Soundgarden - "Like Suicide"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oGAo11xf1TY

Heard it from another room
Eyes were waking up just to fall asleep
Love's like suicide
Dazed out in a garden bed
With a broken neck lays my broken gift
Just like suicide

And my last ditch
Was my last brick
Lent to finish her
Finish her

Bit down on the bullet now
I had a taste so sour
I had to think of something sweet
Love's like suicide
Safe outside my gilded cage
With an ounce of pain
I wield a ton of rage
Just like suicide

With eyes of blood
And bitter blue
How I feel for you
I feel for you

She lived like a murder
How she'd fly so sweetly
She lived like a murder
But she died
Just like suicide

The Beauty In Wasted Time

He has rebuilt his barricade. One that will now stand the test of time however, it now stands bold and strong, and for that, he doesn’t know what to say to nice women anymore…

We were so tired by the day’s end but we’d still conjure up some kind of mystical or impulsive stamina, even when there was seemingly nothing left, to push to the city’s beach front to watch and interactively become one with the fiery purple hues of the sunset. There is always this sense of awkwardness within the first few days but I would let the weariness direct its own path to the intimacy that we both craved from each other as we sat in the sand against an old tree in harmony. I would rest my back against the base of the tree and would benevolently pull her close to my chest for a better view of the eastern horizon as we quietly forgave the world, and as another twilight evening serenely rolled by. This was perfect. This was The Great Gatsby level of any relationship. The part where you’re reminded of how simple a complex emotion could feel and for an instant, for just a flash of a short period, nothing else is important and your primordial adornment washes over you in an awesome wave. It’s when the exchange of energy between two human beings is impenetrable and absolute down to the shear quantum physicality’s of it and right then, right at that very moment, you feel the illumination of all existence. The progressiveness towards love, if you will. I remember the soft and gentle impressions of my nose and cheek against her shy facial skin as she would then close her eyes in complete comfort squeezing my hands ever so affectionately. I felt as if I could just drift off with her in my arms, with this sympathetic sunset, the whole of the present “reality” immortalized and timeless. It was always my favorite time to kiss her and I never wanted to stop. I’ve never felt happier then when I was with her, and I wanted to be with her forever and disassociate from everything; the two of us driving at top speed on some two-lane abandoned super highway into the scorching fireball that we all call the sun, lost, in all of this aspiration of a dream.

Next, he will build an elaborate moat laid out in concentric circles that will shroud his barricade. Nothing gets in, nothing gets out…

The Appendage of Decadence – An Introduction To His Great Flame Out

He was once considered a great man of sorts. Someone you could actually look up to possibly on a day of sobriety. “On a jiggle jaggle morning” he’ll come following you just to prove that he was a man of his word or words to that effect. On one side there was a profound and significant sense of self indulgence but on the other side of the spectrum, the one that few were able, if lucky to observe or key into, there was a helpless romantic, a brutally honest man that was willing to give without any thought of reward. An angel endowed with a halo of tragedy of sorts. The one ring to rule them all, the one ring to find them. The one ring to bring them all and in the darkness binds them, or something to that effect.

He was always faced with these conflicts in life but his favourite, his absolute life’s work, had always been the battle between the sexes in his pseudo adopted country. He loved women. He had all their albums. And so continuous is his purgatory derivative of his attraction to the female species. A continuous loop of a fool’s errand if it must be said. Women, from the beginning and until this very day, are the most amazing creatures to him. However, it might have been the rest of the world that he had a problem corresponding with. He would always seem to others to be submersed in a wayward sense of self-disgust, a complete sense of self-loathing if you will, but he was truly, beyond any doubt, never unhappy. His life was to be his never ending entertainment and amusement as it were. Gods continuing lassitude perhaps or the devil “because you know there is no devil, that’s just God when he is drunk,” as a songwriter once wrote.

Consequently, black was his favourite colour but he would always tell, when faced with the public, that it was blue because at the very least, in an existential wisdomic way, blue had much more of a level of sadness and depth to it. Would you, “the reader,” agree?

To be continued with – “he doesn’t know what to say to nice girls anymore……”

Puscifer - The Humbling River (Duet Mix)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OOOavQagvaU

Nature, nurture, heaven and home
Sum of all and by them driven
To conquer every mountain shown
But have never crossed the river
Braved the forest braved the stone
Braved the icy winds and fire
Braved and beat them on my own
Yet I'm helpless by the river

Angel, angel what have I done?
I've faced the quakes the wind, the fire
I've conquered country, crown, and throne
Why can't I cross this river?

Pay no mind to the battles you've won
It'll take a lot more than rage and muscle
Open your heart and hands my son
Or you'll never make it over the river
It'll take a lot more that words and guns
A whole lot more than riches and muscle
The hands of the many must join as one
And together we'll cross the river

crucified, viable, despondent, vulnerable, purgatory, verity, balderdash – and everything in between

To my purity versus impurity
To my virtue versus degradation
As I grieve against treason
And I progress against impurities

I stand no chance
I have no weapons
To the onslaught of draught
Within this crossfire
Of identities

To the open wrist that speak back to me
To the flow that ends all abilities
To the ashes of reason
And everything in between

With for every township woe
And status quo ante bellum
Of which non-continuance
And non-survival
To which crime is rival
And no one is authentic

This hog has no faith
It chews its own timber
To prove to its master
That fools do not shiver

And how am I different,
from fools that do not deliver?

The Scar On My Hands, The Buoyancy of Turds

Tonight I drink out of a skull shaped bottle, and I drink alone. I heard a quote once that culture is to make a drinking bowl from one’s enemy’s skull, and that civilization is to go to prison for that. So where do my virtues lay? Perhaps death is the final journey. Anyone who says that they do not have any fear of dying has never met a Gurkha. They’ve never felt the cold fortified steel of a forged hand kukri nor have they been to Nepal or have any knowledge of such an admirable race. They’ve never inhaled the mark of death nor have they coherently summarised the beauty of life. They’ve never felt the warmth of dead blood or the frostiness of flesh when your hands can separate the muscular divisions of tendons and palpable tissue. This is not the language of a grande monde society. These are spoken gestures of a bloody faced peasant. I should have been born in the days of the cradle of civilisation. I should have been a hunter and gatherer. I would have been at peace knowing that if I died sleeping in a seated position in wait, for some devious assassin to attempt to take what life I have made for myself or what future I’ve been willing to sacrifice for, I would have still been, a conqueror of my own existence.

And there you pry at a screen emitting systematic pulses of coherence and sink into it’s depth of vulnerabilities. This has become your present necessity, your only influence into this information that in retrospect is clinically dead. All life is a subway of interplaying realities that hath no choices and no command.

the abortional swain

I dedicate this to all the lords of life.

I’m glad your love for me is no more. I can be a whirlwind at times. A fucking tornado of gorilla libido that swings from a painful branch tearing flesh from one soul and swiftly daggling onto the next grabbing firmly without a god given care to say the least. I’ve pushed you into reverse right back to the simulacra from which you came and I find it cheerless that this is where you choose to reside. I did this. I did this to you. And I can only observe this progression in the third person view in some type of omni-awareness, so let me deconstruct. Let me face my own reality, my own stream that leads somewhere, or leads nowhere. Come, let us stand at these steps and watch how they ascend; let us count these steps that lead upward and out of sight. So foreign are these signs that I do not grasp, still, and perhaps will never comprehend. I look at my old hands and gaze at the skin lines that have always traveled imperfectly and I occasionally wonder if in fact they have meaning. Are these the graphs of secret language from which I should decipher? Or do they have any significance at all? Do I lack the affirmative principle that they’ve been assigned to? Perhaps you knew it all along but you were too frightened to except it until it turned dreadful and when that day came, the day when all of it died, we were left with all these questions unanswered. A twisted riddle that neither I nor you had any response for. The ungenerous, fragmented parable. And so I glide through nature ghostlike past lunar lit meadows of fern appearing somniferous to those who would find me tolerable until their tissue splits apart and I, the foolish jester, once again am satisfied with the magnitude of their open wound. Maybe tomorrow will bring a sleep that will linger awhile, a year, forever. Or perhaps I have figured it out. Perhaps the ultimate engineering of all this can be grouped into two stories: the continuity of life or the inevitability of death. One thing I know for certain is that my heart hurts. I wish I never met you. I wish I never entered. I wish my raft continued to sail on to an arid atoll where I can live and die alone. At least I can be the god of this island or better yet an angel with a halo that didn’t come cheap. I don’t even need shoes.

“We see young men who owe us a new world, so readily and lavish they promise, but they never acquit the debt; they die young and dodge the account or if they live, they lose themselves in the crowd.” - Emerson

White Lies - "Bigger Than Us"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JW0yynlDmqQ

You took the tunnel route home
You've never taken that way with me before
Did you feel the need for change?
Apologies on your fingernails
Love flickered in the city of lights,
Like intermittent radio waves

I don't need your tears
I don't want your love
I just gotta get home

And I feel like I'm breaking up, and I wanted to stay
Headlights on the hillside, don't take me this way

I don't want you to hold me,
I don't want you to pray
This is bigger than us

You went where the horses cry
You've never taken that way with me before
Did you feel the need for change?
Guilt smeared across your lips
I was tired and cold from the window
You're tired, nothing has changed

I don't need your tears
I don't want your love
I just gotta get home

And I feel like I'm breaking up, and I wanted to stay
Headlights on the hillside, don't take me this way

I don't want you to hold me,
I don't want you to pray
This is bigger than us

trenched in warfare, ex vi termini

for Vera….

I hope someday you find the air to breathe again
I call upon the empty space you walk again
This fear inside will wither painlessly away my friend
Get up, be free and spread your wings, then count to ten.

Cause fear is cold and never far
It’s tragedy that appears organic
As wavy flags darken
And so the moon darkens
We lose all trust and panic

I try to water broken flowers but it’s too late
They anger me and so I hurl them through the gate
As pedals rip in pieces which infuriate
To which I count to ten, lean forward, anticipate.

I sense the cold, she’s never far
Death, tragic, yet appearing organic
All shredded flags burn
Eclipse, this moon darkens
Infectious and so non-dramatic.

I found the bird. It would not fly and choose to live ashore
The empty grass you’ve walked upon is land you love no more
This riverbed has dried to sand and arid to the core
You’ve flown across this widespread cove but never as before.

We meet, she cries into a jar
Her words seem so prophetic
This love is suicidal pain
A love I shall never repeat again
As this martyr becomes a relic.

negatory odour/no woman no smell

I was awoken by the jolt of the car as it stopped in front of the house. I must have dozed off on the way there. My partner always had a heavy foot. There was no order between the gas and brake pedals. Just stump until something happens was the driving attitude. As I stepped out of the car, I remember that the night was cool and the house looked as if it was condemned to be flattened at some point. There were other crime scene investigators already there as I walk up to and through the house and they were working proficiently as only they knew how. I felt like I was in a David Fincher movie; a scavenger waddling through the detritus looking for scraps to feed on in shadowy corners. The interior was just as dilapidated as the exterior decayed, but what I found odd was that I couldn’t smell that scent of a mouldy and decomposed wooded core as you usually would in such an old place. I couldn’t smell anything. The layers of paint bubbled and swelled and there were cracks everywhere. And as I proceeded inward over the creeky flooring, you can almost hear the screams and screeches of horror emitting from the walls. Years of terror and disgust soaked into the hallways and corridors solidified in some kind of suspended animation ready to be torn down or burnt to the ground. The washroom was just ahead of me and I can already see the cast iron tub that was filled with some kind of shimmering red soup. I reached up and touched my bead necklace for that instant of audacity; for a flash of mysticism. When I entered the washroom I noticed that the tub was filled with what looked like fermented meat products floating in some bloody sap. Above the tub hung a pillow sized crimson looking cocoon or some sort of giant vein encompassed larvae that I could not distinguish but I could tell that it was alive. It huge suspended from thick silk translucent webs and was feeding off of the rotten tub cocktail through what seemed to be a small intestinal hose slowly pumping bits of flesh and gloop. I was mesmerized by the whole sight of it but was then bitten with a joggle of adrenaline when I noticed a severed woman’s leg surfacing to the top of the red bog like stew. My hands gripped so hard into fists that I must have cracked every knuckle. The room should have smelled sickening but again, I could smell nothing. God I would have given anything just to smell my surroundings. I would have probably thrown-up all over my shoes but it would have been worth a little inconvenience. A little extra perception goes a long way but I guess I could exonerate this fact that not all your senses work the way you ever want them to in the realms of the dream world.

Iron & Wine - "Dearest Forsaken"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y_uZX6Wclz

To my dearest forsaken
Who the earth now has taken
Empty, the bottle drains no more

It is true that I loved you
Despite the harm that I own you
Wash out the river has you boy

Here on the eve of too long
Where you'll think I've done wrong
Waking in fear of you no more

I'll put my trust in the savior
Fielding forces of nature
Strength of the stump I tied you boy

To my dearest forsaken
Dearest vow I have broken
Afraid of your angry hands no more

I'll put my trust in the savior
River may help me later
Sleeping my lost love for you boy

corruptio optimi pessima

I read her words and it took only three to cripple me. My legs felt wobbly. My knees bruised from the impact. Consequently, those few words tear through every cellular particle of my existence until I felt nothing but the dry ash blustering within the searing detonation. And with a flash of light, I become an element. No time to even explain it to my “next of kin” as a song writer once wrote.

I am awakened by thoughts that would suffice so as to complement these godly hours of night. Just the thought of how it should be or how it could have been burns through me like solar waves. Mother, I remember what you told me once; of how I should grown up and become a man. Or of how I should have been a man from the beginning. But I refused to believe you and somehow, perhaps I need to listen. Oh how these godly hours remind me of how human I should appear. For that, I apologise.

There are people that presently are viewing my “reality” as a mere corner of memorabilia, as only a pocket of reverence. Sometimes I imagine myself as a flightless bird found desperate and decayed and left by the roadside or as a deer carcass left in snowy ditches so that scavengers can pick at my bones by morning. Nabokov must have awoken in some similar state stumbling over candles and a self egoistic existence just to whittle a few words of pedophilia in such a profound prose. Such crass ideas invading my mind like a virus. Such criticism melting it like wax.

I try to go back to sleep but those words ring through my head like a Buddhist gong or like Sunday church bells. Perhaps I should just indulge in her words, rest my weary head and dream…

She stands in a wheat field by an old maple tree that has outlived most humans. I try not to stare but her eyes pierce through and there is an exchange of awkward smiles and placidity. We come within inches and the soft warm breeze entices my sense of smell. She smells as sweet as the meadow where she was born. She draws me in slowly with her arms and we stand there holding each other, just holding each other, while peaceful tears role down our affectionate cheeks.

welcome winter sleep….

some corner of memorabilia

"I keep wanting to crumple up or fold like a piece of paper,
but I guess I don't even know how.
We keep walking through our days like ghosts
Hoping to take the mold and find traction.
Someday it will stop raining in your head
And you will see a little bird,
And you will save it.
And you will have found happiness." - Maria

three hundred years of vexatious sleep

My will is salt and vinegar,

I have no excuses,
They are as embarrassing as pendulums,
As the sands reign down,
Holding your dry flowers as symbols of memorabilia,
Our lasting truths,
Our lasting faith.

I don’t know if I can be saved,
Or if in fact I choose to.
My aviary wings have been so denied,
To function, I have shown wino’s that
They are helpless,
Deprived.

I’ve been living here for three hundred years,
Flying blind tasting blood and tears,
While withered leaves fall,
Throughout the seasons past,
As life is ever lasting,
Like bearing pain, perhaps…

She drills through me like hurricane,
And leaves her path of debris,
I can see, but no longer achieve,
What I began to believe.
I need to sleep,
Presently, or forever.

I am complete and dried up,
I’ll do this your way.
I’ll finish it your way til seasons past ,
For less, or no bother.
I envision a union alas.

I have even left for a while…..

the Tyto and the mirror

On the outside, there is a desolate plain of white and snowy, non-linear surface. Soft and cold to touch. However, this A-symmetric gift by the skies cannot be but with help from symmetries ergo the thoughts I have as I stare into voids that are present and compelling. But, I am insulated and covered when these doors are closed and I feel a sense of warmth and ignorance that keeps me levelled; plain. This is ideal. This is fulfillment. Life, as it were, is overflowing with the hard aches of man and their ability to be logic and erect, irrational but prolific. I feel fruitful and dynamic but only at the cost of my own physicality for which I am thankful, to say the least, for I am not of the young and can only strive using menial attempts of will power and broadness to acclimatize to the needs of the confident. I watch as time passes by, as cinders fly, and yet I question if my actions are dignified and true. Perhaps I am of the bigoted that can only tolerate existence when I see puzzles that fit according to my master plan, if in fact I so have chosen one in the past. Or perhaps I am, as they say, riding the wake of everyone else’s subsistence and am using their solidified labour as some sort of shadow for my own viewing pleasure of sorts. This thought makes me feel hollow, vacant and redundant. So I close my eyes, count to seven, and think of a space where death is not an option.

Forgive me as I mentally apply ointment to my intellect………or lack there of…

I am a barn owl in flight. I have eyes that are tuned to sightless surroundings and I hunt rodents to feed my young. I am ruthless; relentless; predaciously supreme. I have distinguished colours that conceal and have a fan base in the humanities that enjoy the occasional bodily print (of which they call tattoos) that formulate popularity of which I will never understand.

What is the different between a rose and a rose that has been dried? Wow. Let me say that once again backwards. Wow. I think I'm drunk.

somewhere over the goddamn rainbow

February 11, 2010, 4am

A famed writer once wrote, “I would like to put an end to this miserable life of mine but I dare not because of my oath of service.” I sit here contemplating this watching these people; these faces walk by as if driven by some rousing or inspiring force that I will never understand. And where do I fit in, in this grand motion picture, this consciousness of existence? Some believe that my reality has been pre-written. That my fate was already created for me the day I was born. Bah, impartial open minded nonsense. I’m not a goddamn hippie I think to myself. So then why all these thoughts? Why all these questions? How are they created? Where do they end? I feel very alone with all of this uncertainty and begin to brutally meditate (brutally because it hurts my brain to think in these terms but thankfully my tolerance for pain is high.)

So accordingly, I proceed to then mentally clear my throat.

A moment of silence is a lifetime of opinion. And a lifetime of opinion is an ongoing exploration of truth if not for these interruptions due to my oath of service.

This makes me grin. Let us begin with life.

Life is a fragmentary descent into a murky void where the finale is some endless parade that made you forget how you got there in the first place, and as you arrive and step through the doorway of judgement you notice the sign above that reads ‘Loop’ but you don’t pay any attention and hike on, regardless.

A laugh but not out loud (….lnol…..jesus.)

We are all doomed. We have all sinned and shall never make it as a progressive, forward-thinking advanced race. It’s all a big joke. Leave now. Take off at top speed homeward and fix yourself a dry martini with four parts vodka instead of the usual two. And no olives.

couriers

They were offered the choice between becoming kings or the courier of kings. The way children would, they all wanted to be couriers. Therefore they are only couriers who hurry about the world, shouting to each other - since there are no kings - messages that have become meaningless. They would like to put an end to this miserable life of theirs but they dare not because of their oaths to service. - Franz Kafka

a benevolent stare

As a bike messenger you can’t help but remain confronted with these obscure incidences in and between the lives of the explicit and that of the norm. It’s the sort of job that feels like you’re filling in the gap aligned with the ‘needs’ and ‘wants’ of such enterprises sparring no expense, as it were. So for the time being, all is good. All is downstream rolling straightforward until your day changes inexcusably. Something explodes in your face blinding your vision, your habitual nature with the thickness of a warm fluid. Blood was my barrier that day. And blood was what I saw.

This was one such an impartial day until I saw her lying there on the concrete sidewalk face down in a pool of her own rich and sinister blood, conscious and watchful, but shocked…

obviously…

I remember the contrast of her pale white and wrinkled skin and the menacing colour of her blood streaming, pacing around the shoes of the huddled onlookers aiding her. Their questions were simple. But something anomalous occurred next. She then peered up at me with her lone visible eye. As if out of recognition. And for those few seconds of solitaire, I felt nothing. I mean, it was a horrifying unfeigned image, but I felt nothing. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not an agent of the bizarre nor do I believe that this image deserves any humanitarian response at all. It’s just that for those few seconds, for that tiny minority of existence, all reality felt clear. The surrounding air smelt crisp. All reflective senses…heightened.

I felt alive and vigilant like a lion would somewhere in sub-Saharan Africa hunting wild boars. Or like the jaguars in the rainforests of Brazil perched atop a plant infested rock precipice studying the forest floor layer attuned to their environment like sonar.

Relief washing over me wave after wave. The image burned, etched in my mind for good. Pure. Intense. Fair.

"The man who busies himself overmuch with the workings of his own soul cannot help being confronted by a common, melancholy, but rather curious phenomenon: namely, he witness the sudden death of an insignificant memory that a chance occasion causes to be brought back from the humble and remote almshouse where it had been completing quietly its obscure existence. It blinks, it is still pulsating and reflecting light—but the next moment, under your very eyes, it breathes one last time and turns up its poor toes, having not withstood the too abrupt transit into the harsh glare of the present." Vladimir Nabokov

her ride of other world

Permission to board your ship
Of futile anonymity, of reclusive worship
Awkward and infantile your steps may be
I am here to seek your pleasure, of what?
Of what is challenging, say you…

Permission to stay awhile
To succeed as your pathological joy
Caught in this obvious mouse trap
I am seeking blood that is strenuous to hide
Making my manhood poor
For all eyes that seem incoherent

Permission to speak freely
As I am sure you would listen
And judge every solitary angle of finite possibilities
Within your dull spectrum of compulsiveness
Use this academic stature
As you would a condiment

Permission to be relieved
I do not belong in this time and space
A fulcrum of joyful hatred
From which no reason is now
All backs are turned, you have no clout
And all patience becomes ignorance

Permission to die honourably
To end this insignificant tale
This drug frenzy, has but too much control
For the next generation should have no knowledge
Of what has surmised here
Let me die as lonely dogs could

In shelter, in providence…

bonjour cafe and burning buildings

I awoke with righteous intentions. I was conceived with similar aspirations as though certain of. And greatly so, if this is now incorrect, I am still alive and will certainly be patient.

But I hear voices…

I imagine myself speaking aloud and coherent in this belief. But the agony reveals that I am wrong. There is so much I don’t understand. There is so much to learn. What will they think if I denied all there expectations?

To all this is just. To white castles weathered by the elements. To intricate ideas complex in there inauguration that now seem all too simple. Where do my hands lay? Of what faction do I belong to? What company? What coalition? I am bound by uncertainty. Bound by the very essence of comfortable lies. Surly you have seen this. Tell me this is all but a dream, a vision of simulacra, the truth within trying to balance itself out. What parabola has brought me to this? And should I question its authority? Maybe so. Or perhaps I will play the silent shrewd on her back praying for death. Like the rest of them. Caged. While analysts probe them with cow prods and questions.

"...'reality' is a word that should always be written in quotations..." Vladimir Nabokov

"...it was the toilet that had something to say..." HM

canine querl - 2nd dream

my legs are nimble and bursting sweat
the moon illuminates this dirt road well
and for the present, I am triumphant, electric
but I can sense that you are near
and all becomes clear, a re-occurrence
you are trotting at full speed
a merging form from darkness
chase my will down, do what you must
amiss to see otherwise
soon fear will wash over me
soon will it end in sudden vigour
and all transposable becomes silent
your assault came so sudden
a climatic symphonic reel
through your anger, I sensed no sensibility
the onslaught a shattered plunder
must I fall to my knees and burn?
this ideal chronicle epitome?
surrender not willingly
i feel the warmth of your chin
as cogent anger turns a mere grin
docile have you become
gripping your coarse fur-lining
releasing all callous animosity, a formidable judge
earning this bleak sense of trust
between enemies of a parallel rival, say you
how this parabol has changed
for better or for worse
in this Whole or the next
As we stare, contempt in a seamless gaze
in hopes of shinning honourably
at the rates of knots

mirror doll/mirror android

Why dolls? Why are humans so fascinated with dolls? What is a doll? Well quite simply, it’s the art of replicating humans. And perhaps the greatest fundamental flaw is accompanied by breathing souls into dolls. Who'd want to do that? The definition of a truly beautiful doll is a living, breathing body devoid of a soul. An unyielding corpse, tiptoeing on the brink of collapse. The human is no match for a doll, in its form, its elegance in motion, its very being. The inadequacies of human awareness become the inadequacies of life's reality. Perfection is possible only for those without consciousness, or perhaps endowed with infinite consciousness. In other words, for dolls and for gods. Actually, there’s one mode of existence commensurate with dolls and deities. Animals. For example, skylarks are suffused with a profound, instinctive joy. A joy we humans driven by self-consciousness, can never know. For those of us who lust after knowledge, it is a condition more elusive than godhood. And this conundrum compelled humans to fabricate dolls that are inanimately dead. And what of this idea of death? Without knowing life, how can we know death? That is what Confucius says. It is a rare human who knows death. Most meet death unprepared, armed only with ignorant familiarity. In other words, people die simply because it is inevitable. But is death not a precondition of life for a doll? If so, would it’s inception address the following:

“The deceased hereby proclaims that on this day of this month, I have attained my own celebrated death.”

Truly disturbing, isn't it? I really understand. The doubt is whether a creature that certainly appears to be alive, really is. Alternatively, the doubt that a lifeless object might actually live. That's why dolls haunt us. They are modeled on humans. They are, in fact, nothing but human. They make us face the terror of being reduced to simple mechanisms and matter. In other words, the fear that, fundamentally, all humans belong to the void.

Further, science, seeking to unlock the secret of life, brought about this terror. The notion that nature is calculable inevitably leads to the conclusion that humans too, are reducible to basic, mechanical parts. The human body is a machine which winds its own springs. It is the living image of perpetual motion. In this age, the twin technologies of robotics and electronic neurology resurrected the 18th century theory of man as machine. And now that computers have enabled externalized memory, humans have pursued self-mechanization aggressively, to expand the limits of their own functions. Determined to leave behind Darwinian natural selection, this human determination to beat evolutionary odds also reveals the desire to transcend the very quest for perfection that gave it birth. The mirage of life equipped with perfect hardware engendered this nightmare. God's everlasting geometry if you will.

"Every block of stone has a statue inside it and it is the task of the sculptor to discover it. I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free." Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

the silent Mary

Whisper silent pleas to your mother Mary’s
My breath is vague, your fragrance artificial
Heads twist while the moon tells us otherwise
Drawing closer for me to drown you.

Bound your hands, pay the penalty of curiosity
Open-minded in this temporary reason
It spreads you wide open and lets the insects in
Like a thousand say, an intergrading spiral
Viral, clear of all independence

Engage in this syphilis
And sigh to these whining cries of discomfort, but
You’ve seen so many places; you’ve had so many faces
Lower your guard and let this grudge shine through
I have been inside you; I know what it feels like

My pleasure is your disease
An Aretino lust sonnet
Down inside, my fear is shameless, naked
Your back is turning and if you were nimble

The warning would have abetted
Sinking deeper into a dream
Of inconsequence and nuisance
We are a function of an illicit exploit
Tied together by curiosity

And this notion of harmony is your emotion, and content
Don’t be so vain...

canine querl - 1st dream

Your fags dug deep tearing flesh
And you drew blood.
Persistent in your attack
Hardened I spun, hurled into consciousness
I felt pain, I was befooled.
And as I dozed back in search
You were gone. I am left
Only with blood drippings
And this fear and idleness,
This belief that you are near
Will never change.
I await you return, your affliction
Cover me with burden
Wipe this pride from my arms
This reality meant nothing,
A useless pathetic confession
And without permission, you were curt.
Biting into me, tearing solidity
A patronizing breath, astray in your gaze
You held on vitally
While feasting on dismay
All this a false reality, perhaps
So must i now prepare for your next paroxysm?
And ready will I be...
Take me not by surprise,
This animalistic paradox
I will break through, change
This fictitious tale for good or for worse
In this Whole or the next
Show you cause and effect
As you stare astray in my gaze
In prayer, to die honourably
At the rate of knots.

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

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)

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 soirée 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 présentation 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

the torture of confession

facing your telepathy
i can scream your silent desire
sacred will these tones contradict
vulnerable to this arid consent
sanctioned only opened spirits
to kill this urge that has always been at the edge of your list
blissful, or so it may seem to cover your virginity

i was once pure
i was once religious

maturity lacks transfigurations
tying these gifts of fruitful tepidness
i now feel weakness, powerless
consumed by our puree of decadence
we have each other, we have no will
surroundings are taboo, a plea to erase
these memoirs of fatality and pain in your uterus
to extract all nothingness

i was once innocent
you were once religious

possibilities of sweetness on technicolor beaches
let's run without fire, let's fly without wings
be true to yourself and these memoirs of chair et sang
puncture holes in my hands to remind me of pain
that sorrow i taste in your uterus
when i peer into your telepathy

i have now the sun
as saturn ascends

one more breath to cheat death
crafted and molded into stone
as a result of my chemical error
and we wipe our tears with pageless silk tyranny

flaccid life of a dark cloud

quantum flashes of existence
as if a sign, as passageway
doors close of gleaming velvet and gold lining
shapes and symbols of Roma
one step closer to reason
to befit taraf de haïdouks

will this become the end?
and how should i adapt...
the taboo of vicissitude
and silent screams of the avant garde
of malene rhythm and charleston
choking grey social classes
of metro fever, domain and value

some will brand us vagabond, nomadic, marauder
seclude your senses, become safe and ignorant
speak not but of needless and roguish transfiguration
for we are shameless, and nameless

we are not one to live symbiotic
immune to the pendulum of blood soaked meat hooks
we are not one to stand in line
while your soldiers take aim
the quantum flashes will blind your reason
and in a sally of synapses
we become a abstracted memory, a fabled tale

send your pounds, and deutschmarks and dollars
buy our threads of velvet and gold lining
our tools of self sufficiency, of self sacrifice
as we linger with the malene of rhythm and dance
still you long for dreams and visions of Roma
to fill and formulate denials
the poetic life you can never have...

the dichotomy of plant genitals

Another morning in the dog park. Another lonely morning in the dog park. Sitting here on this rustic bench contemplating why my life is so opaque. Why I feel so lost and somber marveling at the melody of the fall breeze against my black hair and tanned skin in exchange for the summer sun. And I can see the grass changing colour; the leaves slowly dying. Little spurts of sun peeking through the clouds but only for a few minutes at a time. It’s September and the dog owners are less and fewer today. No more morning canine support groups and stick parties for these masters. Kids and teens are back to school parading there latest fashions and fads, trading stories, spreading rumors. I feel compelled to move thinking about all these bohemian ideas, but as a bike courier the thought of cycling at 8am is far and senseless. Soon I’ll be moving all day at top speed and with that rational, I’ll take another ten minutes to enjoy my coffee and cigarettes and grin at these invisible docile dogs and there masters in silence.

I’ve been plagued with a slowish mind these days. I mean, I’d like to think of myself as a Petit-bourgeoisie intellect and a decent public speaker, but lately there has been a slight hesitation in my speech, the best part of a stammer, which sometimes lends fresh charm to the stalest sentence. Sort of a smart idea getting pulled aside by the intellect police for a routine rubber glove inspection. Sorry sir, no embryonic beliefs through here. You’ll have to do better than that. Step away from the vehicle sir. Now bend over.

I take a puff of my toxic revival and stare at the overcast sky which take no shape. The park is surrounded by these country donut brown coloured complexes and I can see the bedroom lights flicker on and off. I imagine you would wake up, drag yourself out of your Swedish equipped existence, lock yourself into your placid walls, cubicles if you will, for eight hours, and inside these confines you feel safe and ignorant. This is your life and it’s ending one minute at a time. Corporate life as some may enthusiastically declare. You pay your taxes, gossip about last nights sitcoms and standby while your retirement plan matures. Then it’s off to Oakville or Grimsby or St. Catherine’s where your little house on the prairie awaits for you to wrinkle, then become flesh and dust. But I’m getting ahead of myself. And maybe I got it all wrong. And maybe it’s all just a terrible tragedy. Or maybe it’s all apart of this surreptitious fabric of life that I can’t seem to attach myself to like worn out Velcro.

I once lived symbiotically with this suggestion of the Velcro Corporate Life. I sold cars for a reputable automobile conglomerate and it seemed to be a job that I had a niche for. I was indisputably a cold-cut-fat and happy person, made a truck load of money, and was carefully planning out the established retirement sarcophagus groundwork. To my parents, I was a success. To my girlfriend at the time I was the perfect catch. And to my peers, I was an inspiration. Not in a Tony Robbins approach, but more of a Glen Garry, Glen Ross sort of way.

But it took a sledge hammer to the cranium (literally speaking of course) to jerk me back to dry land. I guess the devastating rational of a jeering blow to the psyche can do that to you. A spontaneous shift out of ones normality. A juggernaut switch blade sheering through my parallel universe only to present a path; to immobilize and extract the sense in reason.

more to come…maybe