Wednesday, June 30, 2010

Do I sound desperate?

Do I sound desperate? I'm desperately trying not to, desperately trying to figure out a way to swallow this desperation and turn it into something precious, like an alchemist of the gut, shitting gold bouillon.

Exhausted by others' gravity affecting my orbit, and irritated by the worrisome gnaw that my own gravity can push against your axis as well, affecting yaw and pitch and leaving your wax wings melting as your heavenly body is suddenly much too close to that ruthless sun. I'm not going to worry about it any longer. We've all been given the same options, the same chances, the same devices, and we are our own responsibility. I have total faith in the human race and their ability to overcome all adversity and transgression, no matter how petty or pulverizing (despite everyone's daily attempts to sway my judgment otherwise), and if you allow yourself to be defeated by nothing but imagination and emotionalism, it's no one's fault but your own. Come on now, we can get through this together or alone. I think I may be addressing no one but myself.

It feels like I'm decorating a turtle shell, like hanging posters inside of a fallout shelter, paying no heed to the horrors that will propel me to seek shelter within but instead looking forward to the day it will finally be my home to call a home. And I will sit, silent and alone, and watch the nuclear glow seep around the door stop, and the first breath I take will be the first breath I take, reborn, and the last breath I take, stillborn, and I will exist in that singular breath for a beautiful, infinite, and tranquil moment of first and final liberation.

Wednesday, June 16, 2010


I am wholly, utterly, inarguably replaceable. Please don't think for a second that this is a cry for attention, or some sort of desperate prosaic plea for pity. Quite the opposite, admire me. Look how I phosphoresce in the dark. Am I not a proud, strong lizard, clinging to the Tree with all the knowledge that I glean from its bark? Do I not lap from its sap, drawn from beneath the earth and cycling lonely towards the heavens? Is this sap not now the only fluid in my veins? Regardless, I am replaceable, just as you are replaceable, and in this acknowledgment I am untouchable.

I am wholly and utterly replaceable, but I am not ashamed to admit it. I admit insignificance, I admit to my being eventually swallowed whole and digested and shat unto the stars. And in embracing my quantum negation of being, in embracing my interchangeableness, I am untouchable and immortal. I consume love and I rail fear into my damaged nostrils. They have similar effects, they are borne from the same bosom. And they are both negligible, only passive side effects of our selfish human condition. Ignore them and move on. The hangover from these drugs, the dopesickness from a brain cooking itself in the juices of its own passionate cries of self-importance, is enough to bring the proudest men to their knees. These tremors will fade with time, leaving only a grinning, proud skeleton that retains its ambulatory nature and ghost-dances all over the bones of those who put stock into the ephemeral.

I am utterly replaceable and find strength in this realization, strength that they will shudder before, they who feign to ignore their own similitude with every oyster and whale that has ever quivered up from the depths of time. How awesome the mollusk who knows enough to crack open his own brutal and ugly carapace, indiscernible from his weak and fleshy neighbors through the subjective eyes of the gods, and who rends his own guts to pieces to find that pearl and exploit its strengths.

I'm still angry, Lord knows, but I'm learning to soften the blows. I should learn to put anger aside, but I've yet to find a more efficient fuel. I will not let myself be driven mad by what I feel is missing from my life. I will not relinquish those reins to you. This anger is mine, and it is in clear and righteous definition. It is a healthy rage that liberates. I deny every law and right and preconceived notion given unto me since birth. They are naught but the shackles our parents have left for us in their will, baubles found discarded on the same well-worn paths that we have followed since the dawn of man. I will rewrite myself, and I will burn your books. I am a shark in bloody, bloody water. I will keep swimming forward and never look elsewhere with any romantic hindsight, if only to forget how bad I still hurt, if only to deny myself the realization that the only blood in the water is my own. This world is not my home, and I am untouchable.

Tuesday, June 1, 2010

I dub thee Solitude.

I choose inconvenience, always. It's just past 3 am, obviously. It always is. What better time to try to wring some coherence out of my head, dripping like spent jism and curling like smoke from my calloused ears. My heart is aching in a new and comforting manner, stretching and contorting itself, trying to learn some new language, the better to speak to my brain and my feet and set me straight on the Divine Path.

The boy can't go home if he ain't got a home to go back to. The boy can't talk to his friends when he knows they won't recognize him, when the very thought of having to face them and hide the blood on his hands causes him anxiety. And what then, what when they see the blood's just dripping from where they pulled the fucking nails out. And won't he be labelled a traitor if he lets slip that he has no real interest in their interests anymore, shows no concern for their concerns, save the fulfilling feeling of bitter ache and torment that their very appearance conjures in his sick little armadillo heart, that delicious irony that slips like lemon juice and bourbon down his tired throat, pickles his diseased liver, and fuels the raging pale fire behind his eyes, the fire he hopes to focus into laser-like accuracy and potency someday. And he'll just mow 'em down, pierce them straight through with a crystalline death that smells like cedar berries and feels like deja vu. Maybe that's what gets him off; the inconvenience of life, poor timing, and the resentment that follows him around like a kicked dog. He and the dog are the same, and they are all too proud for a shaggy animal with nothing to show for their trials but a couple cracked ribs and a long list of transgressions and indiscretions.

And I left and nothing's changed but these sky-blue lenses. They're focusing, cutting right through the mirror and writing my history across my tongue. Be still, my heart. Leaving is for cowards and feet. You and me and our brain are strong, we are brave, and we are warriors. We shall cover our loneliness with chain mail and knight it. I dub thee Solitude, a righteous avenger. Hold thy head tall, thy back straight. We can only march forward, on and away.