Chaotic.

We never love them,
those flickers of,
Life’s candlelight,
when we get them,
nano-seconds in Love,
in the present tense,
in all its fickleness,
we fail to look deeply,
beyond the warmth,
of such selfishness,
we fail to recognize,
so we sit stupidly,
as nano-seconds,
swim right on by,
like robotic drones,
it is foolishness,
how soon we forget,
our very own,
flesh and bone,
where we came from,
childhood homes,
for we are not,
not a single one,
born to those,
with voices, drowned,
neither did we,
bore the woes,
Of Royalty,
donning the crown,
of the overthrown,
in the halls of the dead,
in the heads of the gone,
we will stand as one,
to the depths,
from the heights,
stars and sun,
days and nights,
like statues set in stone.

Pushing Buttons.

What…?
You honestly thought,
that my DNA forgot,
the dealer of
such a lethal drug?
When you’ve
got me tethered,
weathered and wrought;
and you’ve
got me pleasured,
treasure the thought;
What…?
say you didn’t mean,
to imply anything,
through the carelessness,
of your pretentiousness,
When you’ve
got me all twisted,
insistent on foolishness;
and you’ve
still persisted,
pushing buttons like this.

Sweat-Stack Prophecy.

After all that’s been said and done or not done,

they actually wonder what’s struck me so dumb,

perhaps I should’ve sent a universal memorandum,

to describe what’s been specified –

by the tribe where I come from;

when the shamans beat their’ drums,

and the forest sighs sweetly, and hums,

beckoning wakefulness to our Oldest Ones,

and as each awakens, a foundation gets shaken –

they can sniff out who doesn’t smell strong;

I only want to defy right here, under the sky –

close my heavy eyes and let it all be finally done;

I look around never to find anyone,

I have grown weary of trying to be strong,

my spirit rebels in a temper tantrum,

don’t chafe my hands, leave me just as I am,

I’m blessed and I’m cursed all in one.

 

 

 

 

Day Number Two.

On day number one:
you’re the Earth, moon and sun,
you’ve invaded your way,
into the folds of my brain;
and it’s all I can do,
to go without for a day –

Day twenty-three:
this isn’t working;
you need to let me be,
…breathe, …breathe
get your face away from me,
yeah, I remember,
but I was amiss,
while we built up to this;

Day sixty-two:
believe me,
I wanted it to be true;
wanted Father Time to,
eventually prove,
that you would be,
a novelty,
a relic of my youth;
the one I seem
to unfailingly,
return my sorry ass to –

Day one hundred and nineteen:
my teeth never stop grinding,
in the background,
buzzes the sound,
the unraveling of a wire,
a trip line quickly reeling; –

The final day I spent with you:
the house on fire,
smoke thick as glue,
we should have taken,
the fucking que,
we’ve been forsaken,
since Day number two.

As We Know It.

I have been re-reading the 800+ page book, Carrion Comfort by Dan Simmons, in my limited downtime i.e. lunch breaks and smoke breaks etc. This book (in-coincidentally written by my all-time favorite author) is so profoundly elaborate and intricately designed throughout; historically rich and speculatively mind-bending in content, it unfailingly causes the reader to re-evaluate certain pieces of “history” as we ALL think we know it.
I was wondering to myself, upon actually beginning to read the emotionally jarring first chapter again, what it is about this author’s works that enthrall me like they do; and I realized it is exactly what I described above about this specific story, that envelopes me in each one of his stories: the bold twisting of “facts” and “historical events” as we know them, and always have.
The Hyperion Cantos (my all-time favorite literary saga) attracted my attentions, and has held them ever since, for the very same reasons. The span of time that Dan Simmons is notorious for including in most, if not all, of his stories is difficult enough in itself to wrap one’s mind completely around. He tends to create FAR FUTURE science fiction, CENTURIES old speculative fiction, and incorporates numbers, the ancient mysteries, Romance and Victorian Eras, with a sprinkling of specific historical characters from Jesus to JFK. His writings are so infused with cross-references and obscure connections to various things throughout time and space.
As an example:
The 800+ page I am reading now is called Carrion Comfort, which was a direct reference to the celebrated Victorian Era Poet and Priest: Gerard Manley Hopkins, who designed the piece as a Fuck You to God during one of his infamous melancholies. There is no reference at all throughout the storyline of carrion birds or scavengers – on the contrary, the plot revolves around the loose concept of “Mind Rapists” – far from any scavenger. So, to any true lover of puzzles or literature, this strange title prompts the reader to further enlightenment through the age-old sense of curiosity. And THAT, is what makes a damned good writer, in my opinion.

Understanding

kiss011

Life often throws curve-balls at me when it comes to the stupid choices I make in regard to ‘trust’ and ‘the wrong people’; and so the story goes.

The older I get, the more able I am to take responsibility for my own parts in the bullshit that goes down between myself and others – and the older I get, the less willing I become to even involve the others at all in my existence.

Being online with so many diverse personalities has helped me to learn a lot about the unwillingness I have cultivated over the years; and it has also been my experiences with people online that have helped reaffirm a longstanding sentiment I’ve held when it comes to the people around me:

  1. I do not have to love them.
  2. I do not have to understand them.
  3. I do not even have to give a shit about them.

But my not giving a shit about somebody in whom I foster no love or understanding for should not impede my own sense of morality and/or humanity as a result; and I should never allow it to.