I can make it through my life.
And the day.
Only if I'm properly.
Over medicated.
On these.
Chemical friends.
Of mine.

I was never engaged.
With you.
Or felt something deep.
You just wrote me a story.
And I smiled.
I accepted it.
So I could be whatever.
You wanted me to be.

But,
I was and always will.
Be alone.
Talking to myself.
Instead of the idea of me.

I eat blasphemies,
Cursing God with my lack,
Of submission to things,
I don't agree with.

What is God,
But bad advice,
Given to schizophrenics,
With burning bushes,
Midnight flights,
To Heaven.

And me?

Friend,
I'm the taboo.

Unravelling of every sacred script,
Given birth in the mind of the,
Desolate and delirious.

I like to walk around at night.
When no one else.
Is out.

All the things I've never done.
Have just passed me by.
Nothing lost.
Nothing gained.
Just too high hopes.
Too many disappointments.
As long as I breathe.
I succeed at life.

I have made.
Every iconoclastic blasphemy.
A sigil to the loss.
Of my humanity.
As a mythopoetic respite from the contradiction.
Of life.
And, I am super position.
To myself.
A sadhu of dirt.
Brahman of filth.

And on the pyres are burning.
Former lives.
As each taboo.
Spills forth from my mouth.
Each symbolic act of my own personal apophenia.
Is carved on my skin and I don't.
Hide.
From the light.
I announce.
My own divine dusk.

I picked death.
As my austerity.
Not *******.
Absolution through annihilation.
Nolan, the great destroyer.
Saiva of the unambitious.
Stuck in a great protest against.
Light.
Defiling the temple.
That is my grace.

My blessing.
The fall of nations

And, here in the gallows field.
Are hanged men.
For hands of glory.
Necromantic rites of antideluvian.
Ideas.
Strange unknown Gods of distant mountains.
Looming ominous and odd.

In the burial grounds.
I abide.
With the insects and lowly things.
I am a statement of the triumph of rot.
In the face of beauty.
I become abominable.
In flesh.

And, God made the low.
Like God made the high.
And when he made me.
He blessed me with.
Sacrilege.
A wicked tongue that forks out of my mouth.
A will stronger even than absolution.

If I am clean.
I will become *****.

Here lies the ambition.
Of Nolan Bucsis.
Caked with blood sacrifice.
Filth.
And suffering.

Life has become Hell.

So, through my ego.
I ascend beyond it and never leave.
I abide in the abject misery my life has become.
I willingly become the scapegoat.
I will eat the sin.
Dine on sacrificial beasts.

Discarded.

The theology of collective guilt.
Trickster spirit using misery.
To blossom beautiful fruit.

They will know me by my ignominious deeds.
Even though Raven steals the sun.
Even though Coyote eats his wife.
Even though every ***** lowly thing.
Exists in itself.
The lesson remains.

Looks can be deceiving.
Bluster isn't belief.
And the urge to be isolated.
Subverts the need to be.
Loved.

Maybe I need to be.
A prophet.
Of destruction and desolation.
Woe and foreboding of doom.

So I remember the contradictions.

God made an angel of death.
Azrael.

God made an angel of sin.
******.

God made a great destroying chief of Satans.
Samael.

Where there is light.
A long shadow is cast.

Because God made me.
And,
I want.
Eternal night.
Perpetual sleep.

No one hears me recite.
What I write.
Except these four walls.
The creepy crawlies.
Midnight.
And the moon.

I don't exhibit.
In an institution.
The art is in.
The performance.
Of.
Trying to be.
A normal person.

Failing horribly.
Making it up as I go.
Worded poorly.
Nothing profound.

This is my ode to the empty places.
Darkened and foreboding.
Where I can be myself.
Dancing alone.
In the dim dark dusk.

The light doesn't shine out of me.
It leaks out of cracks in the facade.
It cascades out of me in moments.
I cry for no reason.

My poorly written lyrics.
To songs I never sing.

Everything hurts.
But not as much.
As this death of my motivation.

I feel like doing it again tomorrow.
And in each objective bypass.
I am dissipated within.
The death of a passion.

And, the rise of.
Mediocrity.

And still that gnawing absence eats and tears me.
That depression of topography
In liminal time.
That constant self doubt.
The niggling fear of failure.
Self fulfilling prophets.
Revelations horded in secret.

I'm always wandering somewhere else.
With a firm
Desire to run away from everything.
All.
Over.
Again.
I don't want to face another disappointment.
Another bad choice.
A bad memory with a face.

So,
I make none.
And just fade away into the ambience on the radio
Always running forward.
To another town.
Hiding in shadows.
Going unnoticed.

I am a ghost on the highway.
Looking for a ride.

Somewhere that ain't here.

I have more.
Excuses.
Than reasons.
To live.

It's ok.
I'm not.
Too.
Involved.