Tuesday, November 20, 2007

ergo simulacra

beneath poised semblance
screaming out of control
cache pasted, erased though
encased in marble fences
repulsed with it's own sweat and tyranny
lined up, focused blurred by machete therapy
shadows streamline as dark as sin
grey fever airborne and convalescent by skin
wearing down, weaken from bi-polar bears within

casting glances of obstinate smugness
feeble attempts of absolute design
behind closed doors, a revolution begins
control, an illusionary dogma within
as we stare through windows of bleakness
assassin virus begets a copy of a copy
age, gender, race is of no significance
eradicate this sympathetic existence
that has so become Gods invisioning validity in fidelity

"deliver us from evil" this multi-media spectrum
born into this construct of mass-deconstruction
sever the umbilical, let all wild run
in spirals, as it were, since ground zero begun
once again all becomes a mimic, a senseless sham
reality is our second eyelid
one sees only what one believes
the tragedy junkie, so safe and ignorant
resist surrealist, pardon the relevance

i sense death has reached the edge of the precipice
afterlife is a venue that holds no laws of fear
deranged in fire circuits of this neurosis
these pitfalls of reality seem clearer and near
now tell me why i love to watch things die
while totality waltzes in simulacra before my eyes
embrace the system collapse from a kings distance
and beneath our poised existence
we dematerialise out of control

Sunday, November 4, 2007

mais rien

with all vagrancy aside
with all vengeance aside
i stand alone by the seaway skipping rocks
watch them as they hydroplane against the waterline
consumed by this emptiness
this towering inferno burning without ideas
without hope, without fear
i am
mais rien

she is my glory, my violet academic
her tears are of adolescences
her smile glazed on false advertisements
zigzagged through cotton belts, through corn belts
i hear her scream, they are but fallen trees
reverberate becomes black as sin
as it all collapses into vacancy
this blazing inferno burning so sincere
without hope, without fear
has metamorphed and become but nothing

we’ve emerged into one but remain liberal
pried apart with crowbars of fate
stepped on by jealousy and desire to follow
i stand away as our savior would
he died for the greater good, so perhaps should i?
be damned, outcasted and crucified?
to rebuild all this is absolute
without hope, without fear
and bound alone by the seaway
everlasting, prideful, defiant…
si jeunesse savait, si viellesse pouvait (if youth only knew, if age only could)

Saturday, November 3, 2007

relapse into antiquities

It was nice to see her again.

And so, it was Friday and July’s holocaust heat had been forgiving for once. The dawning weekend had impatiently rolled in sooner than expected and I had decided to invite some mates and birds over for an after work soirĂ©e to say the least. As usual, they appeared bearing gifts of sinister poison; of clairvoyance. Courage juice as some may call it, and as we purged on the sunny deck in the backwaters of my flat sharing humor, spreading gossip (rolling eyes) and gestures of emphatic support for the simple task of…whatever, I hear my mobile vibrating along the glass table top. I’ll admit. I answered it with much anticipation.

We had separated over a month ago due to conflicting interests and meaningless arguments. Somewhat of the norm between couples these days. However, don’t THEY say that conflicts are common and miscommunication should be dealt with in compromise? This was not so in our case. We had been generous with our excuses and faults. En masse, it seemed that we both lavished in our own college type dissertation that gripped tightly like talons alas to not adhere to a possessive life together. Be that as it may, aside from our strong communistic leanings, we did share some fruitful and undeniably flattering moments. I have found through rigorous and meticulous affairs that the development of these feelings, sharing these emotional responses can be quite riveting. They affect (infect) you in every possible instant. Your daily thoughts begin to break up as it is hard not to concentrate solely on these moments of intimacy. I remember these flashbacks far too vividly. She would text me on my TELUS cellular with vivacious words like, “…you looked so cool last night…” or “…i want you naked in my bed…” So playful. So whimsical. And we would talk endlessly about intellectual topics and ideology lying in bed naked in our embrace. All those simple memorabilias like scrubbing soap on each others backs in the shower in that spot in between your shoulder blades (lower trapezius) that always felt impossible to reach unless your daily job consisted of contorting your body in strange angles (very prĂ©sentation du Cirque du Soleil manner.) Or having breakfast together in the kitchen after a night of copious amounts of booze, cigarettes and sex. Memories can be like cyanide. That choking smell of sulfur collapsing every red blood cell in your lungs until the simple task of breathing is non-responsive. The jagged fish hooks slowly tearing your veins out of your forearms inch by inch. Or how your knee caps would feel if they were hit by three inch rubber bullets at point blank range. That burning sensation. The searing of flesh. Those primordial cries of shock and suffering. And you limp away with your image of glue and porcelain that’s still binds you dwindling in wait for the next sledge hammer to smash what’s left of you into neurasthenia.

Naturally, (as if predestined) it was her on the phone in need of a plan to get away from her household tragedies. Of course I would reluctantly invite her to my place as if to bestow her with an effortless escape (Elysium should her middle name be.) And as she arrived, my first and foremost ‘brain-wave’, (laughing as I type) was that I was glad to see her. Well, it has been three weeks since our departure; our reasoning. Typically, her attire would consist of some post-modernistic /”indie-girl” trope, but today her mode was subtly displayed with a shoulder bearing t-shirt and those knee length black tights that hug her slim legs so casually. She was smiling the only way she can. That cute infantile smile; those deep dimples as if pockmarked by Spartan spearheads; those awkward steps as she entered the social circle and motioned an act of belonging (an act of banter – how flatteringly coy) by drinking out of my glass. My initial impression of this was that of her anti-social nature. In our bed sheet conversations, she would express that she did not know how to be affable without having a drink first. I guess these things came easy for me considering my sense of brutal honesty. You watch enough of Jack Nicholson or Mickey Rourke movies or read a Robert Greene, Henry Miller or Charles Bukowski book and you’ve but no choice but to pick up and idea or two about being chipper. That’s not to say that I rely on these things. I use to be quite the shy and lonesome adolescent. Always independent and disassociating with the popular circles and recognizing my self-interests as the most important things that ever existed. A self absorbed bigot if you will. At one point my parents were worried that I had gone deaf and dumb due to my lack of speech presence. If I had words to describe my vitality, they would be transparent, invisible, esoteric. An introvert nonetheless. No different than a million others I would suspect. But I’m rambling again. Let us continue with this curious tale. I decided to make her a favoritable drink to somewhat ease her anxiety. She was partial to White Russians and after two or three, her social abilities became utilitarian. What came next was a barrage of incoherence. We drank until I could not mask my soberness any longer and decided to retreat within the confines of my sleeping quarters. There I found peace from all these toxicants. But what I longed for was accompaniment and (by the irony of fate and her sick tomfoolery) that was what I stealthily received. In my daze of phony-consciousness, laying there on my side, I felt a hand from behind, then an arm as if someone had quietly crawled in to seek some kind of warmth. I immediately recognized her familiar faint scent as she impulsively pulled herself closer to me. Her head bent in a sleepy-soft and drooping movement that was almost woeful as her fingers quietly walked across my shoulders. That comfortable feeling of someone holding you from behind is best described as an act of worship. The one curing light in a sea of catastrophes. She held me closer and I could hear her sensual and submissive moans as she then gently kissed the back of my neck.

Cyanide never felt so good. Our love was a result of a clinical error. And psychoanalysis would woo me with pseudo-liberation's of pseudo-libidos.

"...seduction is always more singular and sublime than sex and it commands the higher price..." Jean Baudrillard