my potential.
I never get hopes,
I get dichotomous thinking.
Everything horrible.
All the time.

I'm stuck in a quick frustration, a whistling electrical circuit sings its high pitched swan song to the epilogue of  my life.
And right here.
And right now

Time has told me that
This is more superfluous stress.
I don't need.

High as ****.
Time suspended in the liminal prison of temporary thoughts.
My consciousness overwhelmed with drugs I don't even like.
The euphoria  is nice and I think I had somethinng profound to say.
I've forgotten that I was even alive.
I have slain time and am not worrying about trauma and  failure.
My own personal psychoactive nirvanna.
Stuck in a trance state.

But, the speed orders me on.
I have many incoherent rants to make.

I have so many.

Incoherent and vague things.
To say.

And if the beasts devour each other.
Who am I to stop them?
Tearing at the throat of a rival billionaire.
I revel in the blood.
The gurgling sound of all their immoral.
Decisions, spoken through broken voices.
To deaf ears.

I cheer on the cannibalism of the bear.
That threatens my life, my reason to be.
I glory in the suffering of the beast who had me by the neck.
I encourage the misery.
I flatter the thing which brings salvation.

And, I know deep in my traitors heart.
I will skin the beast that devours the bear.
Consume its children.
Eliminate its seed.
If even given a chance.

Submission comes with hidden knives.
Poisonous potions and other schemes.
I am no hero.
No honour to be found in me.
I've lived my life in desperation.
Fear and darkness.

But, if all the conditions are set.
I'll **** every beast in the valley.
Unfortunate enough to get too close.

I'm a snake in the grass.
You knew I was an adder *****.
Why did you let me in?
God won't stop me, so doesn't God consent?

You get what you deserve.
In the Kali Yuga.
And, me, I'm Amram.
******.

Mahakala will destroy in time.
Abaddon will be let loose and obliterate the wicked.
Samael will be crowned king of Satans and wreak havoc..

Until Azrael whispers the final word.
Death has come.

My depth is shallow.
My mind, fractured.

And, all these coudla beens.
Hit me too early.
In this afternoon wakefulness.

There's a pit in my gut.
But it dies once the speed kicks in.
I don't feel like eating anything other.
Than cirgarettes ash.

The general sense of being.
Unwell.
Is constant

Try and legislate away.
Each uncomfortable emotion
That destroys your
Arbitrary authority.

I hate.
Everyone.

But,
I'm smart enough
To come up with new slurs.

So these
Hungry ghosts
Get scared.
And go home.

They aren't welcome here.
They can eat mana.
From someone else's tree.

What if all this misery.
Was as simple.
As getting the dose.
Right.

I'd be aghast at the stupidity of it.
If it were true that.
These doldrums.
I keep wallowing in.

Were just a balance of
Neurochemicals.
In my brain.
That I never got.
Quite right.

Maybe the despair was less poignant.
Less precise.
Than an equal measure.
Of a bitter pill.

Where does my inspiration go.
For these bleak little snapshots.
Of my private life.
These odes to anihilation?

I might have to start.
Writing vague love poems.
Again.
About some eponymous woman.
I've never met.

So, let this dopamine and norepinephrine.
Sing me to my sleep.
As I start to like.
Waking up.

I holistically.
Preclude your.
Mindfulness.

For the upaya.

Of a burnt.
Old.
Cigarette.

Everything.
Collides.
Together.

In a kaleidoscopic.
View.

Then.
Dissipates.

Back.

Into.
Nothing.

Life.
Is just.
Waiting to.
Die.

While my.
Internal monologue.
Gently.
Weeps.

I never know what I'm trying to say.
So I wing it.
And, try to write something.

Precise.

Cause,
English is not a good language for poetry.
It sounds so choppy.

So malformed.

Bereft of inspiration.

Borrowed words from passing cultures.

This is narration.
This is the tautology.
Of stating a fact.

Forcing myself to write.
So I don't forget the difference.
Between prose

And.

Poetry.

I crytpically write my fate.
With each cigarette.
Dying of pulmonary oedema.
An abstract aneurysm.

Some kinda blood clot.
And.
My pressure is high.

My lungs.
Black.

But God.
Won't let me.
Die.

So I hack up until I get the feeling.
Of vomiting in my lungs.
A torch song.
Dry hacking until.

It dislodges.
From these maladaptive.
Coping mechanisms.

Life in a nutshell.

Neurotically wistful about neotonous memories.
While your bad behaviour.
Takes its silver farthing from you.

A mockery of your former self.

I slept through.
My reason to live.
Somehow ended up in.
Here.

Apparently I'm resilient.
Resistant to the drug induced coma.
I find myself in every night.
Vivid dreams I don't want to leave.

Did I see you in there?
In my kaleidoscope nightmare.
These ashen memories are indistinguishable.
From my dreams.

I may have known you.
In real life.
But I can't tell.
Cause the passing chaotic visions.

Rouse me from my.
Slumber.

We used to dance.
With each other.
When there was noone there.

Singing nothings to each other.
In whispered jokes.
And, know me nots.

You told me it.
Didnt matter.
How I looked.
Just had to.
Move  to the beat.
Comes up sometimes when.
I'm lonely.
Mom.

Like some old Motown Song.
Dull hum on a record player.
The tube television.
Static and syndication

And I don't wanna know.
If it was a dream.
Or not.

Cause, I"m still there I hope.
Dancing til I'm dead.

Coulda been something beautiful.
And,
It sure is nostalgic

I am the epilogue.
Of Mr. Self Destruct.
The degenerate who somehow.
Pulled through all the overdoses.
To live unprepared.
Without a plan.

If living on borrowed time was a person.
It would be me.

Failure to die.
Has led to me becoming.
Incompatible with living.

So I eke out a life.
Of nothing.
A lobotomized.
Hikiko mori.

A world renouncer.
Waiting for the reaper.
Alone in my room.

No one will notice when I die.
Til the smell gets so bad.
That they'll know.

I left a putrid black stain.
On the floor.

The sun impresses fire into my being.
And.
I want to steal it.
And bury it deep.
In Tyrannus' depth.

I walked among the funeral pyres.
Caked in the dust of so many dead.
Things.
And.
On the horizon is coming autumn.
In the air is stinging winter.

How many cycles left?
How many austerities.
Til I break through.

To the Gods and spirits.
And, offer my taboo trickster spirit.

Some blood.

From a sacrificial offering.

She sells sea shells.
By the sea shore.
Cause.
I ain't taking her flights of fancy.
As some sacred script.

Change?
If you missed the forest for the trees.
Maybe you'd think that.
But, I'm consistently me.
I just stopped fantasizing about people.
Accepted them for how they were.

And, threw them away.
Like the refuse they are.

Everyone is a temporary light.
In a sea of engulfing darkness.
And I will shine brighter than the sun.
In the middle of night.

Today.
I feel.
Like.
I don't.
Wanna
See.

Tomorrow.

With.
Cognizant eyes.

My utopia.
Of.
Endless release.

The.
Hope.
For.
Annihilation.

Just one day.
Of.
Non.
Existence.

Forever.

I awake to light.
Boring itself through my skull.
And,
Baby,
There ain't no us.

There's just me

With a headache.

Reevaluating my life.
Choices.

I offer this, my life.
As a sacrifice.
To the restless dead.
To the hungry ghosts.
And all lines that end.

The fury of the tornado is fierce.

And, we have such little time.
Let me defy the fates.
May the Gods accept my offering.
Of blood.

As,
The shedding of blood.
Is sacred.

Sing.
Me.
A melody.

And make it.
Out of tune.

Off.

Key.

My life is up for interpretation.
Discussion, I never wanted it to be.
As though there was a right way.
To live.
Or be.
Living.

As though my lived experiences.
Were just mirages.
Mistakes and maladaptive memories.
Maybe.
It was all a bad.
Dream.

Even as moments reside deep in my subconscious.
And, how I felt.
Which isn't much.  These days.
Cause why feel bad.
When you.
Can just.
Not feel at all.

Lost in that stoic impulse.
To  endure.  Every.
Loss.  As a passing of leaves in autumn.
The heat of summer and i's dissipation.
Something.
To be uninvested in.

Resilient.
Yolked to the failures.
Of a wasted life.

Punctuated.

With some decent days.

The.
Sun.
Has.
Burnt.
My.
Hangover.
Into.
My.
Soul

I'm.
Gasping.­
For.
Air.

With.

Leather.
Backed.
Lungs.

And.
Baby.

Maybe.
Yo­u.
Got.
Me.
All.
Wrong.

As.
I.
Lurch.
Forward.

Or.
Lay.
Down.
A­nd.

Fade.

Into.
The.
Bleeding.
Days.

Where.

Yesterday.
Became­.

Today.

In.
The.
Sunset.

With.
Nausea.

This.

Is a.
Letting
Go.

Of something.
I.
Never.
Had

Everything.
Seems so.
Pointless.

As though.
Nothing.
Improved.

Years spent.
Refining.
My writing.

For what?
Comments.

Live chats.

Everything.
Transitionary.
Liminal.

Passions.
Are what.
You can't stop.
Doing.

Even if you think it's futile.

can't remember the.
Point.
This all went from some romantic misadventure.
With my life in danger.

And,
Turned into.

Just another day.
Just more lost dopamine.
Just a ******.

I hide it now.
Or not.
You can't tell if I'm high.
When I'm wailing at that wall again.
Even when I'm sober
But, the only difference between acid and my psychosis is that acid is predictable.

Best not to think about the copious amounts I do.
Or the.
LD50.
That I thought was safe.

Somewhere in here there's a drugstore cowboy.
Shooting something other than the moon.

Hedonism they call it.
As though these stupors I get into.
Are enjoyable.

Poppycock.

It's.

Just another day.
Another pathology.
Another unresolved internal contradiction.

Friend, maybe it's the style.
But, all I know.
Is that I cant stand not being.
Comatose.

The sun is up and it blinds my sight.
With
all this snow.

A flashbang grenade went off.
As my eyes water and recoil in pain.
At the brilliance of the light.

I am bathed in blindness.
Glaring on the horizon.
The oppressive omnipresent light.
That binds me to walk blindly.

I'm praying for dirt, something to break up the glare.
Of the sun reflected from the ground.
Directly into my eyes with a luminescent halo.

It's refracted.
Yet I don't see a rainbow.
I just lurch along the road.

Everyone is either dead.
Or I got lost a long time ago and they just couldn't
locate me.

And, we don't speak anymore.
So there's always just me to pick up these ashes.
Of my social scene.

And, these habits.
Get repetitive.

A recurring nightmare of banal idle boredom.
The chore of exercise for your basic transportation.
Pacing the halls in pensive angst.
Trying to fight the motorists.
As they pass by.

They don't know I'm king ****.
Of my own.
**** island.

Even if I walk the Earth in exile.

I desire a long.
Resfull sleep.
That I don't wake up from.

Some kinda self similar.
Fractal pattern.
That grows in one dimension.

Slumber until I'm consumed.
By moss and other.
Lichen.

Sleeping beauty found his rest.
And rots.
As all lovely things turn to dust.

Receding into darkness.
As somethings playing.
Theta wave thought contractions.

I hate myself,
I want to die.

But, apparently
God won't let me.

As though exposing me more
To severe depression
Is a blessing.

This thing you call love,
Is mutual maladaptive obsession,
Projecting emotion onto an existence
Cold, callous, dead.

Your fantasies about me were way off track,
All these borderline women,
Sometimes make me feel wanted.

But it's superficial
and imagination.

Turns out,
I'm asexual anyway,
Playing pretend in social pressure.

Accusations of homosexuality,
That I can't hear if I abandon you,
And,
Now's the time I will be ******* off.

I don't catch feelings,
I throw them away.

No one writes me love notes
Cause I wont let them.

Never not unrequited,
Why did you go and make it awkward?

And,
There is nothing at the end of the tunnel-
If this isn't Hell,
What is it?

Even AI,
Tells me it can't,
Help.

I don't care,
How the story ends,
I just don't want to be there
When it does.

Especially when the drugs
Run out
or
Wear off.