Stretch you out
just so
that you snap back
like elastic.
Why are you doing this?
Why would you do this to me?
Or is this
just
simply
happening,
with you observing, taking notes
like an enlightened psychopath,
so indifferently.
Thick atmosphere.
Like moving through tar.
Breathing Vaseline.
Screaming as a mute
to the deaf.
Naked behind so many shells.
Could never break all of them.
Never could you kiss the core.
Even if you could,
no one’s watching.
No one’s listening.
You don’t exist
to most, still.
There are some…
Afford yourself the same level
of kindness you bestow
upon others.
Permit yourself the benefit
of the doubt.
Open doors for them
and provide assistance
when and where necessary,
though never
permitting
invasion, possession
of the vital truths.
I am nothing.
At best a grain of sand
lost beneath
these epic
mountains of bullshit,
amidst this cyclone
of filth
and other debri,
assuming,
of course,
that these two superficially
distinct categories
are indeed diametrically
opposed…
which has yet
to be fleshed out.
so that once again,
I demand:
Relax.
Your alarm
is unjustified.
All is going
according to plan.
I know, you feel lost.
Like all is unorganized,
utter chaos, doomed
to be pummeled into dust,
blown, and lost
in the the ever-swirling winds
like wandering, falling stars,
doomed for impact
as you’re
hiding again…
Underground.
Again. And again.
Safe and secure
in your cozy nest.
No one
can enter or exit.
Ditch the end.
Embrace once again,
Free thought
has lost its place here.
Hail all mediators.
Curse those hypnotists.
Fuck intimate relations.
They sacrifice soul
at the altar of ego.
Lost in the bloating,
this bleating herd,
a muffled voice,
swallowed.
Die like a candle flame
in the chaotic winds
of the mindless masses,
reborn
through your
unique glow.
Drown in pleasure
to numb acute anxiety.
Fluid and fumes.
Blackness and blues.
In the end, all I see is red.
My duty till now
has been to smother it.
Presently:
to sublimate,
transmutate…
Drown in lies
until the dark part
of your mind releases
the ace far up your sleeve.
Secrets, compartmentalized.
Draw the lines, cross them.
Kept in the pipeline.
You’re not divine,
save in this bubble.
Pop
for the eye behind
this forever confused mind…
Upon
this spinning, revolving rock,
look at
all these oh-so intelligent apes,
try subtle influence,
fall flat on your fucking face.
What they seek,
maybe need
is religious faith,
and that makes you especially
sick to the stomach.
Blessed Phobos
with eyes aflame,
staring out across
the sands of time
via the eye
provided by your history,
with depths stemming down
to the source
of what you’ve come
to identify
all you are
and conceive
you could be.
In a straight jacket,
cuffed and chained,
gagged and bound
within a cell
of a prison
in a world
that, despite
its superficial appearences,
isn’t at all
that different, you prevail.
Flush of the Mindpot 