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.

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.

Everything falls
Apart.

And, I'm at a loss.
As to how,
To fix it.

Not that it matters.

My delusions of control,
Fell through my hands,
Like sand through a sieve
On a beach.

I am a nothing,
From nowhere,
With **** all
To show for my time,
But,
These calloused hands from typing
Desperately,
Into the void.

Why can't we just not be involved?

We went.
Somewhere.

Vague.

According to.
The.

Directions.

Everything.
All the time.
All at once.
And, I make sense.
Out of the tangents.
Writing the narrative that is my life.
And, will you be a footnote in the poorly worded.

Dialogue.

And, will you be a friend to the no one I've become.
An, index to all my poor plot choices and poorly rounded characters.
That pepper my life.
With the mundane.

Mediocre.

The snow carpets everything.

And I can't see.
It's so bright.

The white permeates existence and shines oh so brilliantly.
Blotched here and there with the thrown up refuse of passing cars.
***** grey stains on the blinding incandescent light.

My eyes hurt.

As I see the silhouette of a magpie.
Chasing away a mangy old fox who won't survive the winter.
And  I'm always tired.
Walking on.
This slippery ice.

I always catch myself.

Before I fall.

But,
My scarf is falling down.
The wind bites my legs.
I am unfortunately always unorganized and unprepared.

But.
In my mind.

I'm striking a pose with an idealized fantasy image of myself 23 years ago.
So I look in the mirror

and slip.

Still an old man.
Still walking.
Still broke.

And still unable to see.
Directly into the sun.

I used.
To love.

Things.
And.
People.

But.

I found out.
I didn't need them.

For anything.

I couldn't.

Do.
Myself.

Everything is empty inside.
And I see your passing face.

Somewhere down the line.

I thought I knew you.
But maybe it was just the image.

I had in my mind.

This is the wasted space.
I take up.

Starving myself as punishment.

Just can't connect.
And be.
Pro social.

He said I was.
High tension.
It's not like he's wrong.
I do scream at cops.

And, find myself in institutions.
Involuntary circumstances.
Of a rotten mind left to gaze.

Into that dark nothingness.
That void of regret.

A black chasm.
I find myself falling into.

An infinite void.
Of negative emotions.

Anhedonia.
Got me down.

I don't recognize myself.
Even after being so self centred.
So vainly obsessed.
With being so effortlessly classy in my thrift store clothes.
Yet, somehow.

I'm handsome.
I got style.

And,
I don't get it.
I see myself.
But don't recall there being a me.
That I could see.
Just some dysmorphic neuroses.
An anonymous face.

So, I'm gonna change on the regular babe.
Can't stand something static.
It doesn't still the noise.
Or chill my nerves.

I want to be anything but something.
Consistently.
The same.

I declare my quasi identity.
I emit an amorphous persona.

I am the flux state of Nolan.
Dynamic fashion.
All in ruddy shades of black.

I had.
Things.
To say.

But

I've.
Lost my mind.

Everyday.

I struggle.
To find.
Basic.

Motivations.

To live.

Other.
Than.

Drugs.

Every night.
I dream I die.
And,
I am reborn in the morning.

I have one foot in that far off place.
One foot in here.

I first went through the ego death.
Of a.
Shaman
At 18.

I channel spirits.
In charnel psychosis.
I am them.
When I act like them.

The mask I wear today.
Is never the mask I wore yesterday.
And, who am I?
Among all these ghosts.

I can't.
Co ordinate the.
Chaos anymore.

And, I feel like screaming.

I'm real.

Until my vocal chords break.
Bleeding out some cry.
To the heavens.

Existence is the torture.
Of banal nothing.
Coalescing into an.
Instant regret.
From an impulsive.
Rush.

But I've learned.
Each dramatic outburst.
Was a call for help.
A communication.
So I learned how to act.
Normal.
Keep it to.
Myself.

When.
In my mind.

Well,
I can't keep track now,
Can I.

I scream.
And no one hears me.
So I cut the perormative ****.
Hurl about my verbal diahrrea.
***** it to the lights on the screen.
Safe in the liminal state.
Of I'm not really here.
I'm just wasting time

Tomorrow.
Coulda been something.
If I wanted to be
there.

Seems like I'm.
Just waiting
for the
world to end.

The horizons are
on fire.
Death coming from
above.
On wings of whispered.
Annihilation.

I'd rather be travelling.
But.
Thinkin of running away somewhere.
Else.
Somwehere safe.
Though,
I never do.

And, I can't escape the.
Shock.
Wave.

I'm just running on empty.
Hopped up on adrenaline.

Avoiding flashes in the distance.
Suns being born.

Me

Though.

I've got
cobwebs in my
mind.
Forgetting how to think.
When wit is all I need.
To sleep.
Or dream.

May this
Terror flee me.
As I'm.
Occupying my time.
With a poor
short term memory.

With
denial.

Punishment for something.
I
never
did.

And I hear the air raid siren.
Bleating in my mind.

Is this love.
In the age of information.

Losing everything
with no power to.
Stop it.

Everyone
is so.

Sad.

I gave up
on life.

But,
They aren't
sad
about.

Me.

They're sad
about.

How I
relate
to them

Tyler says.
My problem has always.
Been my paranoia.

But he neglects the self doubt.
The self hatred.
Or the hallucinations.

And, every day I struggle.
With the will to live.
Especially when it turns out.
I'm not really that unique.

Id hate to be the person.
Who admires.
My imperfections.

I sighed my last sigh.
With nothing to show.
For all this wasted time.

The still buzz on the screen.

Electricity.

And a passion.
I could never find.

I'm always *****.
But I think a little earth.
Is a good omen.
Ties me to the spirits.
Of the dirt.

All of these little nic naks.
I track around like muck.
Is just a talisman.
Where nature follows me everywhere I go.
As organic.
As my techno paleo paganism.

I count the rabbits I see.
I look for ravens.
I bless the magpies as they pass by.
I commune with the coyotes and yip at the moon.

Bark sometimes.
To scavenge a meal.

I'm a fox.
Curled up in my feet.
That the ****** eagle.
Ate.
One day when I couldn't help.

My fox friend.

It chases me.
Miles still in my memory.

***** ditches.
Thrown away trash.
All enmesh in my vagrant heart.

And,
I am offal.
Poorly spelled.
And half as well articulated.

But.
At least I can still.
Commune with a spirit or two.

I get sad sometimes.
When I think about all.
That's happened.

But.
I got.
Used to it.

I used to talk to him.
In the backyard.

Filled with
dog ****.
We never
cleaned.

But his old yarns.
Were as lively.

As the sky burning purple and orange.
In these
prairie sunsets.

I suppose he was dying.
Then.
But,
not dead enough.
To not be able to tell.
A tall tale.
Or two that.
Changed,
every time he told them

I got lost in his.
Used to bes.
And, people who
ain't no angels.
Setting each other on fire.
For five dollar debts.

But,
It went further.
Back then.

Moving boulders with his hands.
And the backstory.
Of my own little.
**** town.

Leather brown skin baked in the sun
every day.
Lost in things he'd hoard.
Mining for some
random signifcance.

I tried to find.
The patterns to his.
Crazy stories.

His unhappy story.

And, how entertaining they were.

Eventually.
He died.

And, the dogs.
Ate him.

Death.

Is just a.
Dissolution.

Into.
The.

Memory.
Of.

A.

Self.

I wrote you so many poems.
I forgot which ones they were or their name.
Just a bleeding into itself of yesterdays and regrets.

Who knew you'd tell me once not to tell you what to think.
And, I wouldn't.
And, I didn't.

But, me, on myself, on how I behave.
I just fade away faster than usual these days.
When someone abandons me.

Once again I must subvert my own interests.
For the fantasies about myself.
In other people's mind.

So, blame me for my response I guess.
I wouldn't know.
You left without a word.
No need to communicate.
To who you claim to love.

Or I could get angry.
Frustrated.
Passionate.
Something, I guess.

But, I don't.
I never have.

I just leave and move on.

I remember.
When God told me.
'Is this the best you can do?  Life in a room?'

And from my heart I said.

In here.
I can forget I exist.

Exist.

Only as a stray thought.
It's not my prison.
It's the twenty feet I can control.

When everything is so.

Fragile.

Every.
Waking.
Moment.

I long.
For the still.
Sound.

Of.
Silence.

It's
My
Life.

I lived
It.

I don't
Care
How it
Makes you
Uncomfortable.

I own
It,
With all
It's depressing
Moments.

Nothing
Remains the
Same.

For very
Long.

I've given up on.

Love.

Everyone's the same.
And, I don't know where to
meet anyone.

Least alone someone.
I would
like.

Smart women who like art.
Bad poetry.
Good fashion sense.

Won't
go for.

Holy renunciates like me.
Trance states and hallucinogens.
Metaphorical symbolic mythology and ranting.
About God and a malplaced accident.

And, baby, I don't  like basic *******.
Unless I'm *****.

But, love?

It's a foreign thing that women throw around.
That I hear too much of.
From conditional people
And I make it awkward.

I just met you.

I've met a lot of people who haven't met anyone like me before.
But, never.
The Opposite.

I used to believe in love at first sight.
Then I took a look.

And,
My desire is ankle deep.

I don't know the words.
That meant so much.
To you.

I just said them.

I'm always at my best.
By myself.

And, if you plumb these.
Fathomless depths.

Of my inner life.

You'll find all of my.
Hyperbole.
I use to comfort me.

I coulda been something better.
Than a failed poet.
Who never wrote a good word.

At least I like to think I tried.
But, really.
I was just screaming at myself.

An empty head full of pointlessness.
Facts, theories, ideas.
Tepid facile fraudulent half thought out fantasies.

And, my friend.
If you find yourself in my personal.
Ocean.

I'll steal the water.

**** it deep in my core.
With all the interesting things I think.

No one really knows.
Cause I don't tell them.

In that hypothetical transcript of my personal failure.
I'll make the inconsistencies.
some of  these.
Vague requests to just.

Leave me alone.

To dance.
And be forgotten.

God's mistake.
A contradiction.

Nothing.

The drugs just get me by.
And they're so mundane.
Comforting me softly in.
I'm ok with right now.

It's never strong enough.
To knock me out.
To fill this boredom with alright.
Everything for a moment of levity.

I want my mind to break
I don't wanna think.
I want to be subsumed in some feeling I don't.
Have.

For just a moment.
One second.
Of comfort.

Every drug is a footnote of what I've done.
Catalogued among all these bad trips.

I would have an excuse.
But, it's all so innocuous now.
Relatively normal.
To be around hard drugs.

Dingy basements smelling of mould.
And four pounds of morphine.
Mean men with mean tattoos testing me.
As though I'm not a degenerate.

A counter indication or  two.
The benzos make me mad.
I sleep on speed.
As I always get uncomfortably high.

Always making bad decisions.
Always taking too much.
Always groveling in my filth.

And, I make it a badge of  honour.
That I persist.
To get high again.

Tomorrow.

I only get happy when I'm in these.
Liminal trance states.
Where I can forget.
Linear time.
And,
It's worse than I ever told you.

In my whole life.
Cause.

Remember.

I didn't tell you.
A God ******.
Thing.

All there is.
Is the silence.
The high pitched squeal.
Of the death of my hearing.

And.
I can hear the emptiness punctuated with electrical whines.
Anticipating something to just.
Fill the air.

With an angsty.
Revolt.
Against the.
Calm.

I'm dying on the inside.
Every single day.
And, I meander through the torpor.
Into listlessness.
And an apropo addendum.

I'm sorry
I guess.

Incapable of change.

My mind's numb.
My memory fuzzy.
And.
I can't remember what I told to you.

Whether good.
Bad.
Or somewhere middling.
In between.

It all just dissolves into an amorphous mess.

My memory.
Images of where I used to be.
Fragile enough.

To be forgotten.

I'm.
Not.

Missing.
Out.

On.
Life.

I'm.
Just.
Waiting.
To.
Die.­

It's.
Not.
Exactly.

What.
You.

Want.

But,
I.
Never.

Asked.