Someone said in a curt cliche.
That
It's a
Cold hard
World out there.
Friend.

You gotta keep your wits about you.
Take the medication,
Drown out the voices with sedatives and
Keep a formal fragile facade of average.
Conform into the agglomeration of normalised behaviour.

Repeat the Nicean creed
Of nit picking normality.

Unfortunately.
I think I only think in cliches.
The soul of the author is laid bare.
And becomes
Destroyed.

Oh friends.
I know.
Self similar sentiment
Is wasted on literary minds.
As my verbosity is limited by my lexicon
That's drying up as we speak.
The creek bed of my creativity
Evaporating.

And,
What am I but average
In ability.

Irregular in mental acuity.
My divine spark
Is this mashing together
Of words someone else
Stoked in a literary bonfire.

For I'm as cold as frozen nitrogen.
Disjointed from the ambient temperature of familiar
In my own personal agoge.
Raised on rusty nails
Tempering my will as
Hard as an isolated diamond.
Ranting to the coal.

And, I found myself
Looking for my rough.

It's where I discovered
Some familiar adage
To regurgitate in an off tempo
Poorly worded poem.

And it's always a sob story they're singing
On the radio.
About the trials of other people.
And their mundane conformity to their ideals of
Triumph and tribulation, scraped off their existential sinew.
Burning.
Curling up their metaphoric arm.

Familiarity in self diagnoed PTSD.

There's
Always a love song they're writing.
With fountain pens.
In caligraphy.
Vague and ambiguous.
A passion everyone feels the same.

But isn't it the desire for a break
From the mundane.
To be consumed in an eschatology.

An apocalyptic devouring
Of logical reasoning.

When they find me out.
As they always do.
As an asymptomatic.
Anomaly.

They'll say,
There's no better torch song than an epitath.
A ****** ballad.
With a sorrowful refrain.
For me, strange and unusual:

Farewell.

Here too often.

Never.

Gone.
Too.
Soon

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

No one will fix you.
Only your banal self.
And, it's not profound.
Just.
Happens.

You can lick your own wounds.

I did.

If I could feel like you.
And trust the rest.
Then maybe.
I'd be normal.
But, that's never the case.
So, again.
I broke my hand.
And, the endorphines.
Made me feel better.
Than your concern.

I hate my face.
I hate my body.
I hate being conscious.
It just reminds me.
I'm alive.
And real.
And I've got so long to wait.
To die.

Lately life just seems.
Like a desperate plea.
For attention.
Daddy didn't love me.

Send likes.

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 wonder if it hurts more.
To other people.
That I'm not scared to open up.
I just don't want to.

Not with them.

Sorry.

Recurring themes.
Reappear

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.

Ain't no one.
Not always no good.
Neither are the good ones.
I find.
But.
Doesn't really matter.
You heal or die.
It's it.

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.

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?

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.

Validate my existence.
By nursing my insecurities.
In your empathetic salvation.
Your divine concern.
A noble neuroses.
Fancy fallacy of form.
Your ideals.
Sacred sentiment.

Yet I'm but a stone.
Cold, distant, and alien.
Only moved.
With.
Force.

Why bother.
Waking up tomorrow.
When it's the same thing.
Same dysfunction.

Always unwell.

All the junkies knew each other.
In my hometown.
There weren't many of us.
I should probably be dead.
By now.

If.
I've.
Ever.

Written.
Anything beautiful.

I absolve myself.

Of.
It.

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.