Part II: Desolation

January 8, 2009


I return on occasion, in the vaults of a feverous fortress, to the secret gloom that leaks beneath bolted doors. The leaking mists consume the entire space that is the existence I now occupy. But it is behind this one particular door that the gloom has been cultivating within what memories remain; of an uneventful, horrifying, and blatant banality called childhood. Here is where I wreak the most of bitter intentions to slay a beast and make something of my future self.

And it is in these days that I try.

The sky cackles and the lands flood, flashing–Water here to gone and back again. My thoughts follow the seemingly sporadic route the storms have been favoring these days. Crop fields are being converted to wastelands, and I wonder how comparable my state of mind is to these desperate circumstances.

Fountain of Ignorance

Cordial amounts of stammering commence, and this destination is as unclear as a late and laborious harbor day fading into the horizon. The lighthouse toils to bring the small ships to home safely and provokes the tankers from spilling immense death.

This wandering
Results indirectly to certainly painful events.
Being recorded in blurring fury,
The ink runs dry.
Wandering thins out and struggles,
But onward wondering treks.

The socket containing the mind
Unleashes nervously at first,
But as the warming begins
To awaken from a brief slumber,
More and more begin to pass
From the side to sincere.

It is back and forth,
As if old men gathered and chattered for hours—-
Expelling from their breath
Sensuous ideas for how to die after
All the spare time gathered throughout their years.

The difference in circumstance here is that I do not have a lifetime of seasons to browse through. Their catalogue of character-building looms behind feeble eyes, while I only have this marauded youth. I have considerably less then a decade of useful experience to process and convey. Here in my body rests the most sincere fountain of ignorance. It has been cast into an unknown sea.

The Eternal Sea

My chest overflows with sorrow, ribs bulging and heart throbbing for something seemingly unattainable. My dreams are constantly contradicting what desire maintains as my conscious. I am blindfolded, gagged, and my hands are tied behind my back. I am plunged into water, submerged into the depths of some eternal black. I wrestle with panic and delirium, the chance of gulping for air never present. The currant is pulling me. I am tossed and shredded like a leaf in a ravaging storm, limbs and coverings sporadically shredding.

My hands are then suddenly free, this struggle and turmoil stressed the dreadful bounds to their breaking point.

Peel the blindfold from my brow and what do I see? Tell me. It is not azure to orange fucking grey!, that is for sure. I see nothing. I see everything only on the vivid canvas of the mind, painted in precious memories and penciled-in beginnings. But here, outside, I can see nothing. I merely sense with my eyes the absence of light. Black would be too kind of a pigment to assign to this blasphemous and empty vulgarity. And yet, the sea shuffles me with layers of discomfort and strain.

The escape must come. The sea cannot continue forever, and eventually this torso will be supported by hips to legs and feet on firm ground. This is by no means a once again situation. Let me make this clear, pristine as the waters wake I uneasily tread in: I will finally have something, somewhere, eventually, to plant my feet down and call home. This journey may kill me, but certain sects must separate—-Aspects of this self need to die. In the very least, I can say that I tried.

And I am so tired.

My ears have never popped with the relief of pressure. This leaves a senseless residue; strategies of recovery to supply demand for movement. Only minor shifts in substantial pressure have passed from this skull to other parts of the body, but the sum has always maintained its own sort of equilibrium. The result has always been overwhelming stress, until now. This is the time to be out and to finally live.


Most of the time, living is superficial. Meaningless things comfort the self just so it can eat during the waking hours and to sleep at night–Motivation to wake and rise and toil at senseless tasks for hours. And these pitiful Americans have it so easy! The people on the hierarchy below them suffer so much more, the overwhelming majority! Yes, I am too one of this culture, but as one I observe a certain right. I denounce my faith in the putrid desires most call lives! I spit in the face of constitutional and industrial rights.

Fuck off. This mind numbing sense of serenity is not enough! It has never been and it never will be. I will steal it back. Drifting to the shores from an endless ocean, unable to see, is not enough to stop this ragged doll. Merely as a patched up child, that is the sight I need to steal everything–To begin a process of taking back what belongs to a people, a world, and all life as we know it. You can dump all of these bodies into this sea of sunken desires; some will break their bindings and still find shore, while others will sprout wings from their backs and rise as angels.

Horns made from shell or bone, there will be a call to rally, and the feeling of alone will not have any prerogatives, it can only perish.

Love is revolutionary. Love will drag corpses from immortality so that they can lead one happy and mortal life. Love will strike the hearts of the young, the most vulnerable of all ragged minds.

Just please, take the empty away. One ray of light is all we need to find shore…


Facing certain cords of distress,
Be careful-
Do not pull so hard,
Or my heart and guts will flush-
Flesh will flail onto the pavement, beneath
And once again,
Humpty Dumpty will need to be put back together again.
But then,

If you just so happen to pull the cord in just a certain way,
I will reveal to you-
All loves of the world-
And the blemishes covered,
They will be unveiled in a dignified glory.
Diagnosis will be set,
And recovery must then begin.

One must prevail
So another may proceed.
Take the chance of the cords,
And one just might succeed.
Mechanical Heartbeat

The ticking of clocks late in the sleeping hours of night–Well before sunrise, have a way of making the world reverberate the desires of few at an overwhelmingly consistent pace. The floorboards shake, in a sullen way, and do not gripe from their obligation to pulse. The veins of sturdy foundations swell, as the ticking of artificial hearts transfer the beat of ambiguity to the living. It seems so alive at times, planted to help assure the arrival of these wasted lives at specific predetermined times. It is in this that life is sucked out of shaken limbs and blistering core and racking mind. It is here, in fake bodies conveyed as home, life is wasted in the most elegant way—-Traumatic, at times it seems, when awakening at night and finding nothing but silence around.

”I swear it was just here…”

But then again, leave it to this mind to play such bane tricks time and time again.

So late now–This pumping heart has no soul, and no purpose when it comes to anything involving, most importantly, comfort.

Mum, I.

Dearest of Women, but only for my accidental conception–And later, joyous birth; your bosom should never have been trusted for the comfort of a child’s head that needed such desperate support. Oh, how your fleeting self wrecked that damaged head for all of his years to come! Your dependability needs not to be under attack, because your reckless intentions ensured your path to destruction, already cemented in place from previous engagements.

Now his resources run thin. He was thoroughly convinced what was deserved exponentially, there was no desire to give. Trapped now in a self-perpetuated sense of uncertainty, it is a dry and collapsed well. He devours his will down in the dark, and soon the maggots will dig through the soil and have his sulking flesh! He plans not on death, but if he does not escape this state of self-destruction soon, it will be over, the journey, before it had even begun.

Hopeful Discrepancy

I do not believe a sense of peace has ever allowed me rest.
There, now.
Here I reside,
Misfortunate fugitive in the cell of
Desperate, hunger, desire.
Solitary confinement.
Bless me with those cool chains of attachment.
Now I must dissuade comfort to leave me be.

I do not Believe…

Finding Alone

People, faces;
Absorb this time and place,
And the words they speak-
Set the pace,
Wreck on discourse,
Wreck what holds them up.
It is in what they seek.
Take on what comes forth:
Be this cunning—
As weak at the knees as this might be.
Watch us pass.
Watch them pass.
There they pass, watch-
One after another.
This time will not last.
Inevitable fact will pervade the at hand task.


Do not flatter me with such scorn!
Just put me to rest at once:
Waiting on,
And patience leaks through
These spaces in between my fingers-
The delicate fragments of heart!

I am reluctant to say
There are many things of importance;
These ties are alarming—
In which ways will bonds,
The connections we make and break,
Weave this back together
And apart,


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