Dark flower finally blossoming.
Long sought-after realization,
enlightenment, understanding.
All this, despite
these poisoned soils
from which we’ve grown
as seeds,
thrown from a dead,
alien rock
that somehow supposes
it has its own high authority,
as much as
it oh-so-fucking clearly
has the goddamn audacity,
to command
this and claim
it as its own…
as if it knows better.
Two passionately bonded
yet independent souls
on display here,
lost in dualities, polarities
of the inner, true Self,
the spark, the soul:
and the mask,
Jungian persona,
my fucking social role,
bitch.
Don’t ask.
Just realize,
please:
I’m just dying here.
I’m dying here.
On your higher stage,
though what serves
as just another cage
to me,
though this one
places emphasis,
reconcile this
psychic murder-suicide
comitted in the context
of a private construct.
Give it time
to gestate
into You.
Justify yourself.
How do you serve
as an ingredient
to my primal stew?
Explain your very
existence to me.
After we speak,
it’s abundantly
clear to me:
here, you mean
more than he does.
You have more stuff.
Charitable donation
and spoiler alert:
Any way,
you’re fucked.
You live in a cosmic pool.
Yes, my dear, you make waves.
Every choice narrows, confines,
further specifies the context
through which you
make The Other,
the inevitable
consequence,
The Next.
Deep within: alien.
Same as the most shallow
waters here on the surface,
here on the skin.
No need
to drive the nail
through the coffin
of all that filthy,
needless,
chronic
chicanery.
My lives
are a treadmill,
a hamster wheel:
samsara incarnate.
I’m getting dizzy
behind the wheel today
in an uncomfortable
vehicle genetically
destined to decay.
Telomeres stick a nose up
to immortality, like shrinking,
penis-in-cold-and-ugly territory
ends of shoelaces,
traveling backwards,
temporally,
shortening, breaking
up this continuity
of consciousness,
yet I’ve proven
that I can
still remember,
so fuck you:
I survived me.
I will continue
to survive me.
After you die,
I will hold you captive
for awhile.
I will chant
educated recommendations.
I will guide you back
to a reunion
with me and I will
assist you
in escaping monsters,
guide you back to us,
out of love,
out of my selfishness…
Wash my face.
I wash this mask
with holy water,
sacred fuild,
waves of chaotic
emotions
you’ve offered
by way of your
consecrated pipe
and sanctified flask.
Cleaning my ego
in preparation
for the confrontation
with my hidden,
spark, soul, inner Self.
Shed the costume.
Open, subtle
form of body language
dominates…
All that I am.
All It is of me.
Lies blown open wide
for all the world to see,
bare skin baked in spotlight.
Nothing to lose now.
Nothing left to use.
No one left to use me.
Yet your mind
is still blinking,
sleeping, fighting
against this powerful tide.
We all undetestimate
the sheer power
of willed ignorance
as well as its
impassioned
counterforce.
Let this serve as a reminder.
Deception feeds itself,
the Lie bleeds itself,
truth arrives,
boldly interrupting
feeding time, screaming,
“you’re still hungry
for something else,”
something
more standardized, sanitized:
you’re still hungry
for something so much more.
I freely confess,
I find some twisted beauty
in watching your influence wane,
in your increasingly desperate,
utterly pathetic attempts
to maintain
what power you have left
and regain your fading relevance,
watching you fail again and again.
Evermore abandoned,
even by the most faithful
in your cult,
as so many around you
have fallen,
as the walls around you
continue to close in.
Still, I’m not nearly satisfied yet.
Still aching here for justice,
impatiently awaiting your
proportional consequence.
Flush of the Mindpot 