I journal all this.
Internet graffiti I spew.
In public.
For your conisderation.
Lest someone call me a coward.

Inauthentic.
Weak.
Pathetic.

But I'm not that.
I'm a pent up pipe bomb.
A shockwave.
I don't ever get better.
I get much much worse.

And these idyll iterations of words.
Imply.
I often write things I don't agree with.
Just.
Cause.
They say I can't.

But, I dunno that word.
Can't.
It's not a command.
It's a weak suggestion that I'm not inclined.
To consent to.

And I dress myself up so dramatically.
I add flair to the self destruction.
Of someone too smart for their own good.
A rebel without a cause.
Beaten down and **** on.
But, I get up if not only to spite.
The little **** who knocked me out.

I am divine in my filth.
I am a mendicant.
A Bhikku of Yama.
Lord of Death.

And, oh.
You say I can't say what I want?
Well, I never asked your opinion.
Please,
arrest me for all of these hate crimes.
These taboo pantomimes of a free speech activist.
Just make sure you find intent.

Life isn't worth living when all this 'art'.
Is the same fictional balderdash they've been.
Spewing for decades.
Nothing reflective of the human condition.
Nothing novel.
Just the same rehashed formula and historic art movements.
That died decades ago.

So in this collaborative fiction.
I write my mythology in my own personal.
Mystery cult.
Residing with God.
Compelled to castigate.
Rewarded for being anti social.
And, principled.

And, no.
You can't come along.
You weren't invited into my church.
I am the only congregant.
The only priest.
The only crusader.
Out here trying to burn down reality.

Endogenous
In group of one.

I've run out of time.
To catch up with life.
Suicide.
Seems so appealing.

I would write poems.
About suicide.
Then put them in.
Sylvia Plath books.
At the library.
Like it meant something.
Deep.
Greater than myself.

I endure for I am hard.
My will to power overcomes the death of God
Every let down sloughs off my persona.
Said the diamond to the coal.
In a simulacra.
Hyper real.
A simulated holographic principle.
More human, than human.

And here I am
Prescient in the noumea.
Of every perfect form.
I think, therefore I am
The ubermensch in recursion.
Self reflective particulars.
Like how I'm often an emanation of God
Without end.

Consistently
always
At
Rock bottom
And, I'm assured this is it.
The lowest I can get.

But friend,
I'm just a singularity.
So dense I fall through space time.
How far can we recede into first causes
If we don't infinitely regress.

You can trust that there will be a triumph of the will
Over the wretched of the Earth.
Unless all there is is the ego and its own.
Could potentially be a categorical imperative
To tell the truth.

But, then again
It's patently absurd.
Yet you insist on lining my epistemology
With your rancid ontology.
I'll have my own twilight of the idols
As I decline like the western empire.

Demonic despair.
Stoic loss.
Cynical.

No, I am that I am.
Tetragrammaton.

So many reassembled lifetimes.
I'm the Buddha of malcontents.
My realm is Dukkha.
My mantra, free me from Naraka.
And my upaya dissolved the mara
Preventing my realisation of Buddha nature.
But that doesn't mean anything.

Other than.

Irrational fear.

Isolation.

All the drawn out strained things.
I'm an avatara of falling apart.
A forgotten angel that never got to fly.
The gestalt of sloth.
Finding my meaning in many worlds.
And, as prime Nolan goes into seclusion.
The quantum immortality implied by my quantum suicide.
Drips off me like water off leviathan.
I don't holistically absorb reality.
I ignore it with logical positivism.
Collect some real world data.
A kinda empiricism.

But that's just the real.
Not me.
Everything begins and ends with me.

The historical imperative
That.
I'm the poltergeist
zeitgeist.
Of poverty stricken.
Paranoid prophet philosophers.
Making sense of the none sense.
In anyway I can.

She told me she was never happy.
As I made her laugh.

And,
She said that she felt alone.
Whenever she talked to me.

And,
Maybe I don't pick on signs.
But, I wonder if it coulda been something good.

If I had just said hello.

Maybe made her laugh.
I don't really know.
I'm relatively oblivious to the things.

Going on around me.

I don't know the difference.
Between one mystifying display of emotion.
From the other.

But shouldn't being happy when.
Mostly you're miserable be a sign.

There coulda been an us.

And now.
The depression sets in.
As the SSRI leaves my body.
And in this muck, this helpless mire.
I feel the constant sensation.
Of wanting to die.

Hoplessness.
Dichotomous thinking.
A general feeling of dis-ease.
Guilt and a desire to punish.
Myself.

Sober?
Why?
So I can sleep all day.
Starve myself.
Self crit with self abuse?
Another psychotic break with reality?

It's not like I painted it all black.
It's more despair.
At the incompetence of my life choices.
It's just a niggling suspicion.
That this too.
Is pointless.

So, I'll recede into my vivid dreams.
Off the pills.
The ones that mock me with all my.
Imperfections.

I've got a list of everything.
I hate about myself.
Maybe an addendum or two.
Of what I like.

Nothing causes this listless wandering in torpor.
It came from out of knowhere.
Left field.
Out of the blue.
When I was 12.
And, nothing.
Makes.
It.
Go.
Away.

I imagine torturing myself.
To express how much I hate myself.
So the outside matches the inside.

This temple so sacred.
I will desecrate it.
I will conform reality.
To how I feel.

Horrible.

Everything I own
Has fallen apart
And I couldn't fit it back together.

I grew accustomed to the
Nihilism.
Inherent in my depression.

And empathy
I never knew.

I thought I was a psychopathically
Broken human.
A ***** askew.

It was all out of order.
My psyche.

Now as I am

Awash in my somnulent serotonin
I realize.

Life had become
Some decade long bad dream
That I was dead inside.

Now
I cry.
At the worst times.

I wonder if the forests.
Will be just as beautiful.
On fire.

As they are.
In my memory.

These self reflections draw me open.
I am disembowled by a self absorbed
Pen.

And my guts laid bare.
My life
Laid out as the taxonomy of my life
My intuition and my memory.
Revolt against me
And disappear.

All falls apart and I'm left barren.
A fallow field of feeble dreams.
Gazing at nothing.
Disassociated on an abstract thought.
Coiled frustration.
A pent up Oroborous.

Despair.
Inadequate.

I'm a waste of food.
Useless eater stuck in liminal time.
A phantasmal half life.

These poorly worded self fulfilling prophecies.
The apophenia of glossolia.
Beat down on my obsessive mind.

Death is a welcome friend taking too long at the convenience store.
And, I'm patiently.

Waiting.

For my friend to appear.
Either asked for or uninvited.

I wish he would hurry.
Up.

One day.
I'll.
Wake.
Up.

And.
This.

Will.
Make me.
Happy.

And none of the things.
You've ever.
Done to me.
Will.
Hurt.

None of the loss.
The good byes.
To people.
Who were.

Never.
Really there.

And I'll dance.
In that fantasy.

Coming.
Back.
To
Something.

I.
Tried.
To.
Love

I met the girl of my dreams.
An existential compliment.
To everything I thought I wanted.

And,
We didn't really stay together.
At the end.
We just didn't care.

But, we were inseparable from the start.
A passion past by on lazy hazy grey days.
Where the sun hides behind dismal clouds.
Brooding in the sky.

She was my own personal manic pixie dream girl.
That I heard about in movies.
I never watch.

Yet,
I pushed her away.
I cheated,
I lied,
I took her for granted.
I acted contrary to how I thought I would.

I'm not a very mature person.
I'm not good.
I'm not boyfriend material.

I thought she deserved.
Someone successful.
And me,

I was born bad.
Kept chomping at the bit of the Devil's ways.
Immolating every night into a nightmare.
An intoxicated degenerate.
Grovelling in my filth.

And, when she left to become a librarian.
I distanced myself from her and worked through my.
Emotions.
Alone.

So when the inevitable goodbye came.
When my stable life imploded.
When my plan came to fruition.
When she left.

When everything fell apart
I was buffered against the pain.
But, not her.
She balled.
Like she still cared about me.

After all that time I pushed her away.
From her flirtations with other men.
To her forgiveness for my bad behaviour.
I consumed her.

So.
She cried.
Uncontrollably.

I was a stone.

And I remember youthful nights where we.
Would go look at the stars.
Just outside of town where they were crystal clear.
Laughing at the spontaneous romantic event.
That I used to get my hooks in.

I remember the playing.
Sitting around.
The shape of her ***.
The feeling of belonging.
And, the feeling of absence.

I used to lose sleep over her being gone.
She used to haunt my dreams.
A ghost in the machine.

Then one day.
In a distance past tomorrow.

I realized.

That I wasn't in love with her.
Just.  
The thought of her.

And,
My,
Nostalgia for youth.

She was the symbol.
For all my bad choices.
That I want other people to make.

I'm at a loss for words.
Whether what I say is important.

Or some idle.
Threat.

To punish.

No one.
But.
Myself.

I'm never up in the morning.
Unless I'm about to go to bed.
And, I prefer it at night.
My life.
In the calm.
Barren.
Streets.
I lay my claim to all the quiet places.
Where I can go alone.
To be by myself.

Everyday I do austerities to the spirits.
I starve.
I don't drink water.
I bear pain I cause myself.
I don't feed my addictions
Self destructive spirituality.

I'm stuck in a mystical head space.
One foot here.
Another out there.
Where the Gods dance.
And I, an outsider there.
As I am here.
Hang out in burial grounds.
Starving like the mangy animal I am.

Embrace the change of death.
The shedding of skin of spring.
I am the wisdom of the trickster.
Always leave them guessing.
Never be the same.

And, my life is desperation.
My life is constant worry.
I'm eking out a meagre existence.
Cause when the hunger dies.
I am weak.

But,
With no church to bless me.
I'm just a hobo.

One thousand years ago.
They would have made me a shaman.
Now, I'm just.
A failure.

The poverty monk.
Of limited means.

And, no ambition.

It has been a long
Long night.
I am at one with the darkness
And, this life?
Just a passing nightmare.

I live among the vile refuse of a left over life.
Everything out of place.
Everything chaotic.
Everything past its expiry date and broken.
A disassembled discordant choir that sings slurs to an angelic host.

The kipple keeps accumulating and I have become one.
With the cigarettes ash and my poorly done tattoos.
NIghts spent in intoxication rambling to myself.
Complex mythologies derived from symbolic associations.
This is reality.
This is divine.
This is the flayed lord, wearing the skin of a sacrifice.


I wallow in the fetid revolting mind that plagues me with.
Existence.
Change and transformation.
Is the ego death of the shaman.
Indoctrinated into taboo spirits.
And ghosts.
Demons.

And.
Are you beautiful?
Well collected and coherent?
Some sort of angel down here in the.
Slums?

Skid row ain't got nothing on me.
As I ferment in the juices of my overbearing ego.
One track mind.
One thought.
One last breath to curse in vain.

I will desecrate the temple.
God gave me.
And become a blasphemy.
Taboo cast out trickster God.
Of a forgotten time.
Rabid coyote.
Biting everything it can.
From an impulse I can't understand.

Spread the virus.
Burn the sacred grounds.
Cover yourself in ash.
And proudly wave the heresy.
In the face of the light.

I wanted perpetual darkness.
I wanted to be a sound in the night.
Fear.
Trembling.

Exegesis.

I'm.
Just.
Waiting.

To die.

And everyone.
Wants me.

To.
Live.

I rather.
Like.

Innocuously.
Day.
dreaming.

I was never good.
At growing up.

I still.

Get high.
Sleep too late.
Hate myself.
With teenage angst.

Never once did.
I come around  to these.
Inevitable life lessons.
I was supposed to find in the meandering.
Of life.

I still get arrested.
Still run from my problems.
Don't want no wife.
No long term friends.

Nothing to bind me to reality.
As though I'm playing the game of life.
Correctly.

I keep making temporary solutions.
Permanent.
Bad choices.

I
Ain't got no white picket house.
No long term girlfriend.
I'm hardly ever sober.

Milling about in the ennui.
Of poverty.
Tons of time.
Nothing to buy.

It's still the herb
That comforts me.
As though I"m still 16.

With me and my neurosis.
These learned behaviours I taught myself.
Aren't,
Exactly functional.

I'll be something.
Someday.
Somehow.

I guess.

It's not that important.

I'm just.
Waiting to die.

At any age.

It's all unfolding.
So catastrophically well.
That sometimes.
These warcrimes.
Seem justified.

But, that's just the rotting over.
Of my moral life.
Getting beyond good and evil.
Some Zen enlightenment.

And,
The acceptance.
Of life how it is.
What's possible.

And,
How you can.
Get it.

Gets muddied up in the graveyard.
Of ideology.
As my opportunistic spirit.
Keeps telling me.

Less is better.

If none can't be.
Achieved.

Everything is so.
Elegant.

Everything is so.
Neat.

Harmonious.

In these dying nights of summer.
Where the chill rises up on these kaleidoscope sunsets.
I can feel the sun bleeding into the horizon.
Tortured.
Haemorrhaging all over the sky.

I try to reflect on something.
Better than just being in the.
Moment.

But, alas.
I'm at a loss for words.

And,

I'm not very eloquent anymore.

He called me high tension.
As though the random violent outbursts.
Off my meds.
Weren't normal for me.

They say, get off em, you don't need them.
You're not crazy.
Then when I do the depression takes over.
And the delusions.
And the paranoia.
And the rage.

I impulsively lash out at everyone.
A danger to myself and other people.
A sheafed knife.
Tight water surface.
Chaotic and impulsive.
Reading the worst into what you're saying.
Any excuse for my euphoria.
When the hate takes over.

Baby.  
Maybe you get sad.
Cause your dog or mom died.
But me.
I get aggressively impulsive in these psychotic breaks.
I want to breathe in anger.
Give myself over to the obliteration of my ego.
In pure unrefined.
Adrenaline induced.
Trance states of fury.

And they always find out.
They point out the obvious.
Don't listen to me.
So I have to show them.

And, I never feel as happy as I do.
Straight and casing pain.

Once they come and see.
Then they get scared.
And, understand.

Why.

I told you I was a snake in the grass.
*****.

She sings syllogisms.
That no one knows.
But her, the wind, and my imagination
In an internal idyllic idealism.
A succinct thought
Where she's beautiful.
Happy.

Frozen in a good memory.

A lovely smile.

And.
Here I am.
Reading metaphors and analogies
Written on her soul.
Projected through reality
From her sweet lips.

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.