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I can’t touch

I can’t feel

I can’t seem to breathe

The air these pulsing walls steal

They beat, throb, live

With more life than ever this wretched body did

Skeletal fingers reach, in vain, to touch your face

Your eyes, the doorway to such far a better place

I step, but I am maimed

I fall

Downward through a ragged, vertical hall

I grope the walls, but they only reveal

Rows of sharpened spikes

Glistening as blood-soaked steel

My rotten flesh evades them

But they scar deep my bone

I am relieved by the crash of my mass

Upon a cold slab of dusty stone

My head tosses as if at sea

Pounding with pain, and infinitely dizzy

My broken form picks itself up

I wander to the dark

My bones quiver with the cold

Brittle, naked, and ghastly stark

The soothing stone upon my feet

Soon gives way to broken glass

Which tears at my flesh

Slowly eating away bloody chunks

Of my rotten, dying mass

Cold eyes belie a doorway, an exit

Your face belies a portal

To another plane of black astral space

But I am damned to exist only within this place

A cold hand caresses your cheek

Hard fingers trace the lying lips that they seek

I fall hard down onto my knees

Nestled within your rotting womb

Forever my darkened sepulcher

Forever my forbidden tomb

* * *

Wow… I just happened to stumbled upon this. Good for the internet preserving old ghosts; I think this was written when I was all of about 15? Some things never change.

of greetings…

but in saying goodbye,

there was no one left to hear

recall

a feigned impression of something
happening somewhere
maybe i should remember
but its not here

i don’t think that i care

this vain impersonation
i am
of the one who was back then

someone stupid is laughing here
it might be me
i think
he’s not there

recall
i saw it all fall down
how i watched it all fall down
remiss this
remembrance

dead leaves beneath the winter snow
summer now
where did they go
can’t recall

i don’t know

breathe it

A deep breath of sweet black cyanide wreathe the smokey corners where dead things hide gets in my eyes don’t cry another lungful its alright and just breathe polluted cloud of human industry indexing misery by the flash of sulfur sticks the sick smell on the air measuring how little you care slight chance of rain a high state of disrepair maintenance due fluid system flush the blood away with something of a darker hue blow the bilge we need another purge loose a flood and to hell with the fucking ark take a breath its getting over your head spare the script and rewrite the actors instead alight in the weightless black hold in the carcinogen kiss hate not for the waste of potential but the total lack of substance.

to be or not to be

Is not really the question. The question is more like: would the scope of my life be any different if I died now or 20 years from now? Well, 20… I guess is being conservative… 30-40 maybe? That many more years… of this… only a dozen or so of those years don’t have the benefit of being draped with a veil of childlike innocence. So its just more of this.

My life is nothing but one vicious cycle or another, trying to eat eachother and… hell… I think I’m so resigned to the fact I can’t even be bothered to get all boo-hoo and cry about it anymore.

I breathe hate, I bleed hate… I see nothing but hate in everything… not in spite of love but because of love… because of the violation of everything that’s actually worthwhile… nothing’s fucking sacred anymore, no one bloody cares… that is my hate and I taste it with every breath.

40 more years of this… maybe that’s why I chain smoke so goddamn much only… I guess cancer isn’t exactly a peaceful way to die.

At this point that’s really the most I’m hoping to get out of life; a peaceful and painless end.

But I’m sure that will work out just as well as everything else.

dawn

“Once I, Chuang Tzu, dreamed I was a butterfly and was happy as a butterfly. I was conscious that I was quite pleased with myself, but I did not know that I was Tzu. Suddenly I awoke, and there was I, visibly Tzu. I do not know whether it was Tzu dreaming that he was a butterfly or the butterfly dreaming that he was Tzu. Between Tzu and the butterfly there must be some distinction. [But one may be the other.] This is called the transformation of things.”

So is it? If reality is nothing but the sum of perception and unreality the subject of imagination what is perception? Perception is how we view the world based upon our notions of interpretation, imagination if you will. There is essentially no wrong or right way in which to perceive reality, only that which we choose. Unreality, that of pure imagination… dreams if you will, where we become the victims of an arbitrary perspective; we are not running the show. Not consciously anyhow. There’s some part of our mind compiling a world which passes for reality just as sure as another part of our mind creates the waking reality which passes as reality. Which one has the right idea?

Dreams are abstract, or perhaps so because they are unfiltered by the same mundane filters which sift the waking hours though our consciousness. None the less they are utterly real for the space of time they exist because there is no logic which can prove them wrong. Imagination cannot be proven wrong because it is boundless. Perception bears the fault that it can be denied, disproved, falsified. Subject to the whim of personal conscious interpretation. And this happens and those boundaries which pen perception are constantly rearranged and remade as our interpretation of reality is changed. How you see things now, how you saw things ten years before and how you’ll see things ten years hence; all different. Deconstructed, dissolved, disillusioned. In dreams imagination makes us see what we see yet in reality imagination prevents us from seeing what we’re actually seeing, the filter of interpretation. The filter of our standards and precedent and moreover the governance of what we want to see. Placed in control we are slaves to our own perception. Dreaming reality. Ten years from now we won’t even recognize it, we won’t want to recognize it because eventually imagination can’t compensate for reality.

These things here, they aren’t perfect. Its never what you want it to be. Eventually it starts to become just as surreal as a dream. You have no control over your perceptions because you don’t have them anymore. The arbitrary truth has been enforced and reality becomes a passing figment of your imagination and it makes just as much sense as your dreams yet somehow feels a bit less real in a way, like a negative. I wonder if I never slept again, if I would ever wake up.

The greatest illusion, hope. The will that we hold that some part of this jaded perception of ours doesn’t wind up crushed into dust. Yet the knowledge that nothing can possibly, ever compare to the standards of that same perception. Futility? Probably. Because nothing will ever be as perfect as we think it will be. Memories have this advantage in that they get tucked neatly away in the mind where imagination can freeze them in a perfect frame so they never have to be imperfect, even if they were. We don’t remember them like that, we remember them how we want to, because we can. Waking dreams. And reality has all the more to live up to because these past standards become the new standards and rest assured that nothing will ever be as good as you remember it being. Fucking perfectionists. FUCKING. Perfectionists.

Eventually reality is nothing but a collection of memories and wayward hope… and dreams. If I never woke up again would it last forever? “Death” isn’t the right word but its the first one which comes to mind. People in comas, they usually don’t want to be there. Not death, resignation. To resign from reality. Just, fuck it all. Useless crap which will never live up to my standards, what’s the point?

Fucking. Perfectionists.

I sleep for the simple pleasure of waking to a new day that my presence may blight the world another day. And my hope? I hope I’m there the day we all go to hell. Suckers.

citats

STOP sombre silence severed head bouncing down the sidewalk stained ghost town red between the lines attempting to auger the syntax error code crash paddles punishing the masochist whore-heart cardiac spark arrest the resurrection found already too far gone upon rash reflection in blood puddles dot the street car blamed desire poked the eye of the beholder bound blind in bitter reverie me amidst the dead dog scavengers plump from the carrion feast sleeping beast basking beneath the dead sky black sun pondering apocalypse licking the wounds wound around the wrist fighting shackles making fists pounding shattered sky viva la revolution what a fucking lie…