Alone in the field
behind my house,
just passed
the chain link fence,
and I’m half-lost
in my own world,
half cognizant
of something like
an eye in the sky,
staring down
from above.
Just an insect
in the glass.
All I am.
Just a tagged
animal captured
and released.
All I am.
I am nothing
but a psychological fucktoy
for you.
So, fuck you.
Ego
must build strength
before confronting
the abyss of its shadow,
for no telling the powers
inherent in that revoir
of long-hidden devils,
or what power the ego
has drained in trying
so forcibly
to keep
them down,
relegate
them
to the darkest depths
of my being.
Prepare for war
as you enter,
smiley with gladhands.
Go ahead, just
let them trigger
your fucking finger…
Too many lives.
Alleged alien insights.
Looking over my shoulder,
exchanging back for eyes…
Better sense
of the overall trajectory
of my worldline.
The journey my soul
has before it.
The pilgrammage from
the divine home,
through
the thickest,
darkest
forest
and back.
Lies told.
Ultimately exposed.
From investment
to abandonment.
Struggled with the puzzle.
Detective, so unconventional…
So typical.
Lost again.
Pushed passed the point
of our facade.
Dissociative tendencies.
Its okay.
So well-acquainted
with this confusing
parallel dimension
of space, I’m almost
welcoming…
Spent too long alone.
I desperately desire,
frantically reach
for somebody, anybody,
but I need no one.
I ache.
Even in company,
at least in part, I am
necessarily alone.
I break.
Even in the depths
of hell, I seem
to always
find my way back.
You scream, “Scorpio,”
so: I guess.
I guess.
Though you have all
the trappings,
can’t shake the feeling
you just don’t get it,
that you’re just a fraud.
Adorn yourself
with reflections of the soul,
not to ride a wave
you never invested in,
could never belong to,
not truly, you shallow fool:
only to take advantage.
Faker. Abandon this,
find yourself.
I can smell
your deceit
on you.
You use this guise
to hide, tainting the path
for seekers truly resonant.
Just go away.
Leave us to play.
This is our playground.
So warm
in delusions of security,
as I sink and spin
thoughts and emotions
like a cocoon
of past, present, future,
and useful illusions.
Sleep, deep: deeper down.
Dream your increasingly less
wary and wondering way,
into the very core
this time, spiraling
down the drain,
into soul,
though not
in slumber now,
not so ninja
and vague this time.
Lose your sense of self
in the spiraling down
into ancient sectors
of the mind
and embrace
cosmic cycles…
Deep in depths of hypnagogia,
rising up out of hypnopompia,
in the twilight state
between the world
of the dream
and the awake,
I feel at home:
conscious
yet unconscious,
liminal and subliminal
on shared ground,
mind in a merged state,
in a joint space.
Spectrum
in the gray area,
finally achieved.
Below, beneath the skin,
foreign to the mask
you call face,
I see earth
in the distance:
a beautiful, lush island
inhabitants so lost in space,
and I talk to myself,
memories tends to fade,
then I awake,
and drag
my feet through
or around
the days.
Time to kill wonder
with experience,
to give pie-in-the-sky
speculations
and down-in-the-depths-
of-hell, phobic
considerations
a solid ground to crash on
so their integration
might plant
their resulting seed
as you nurture the sapling
into a mighty tree.
Distance from all you can.
Keep it all at arm’s length.
Just need
some breathing room,
wiggle room
for these silent suspicions
and secret memories.
For thinking.
For remembering.
For processing complex feelings.
For imagination and creativity.
You are a shy detective
with shameful,
working hypotheses.
Popular
and controversial avenues
towards discerning the truth,
gaining greater understanding.
Can’t blow your cover,
for none would understand.
Your insanity
covers the spectrum,
leaving you feeling
like an immigrant
devoid of homeland.
Above all,
must ensure
you are the center
you return to.
Never lose yourself.
Anchor dropped,
sinking forever within.
Safe from control
and confinement,
having secured
your sacred, private
space…
Until she pulls you in.
You produce art.
You regurgitate thoughts
in writing.
Translating the intangible
to hold it up
to the world
for judgement: horny gavel
for the alien
soul, hiding.
Asleep
on the belly
of this silly
corporeal container,
rest
your disembodied
form upon me,
whisper
into my ears,
join me in
just another
haunting dream.
This bridge exists,
and you meet me on it.
Spill to me your life
before I’m
aggressively dragged
from it,
back to my mundane day,
my daily grind.
Relax,
I know the dead
still hang around,
alive and well,
drifting betwixt
bodiless existence here
and the parallel reality
of dreams.
I know
we all
have powers untapped,
so help me.
I’m still
so afraid and angry,
feeling low,
rising above,
transcending:
yet with a dreadful
tension still lingering.
So help me understand.
Help me explain.
Help me learn.
I’m healthily skeptical:
aware, alive
within my soul…
and rest assured,
vital parts
are still listening.
Flush of the Mindpot 