Can’t intrude.
Not so much
as an interlude.
I cast you out.
You’re not welcome.
No tresspassing.
You’ll be shot.
I suffer no fools,
just ask myself.
Its no use,
I’ve fought off
far stronger hands.
You’ll lose
and I’ll just
pack up,
move my camp
somewhere else.
My way,
regardless
as to whether
you tag along.
My way:
to get me
to change
my course
is a slow,
rational,
empathic,
process.
A tried and so true path,
for sure,
though a harrowing one.
How soon you forget
all that you’ve experienced,
all that weird shit,
comfortably questioning
outside that context
as if it
should have no
bearing.
Wake up, my friend.
Like a brother, truly,
one stubbornly
blind, burying
to postpone
the inevitable
eruption…
Face the true questions
spinning in the cyclone
of your mind.
Denial is beneath you.
Denial is beneath you.
Dancing on the edge
of a razor blade,
the sufficiently callused
souls fear not
the shed
of precious blood.
Built up the armor
to take
predictable weaponry,
face
the predictable enemy.
Throw one wrench
in my gears,
just might be fucked.
No choice within
here but to accept
the challenge.
Here: life or death.
In the end,
I will surely manage.
High as the sky
or dead, drowned
deep in the mud.
In the end,
I came here
to do my best,
so all will be,
inevitably,
as at it must.
Since as far back
as I can remember,
I’ve always said it.
Never denied
its dark presence
in the soul,
be it my own,
my enemies,
or even
my loved ones.
Always have I insisted
with appropriate
and unwavering intensity:
given the right
circumstances,
anyone could kill.
And here I
find myself, faced
with two choices,
a clearly defined
black and white,
an undeniable
binary:
kill or be killed.
Risk your life or all
of those
and all that which
you love.
Die fighting
or die a coward.
So I charge,
guns blazing,
fists hungry,
rage amped up
and insatiable.
Chain of Great Filters.
An interstellar archetype.
Been here before.
Not so hard
to see beyond the curve now.
Aching echoes reverberating.
Ancient memories, manipulating,
however unremembered.
Must I excavate?
Uncover the bones,
liberate the soul,
embraced by the mind,
integrated into body and consciousness… ?
Do it better this time,
fueled by more wisdom,
or at least less niavete,
and do what I can
to push the threshold?
Haunted in hypnagogia,
awake within a dreamlet,
then pulled out of skin
and snapped back again.
Consciousness, spasming.
Mind on the lam again.
Altered states
have been pushing me
back into familiar,
surreal territory.
Must manage this.
Do something with it.
Lean in, push through
all the endless bullshit.
Ignite
my transformative capacity,
derail
this train and find a way
forward that truly suits me.
This isn’t enough anymore.
Never really was.
Numb in frustration hiding
beneath a thick coat
of complacency.
Fuck it all.
Cracking anyway.
Summon courage,
face the blazing day
with purpose, direction,
passion, determination,
facing squarely and fighting
in my own way,
the not-so-alien plaguing me.
There is no One.
Search over.
Stick a fork in it.
Its all done.
Last straw.
Collapsing camel.
Soul mate?
Give me
a break.
I need not
be complete
through another,
as I am not
a half.
No.
I am whole
unto myself,
like any other.
Descend into dark lies
and neverhoods:
a place of shouldn’t bes
and all couldn’ts.
Never would I ask,
but should you request of me…
Never would impose,
but bitch, you up and invited…
Bound and gagged me.
Deafened to silent cries
and didn’t happens.
A land of epic neverwas
and all my wouldn’t.
How do I make whole?
The mind is fractional.
I must be complete.
Find a safe place
that we can bleed…
Engage
in your fast-track
seduction.
Got her hook
and sinker.
Slither till you penetrate,
into and around
her. Force me to hear
the creeking
through the wall
another night.
You sly, lying motherfucker.
Driven by your meat.
Impulse of cabin fever seed.
Build up to expel in violence.
Soon enough,
I revel in the silence.
Now I can finally bleed.
Sunlight
is the best disinfectant.
Repression
is not elimination,
it just forces supply
to change hands,
as demand remains.
Empower the black market,
free from regulation…
Out of sight,
out of mind,
though not free
from consequence.
Shoot yourself
in the foot, then.
In your triumph,
go on and fuck
yourself blind.
Flush of the Mindpot 