Going Into The Void
Newer poems are on the bottom
These words are an inaccurate and inadequate expression of the thoughts.
It is cold
When the north wind falls upon the exposed skin.
As the throes of a sharp iciness singe the exterior.
The deep burning extinguishes the sense of fulfillment
That took years to build up.
Knuckles blood stained from banging on the door,
A desperate attempt to get in from the cold,
An effort to forget,
To exile all learned and told,
And know nothing no more.
The flame within is out again
With the wind on the bow and the devil on the rear
And the illusion that everything else radiates white burnt into the eye
Like a universally depicted mirage
Everything is good?
Evil will always fail,
Only if the good drowns out the sirens wail,
But whence good is bad and bad good
Does the label triumph as the myth says it should
Or is it the will of he who would…
He who would dare to be hated and loved,
The one who dares to place a hefty pain upon his back,
As he takes his life and tosses it to the world
In a shroud of deception with vain words heard
All the while working to that goal of good.
Shut your eyes, cover your ears,
Forget everything, then decide…
Do what you cannot , chase after freedom;
Waste your life running after the lion,
Who will eat you once you get close enough.
Pray the ideals turn to nihil
And the beliefs are never proven,
For what a pity it is to live subject,
And bounded to the laws cast of metaphysics;
Do the impossible.
And do not be surprised when it is not impossible anymore.
Hand in hand
She takes the hand that yearns to be held
And he places a warm embrace upon her from his softening look.
Hand in hand they go, two wicks dancing together as bright flames contrasting the evening sky,
It is no wonder that love is sought after.
Within the matrix of the burning blue flame it is not so bright.
The frenzied reaction melds the two wicks without their consent
And burns them to a crisp, that is the light;
But it looks beautiful to a bystander, romantic to a participant and murderous to an eremite;
Who sees a wily inbred tactic to procreate,
Natures reward for forgetting the emptiness,
And a way to keep the light alive as their flames burn out.
Inward through hell
Clandestine by the power of the mortal reflection of Isis's veil,
Within an opaque vault: under interminable surreal barriers.
To dare to know is to love,
To dare to know and to be conquered by thy dastardly nature is to hate.
Daring to grasp the looking glass is strength.
Shedding a tear and moving on inward is divine.
Walking through the mirror, that is beyond godly; almost human.
Forget how to forget
Pucker thy lips with intentions of kissing the night sky,
In the silvery shadows of the earth captured moon,
Gambol like the child that yearns to spring forth as an evolution into adulthood.
Under the heavens speckled masterpiece,
In the light of a billion distant burnt out stars,
Forget about the mortality that binds and dance with death to the sounds of silence.
Within the enigmatic realm of imagination,
In the radiance of an unique crippling brilliance,
Shatter the shackles of self and mutate into that which beckons.
Throughout thy inhabited sphere where boundaries are latent,
In the sable cast from tedious surmise,
The silent oath
"No, I will no more."
I said upon a death bed.
Back when I was a child who gazed into adulthood,
Perplexed by mysteries that eluded my dreams.
When all that mattered was the smile on my face,
Which resulted from an irreplaceable happiness.
With the oath I solemnly swore to by means of passiveness and ill resistance
I raised my head from the ritualistic death and found myself born anew.
All awe inspiring myths carried from childhood were weeded out,
While the mysteries mutated to slavish answers.
The meaning of life is no more a smile but it is a future,
Which comes at the price of a smile.
The Curtain Call
With nerves on end the happy face frowns.
How long has it been since the day turned to night within a blink,
And the sickly jesters bowed at the curtain call with the clowns;
Behind the scenes of the masked parade,
Everyone is not smiling so bright,
But that does not make adopting with the mask a sherade
At all right.
The world is a stage,
In which we know no other way but to act,
Reading the words off the most convenient page,
In accordance with a ghastly pact.
The sickly jesters bowed at the curtain call with the clowns,
Just as the earth seemed to move to fast,
Making even the happiest of faces frown.
Nothing for your thoughts, a penny for your life
The dablet whom dances with a scepter of wickedness in caitifdom
Tears the eesome cloak of ignorance to unwearable shreds.
Woe is the naked man, feeling exposed and cold,
As the crisp haughty air singes his pride.
With the wee bit of humanity there is left;
It is enough to buy bread.
A faery tale
Upon the greeting the loveless smile of hormones grows
As the opposites engage in delusive flattery proclaiming their love,
And their importance to each other.
When one drops their eye in doubt the other responds with a reassuring kiss
As a means of securing their future together,
And not allowing themselves to face their own insecurity.
It is that which love spins like the spider web it is,
Each human entraps the other thinking they are prey,
But in reality they are both the aggressors.
The focus on something else, the escape, all decorate the construct
Making it appealing to even the most discriminating of fancies,
Though under the beauty of its body lies the poison.
The cities dungeon
Trapped in the luxury,
Locked up in the castle of mediocre society,
And being sucked into the black hole;
The one of no escape.
Polishing the Buddha nature with mapped out dissidence,
Lands ones hands shackled upon the stone wall
And wailing like a banshee to suffice as an expression
Of the wish made upon the dim light which resembles a star.
A face painted with eternal suffering because of the desire to be free from the citadel of dominant culture,
It is an ordeal that no one can endure.
Halfway through the bottom less pit, how much farther to fall,
How much more?
There is a way out,
Not death, but DEATH.
An unconditional appeasement is the key to the chains,
A key to the door.
But what life is worth living,
The one on your accord in physical chains
Or the one on theirs,
With mental chains?
It is young to think, a blatant sign of immaturity,
They say being childish is bad, and indeed it is,
For the capacity to have unheard of thoughts causes suffering,
And suffering is of coarse bad?
Could it be silent for a moment so I could compose myself and shed a tear
As a futile attempt at recompensing for the world I made for me.
I painted the sky blue, judging it before I even thought it could be a variety of colors,
I made wild animals beautiful and humans wretched,
While devaluing myself to the point of a servant.
My destiny, that is what I chose,
What I will choose, that is what seems the lesser of the evils.
But then, inside of all of this ennui and confusion there is resistance,
A tiny beckon of hope that tells me I am doing something right.
I myself am the evil, and good will triumph as it always does.
By the hand of a friend I too will be destroyed,
As for now while I still have that childish hope of becoming something,
Leave, I wish not to suffer alone, as I would in someone's presence.
Clutching the chain of chastity and gazing into the pit of instinctual lust
The memory of a long lost passion from interminable aeons ago surfaces
And reminds me how good of a drug a beautiful women is.
It would be a blatant misrepresentation to say that there is more to love than an equation,
A simple chemical reaction,
That is more potent and pleasure inducing than any artificial drug.
I would be a liar if I too did not say that it is appealing,
The distraction from reality,
What a powerful lore it has.
Then again it is surrender,
An appeasement to instinct
And I am human, I want to be free!
More than anything I want to be free,
Even if it means enslaving myself to opposition,
I lust after the thing I can never have…
Before the altar of the earth I bow in cowardice and fear
For the actualization that I am part of the whole,
An insignificant particle whom can do no good, and change nothing.
The cognition swells behind my eyes,
Sights are what I allow myself to see.
In deep discontentment the truth buds
And its flowers read 'I am not me'.
'But I am', said in logical protest.
I am me to everyone but myself,
And if, if I deny myself I no longer exist.
I subjugate myself to the tenets of nihilism!
To the laws of the Tao, and the powers of Nu!
I am not
I am everything,
And I is hypothetical.
Upon the earth I walk in fear no more,
For I am everything and that can never change.
The barriers my eyes built up with a mighty thought
Have turned to joints in an attempt to better exploit myself.
In a universal comprehension the fathomable wilts
And once tacked to the ground sends the message that there is always more.
The journey goes on until infinity ends.
Evil is Good
O' decaying words
With messages as hackneyed as is old
You wilt in my mouth
Locking up the stories untold.
Your surface swells
Irksome and mundane as the day my eyes laid upon you,
Yet never have I known your colour,
Wilted petals on the floor.
Ideas lost into the abyss of time
Brilliant enough to make the earth quake
And impossible enough to raise the question,
What is the lifeline that makes you grow?
Is it the water
Spilling over from heaven
Into your hungry mouth
And emerging in a burst of a burp.
Looking as vile to the eye of morals
As an inverted crux nailed to the church door.
Contrary to all beliefs,
Loathsome as inhumanly possible,
And put to rest on the breast of the altar
Where all great ideas lie
In the eclat chain
For a demonic savior to fall from the clouds.
With evil surfacing and pulsating through humanities pores
Knowledge gambols on the image of Satan's head.
Dead flower on the floor speaks of the bindings
As the hand squeezes the blade of a double edged sword.
Maybe it is the good within which we should release
And take pride in our evils,
For the universe sees no distinction,
But the words breathed note one.
It is no failure to look away
No victory to look inside.
As the winds dictate
It is no moral issue to rebel in any way,
But the winds shant lose.
Trite and jaded
Yearning for the tune
Each cycle of the moon.
Older than faith,
Beyond the realm of belief
It is simple
When nothing blooms
There will be relief
Until something buds
And we go back to sleep
As for now
Time to close eyes
And look deep.
It is worthless to chirp the song of change
For no one could hear its call,
And if by the grace of chaos theory
A person catches a whim with their ear
They fain not speak it
Or face living a most hostile fear
As the personification of everything that is wrong with the world.
To know and to dare are both prerequisites of translation,
Yet silence, that is the curse of the ages,
The perpetual motion stopper.
In one ear and out the mouth
Let the knowledge blow in the wind
So all can hear its call,
For it is worthless if taken to the grave.
It requires more than a moment,
Maybe even a lifetime to understand:
All these years meld into a ball of sorrow
And of joy
Which plugs the gap in memory
With a fantasy
That makes me seem useful to something.
What is the question
I ask again
In hopes that
I need not ask the question anymore.
The apples are falling upward,
Newtons truth is dwindling
To a philosophical argument.
Technology ate the old god,
Science turned cultish
And built a new one.
Times are a-changing
Things do not seem the same,
But nothing is new.
That we believe in novelty
Is rather old and hackneyed.
Could the words be ever more mundane,
Redundant, and obsolete
And still have the same impact
As a masterpiece turned to words,
An explicit picture striped of all aesthetic beauty
And only the cold, dry message of its core remains.
Like the resistant rock it is,
It shall not weather away
As its beauty once did,
It will not fade into the background
And be assimilated, faded, destroyed,
Like the hopes that made it.
Traversing the latent terrain
I found myself tizzied and benumbed
Weighted down by the metaphysical rain.
On the former snow covered hill
With concrete skies,
And green rivers
That all converge on the destination beyond the horizon.
My eyes do not even catch a glimpse
But cordially, ineptly perhaps, the boots get taken out of resting.
Trampling, stumbling onward through the rain
Of a desensitizing, demoralizing, hope crushing storm.
Day after day, night after night
Without a corner to hide in, a pillow to get buried in.
On the horizon line my eyes are fixated
Gazing to the future that I can hardly see
But stumbling toward the sunset I find myself to be.
The personification of evil is manifest to the rear,
On the boots shanks the vermin's adhere;
Pushing, prodding, ever so slightly and inadequately
But it is just enough to keep me on my toes
And moving forward into that which I cannot see.
As a settled vagrant, I wander toward the light
Into the void.
An apathy pill to cure all ill
Digested on account of sickness under suns apex.
From the fromth of the jihad,
Borne to a restriction
As a human,
Happiness served as an anaesthetic.
The hoax of the epoch 'love my brother'.
Stoic by the moon mid sky
Midway between extremes, numb,
But the anxiety builds,
As the devil emerges from the chest.
The picture is drawn
By an incompetent clairvoyant;
Ennui rests on the altar of the future
Now that pleasure has been left
To the fires of the past.
The shreds of meaning lie in the unwanted,
Grasping, Fathoming and exploiting it.
Surreality of the Walking Umbra
In the forest during the red breasted birds morning symphony
When I'm not there
And the acorns fall upward
Do the nymphs sing?
Under the evening painting of the sky
When I am inside
And the trees talk
Do the gnomes scurry about?
Cloaked by Luna's warm light
When I have my eyes fixated on the spectres
And shadows of the woods
Do the goblins try to scare me?
Around three-hundred flickers of the light bulb
In the enclosure of my business
And with my attention bought by busy-work
Why don't I believe?
The isolation makes the demarkation
Evident in solitary desolation
To the Buddha gone
In center of the book
Prepare to cook
The fruits of slaves
In happy conceits waves
Based on refrainment
Based on apathy
Growing old but never up
The stale drink in the cup
No one cares where it goes
Unless it's in their backyard
Leaving surreal perfection marred
With the angary smashing walls
Pity duty calls
Huff and puff
Old suit duff
Time to pray
For a better day
Locked the feet
Stopped the journey of a thousand miles
Worse than all humanities biles
Of a King James witch burning chauvinism
Under the lamp post
On a cold, cloudless summer nigh'
Azure fading to a silver-speckled black
With the moon stealing the center of the sky.
Hastening upwards toward Hades
The warm zephyr swept the city clean
Of the ashes gamboling in our memories
And as a catharsis, under the dark sky before dawn,
We painted the world anew.
With Ra just starting to peer over the end of the earth
And the heat and clouds of the day spawning
The lights went out
And were replaced
By a new type of fanaticism.
The keys will serve as a paintbrush
And the poem as the picture:
Just another waste of a day
Making the world what it is.
Another parade of disorganized thoughts
Finding their way to be poorly expressed.
Again, molding the clay
Which builds the world.
Again, an attempt to lay a foundation
For a symphony of rhetoric.
The muse in my head: me, it serves well
And the picture is painted all in one colour.