Temporaneousiality

 

Sometimes, I think I am purposely abiding the death of time so that I can move forward.  I am purposefully abiding.

But there is an emptiness in being part of the machine, and there is a filling notion that comes from the fantasy of uplifting its structure.

It’s hard to live in the moment.  But, it’s even more difficult to find a moment to live in.

If I were an aphorism, I would be opposite poles of the same languid statement, but I would pierce through every facet of existence.

I am beginning to wonder why I am so overly polite to people, now, especially when I am treated like a fool for acting so.  Anger is just so tiring, and destructive, and fetid.  I feel anger often, but I try to get rid of it as soon as possible.  Most people don’t know that suppressing or feeding anger just makes it worse.  To truly let it go, you have to devalue it until it doesn’t exist anymore.  It’s hard to do.  Feeling persecuted by fate, or subjugated by your own decisions… or feeling weak at the thought of having the strength to carve your own path.  This is the sadness of post-modern capitalism.

Nostalgic pathos…

 

--

The Collapse of Romance

Will that I burn slowly
in the fountained fields of mercy,
while the fire creeps its travel
along the edges of my psyche.
Give the air around me
to the pyre ever-devouring,
so that the soil will never touch me:
So I speak, into the flowering.

In this pulse of ended story,
crows are patiently stalking.
Their sight is fixed on what I’m hearing.
Their taste is waiting for what’s coming.
I see the rotten, worn-out warnings
and I hear a different story,
of the light that keeps me going,
not the weakness of my mooring.

I still dream about a future
signified by pulling closer,
held by the small of your back
and the outline of your shoulders,
and I feel that breath inside me,
the spark I never let forget me.
I bide afire, burning slowly,
until the day you whisper to me
that the rain has come to claim me.

Atom

Are you faring on seas of tempest,
while the ocean shudders to pull you down;
are you grinding the finish away,
until there’s nothing left to drown?
Are you falling against yourself,
or are you falling straight down?
If you sow and cannot reap,
will you turn the harvest in on yourself?

Weakness and Fear

I shed beside the altar
all my worldly things,
and an other finds an opening
to tie itself to me.

Lift and Break

I am the wanderer,
bound to burning effigies,
pupils wide in anger,
straining from a winter.
Stretched thin for elegies,
strings smoldering; a lesion.
A lesson for belief,
my skin is leathered myth:
The shining proxy, crumbling.
Statues of weltered sin.

I can’t reach the width
required to douse myself.
Silent fires are burning;
raging storms, unyielding.
And I am silent,
for I am a silence.

=

Feed

I don’t miss much;

I don’t miss you…

Dashed

Years ago, I went on a date in D.C., to meet a girl I didn’t really know.  I waited outside the metro station for 3-4 hours, trying to call her from a payphone to see if I was wasting my time, getting strange looks from the people around me for just standing there for so long.  It was a depressing event.  I’m pretty sure the same kind of thing just happened to my roommate.  If only he’d listen to me when I say that being over-enthusiastic when trying to date random women is a complete waste of time.  He was all geared up for starting a romantic relationship, and I kept telling him it was pointless.  But he did what he always does and says that I don’t know what I’m talking about.  But, I’m always right in the end.  If I was a pompous asshole, I’d feel good about that.  But I don’t.

Life… Life is alright on the Rhine…

The times we had;
oh, when the wind would blow with rain and snow
were not all bad;
we put our feet just where they had, had to go
Never to go

The shattered soul,
following close, but nearly twice as slow
In my good times,
there were always golden rocks to throw
at those who
those who admit defeat too late
Those were our times
Those were our times

And I would love to see that day
That day is mine;
when she will marry me outside,
with the willow trees
and play the songs we made,
they made me so
And I would love to see that day
her day was mine

--

And I know winter will pass by slow
Without my heart, what can I do?
You’re in the halls
The bell gives way to a larger swell
Without my heart, what can I do?

And we grow fat on the charms of our idle dreary days
Seen the shadows grow;
see an ominous display
With no alarm, could we say
we’d have expected this away?
Our desires have died;
give incent to play

--

When I feel alive,
I try to imagine a careless life:
A scenic world, where the sunsets are all
breathtaking…

=

Hunger pangs…

I just had two of the most surreal, insane dreams in tandem, in about 2 hours of sleep.  It was/is nuts.

I hate not being able to sleep when I desperately need to.

Mój Ból

“I know him.  He’ll get confused, lost in his own philosophizing and wallow in self-pity.  He’ll vent his anger and hack at anyone and anything he comes across.  Then, in expiation, he’ll do some grand, but pointless deed.  In the end, he’ll be slain, stupidly and needlessly, with just a stab in the back.”

 

Coming around,
the knife takes its place;
falling and crawling under
Brother of mine,
come out from your cave;
you can not be defeated.

--

Father, now listen close:
You have become another ghost,
just like me;
just like me

Now flowers fall from your glass;
a bitter taste
The girl is back,
in dancing lights;
in dancing lights

Dancing lights, flowers fall;
A bitter taste;
the glass is full;
an empty hand;
an empty hand

In dancing lights, flowers float;
bitter taste;
the glass is full;
an empty hand;
an empty hand

An empty set of colors crawl
through the door into the hall;
the knife is dull;
the knife is dull…

=

Mountain Halo

Whenever someone asks me what any of my tattoos mean, I usually just say something like, “I used to do a lot of acid,” or, “it’s kind of hard to explain”.  Not because it is all that hard to explain, but because they’re personal to me, and nothing offends me more than taking the time to explain something that someone doesn’t listen to, anyway.  Most people don’t take the time to use any of those neurons that help with really understanding the metaphors in Human expression.

When someone at work asked me if one of them was my “key to get into Heaven,”  I had a momentary lapse and got a little bit excited that someone asked such an abstract question.  Then, I realized that he knew nothing about pentacles, or geometric symbolism, or really anything at all.  He was just another caricature of white trash with no real social awareness.  He was just another idiot always trying to sound poignant, or always trying to say something in a way that belied something about himself.  As all people do.

I used to take pleasure in finding out things about interesting people, but I haven’t met anyone I thought was the least bit interesting here.  The only person I would consider friendly and trustworthy on a basic level, just ended up being another caricature in a lot of ways.  Just ended up being someone who would end up awkwardly asking for something.

I just got a very weird sense of déjà vu.

I’ve only really ever heard anyone talk about tattoos in a ‘branding’ sort of way.  They are accessories, things to make you cooler, not necessarily anything to expose your hidden weaknesses or psychoses.  They are family names, or a cool design, or something to show others that you’re a hard-ass.  People have told me before that mine look like I drew them on myself; that’s why they are there, really.  I carved them into my own persona, to remind myself that there is much more than persona in this country.

People are so generic sometimes that it makes me wonder if I slept in during The Great Conversion, where the populace became sheep.  Even the anti-conformists conformed to their own anti-conformity.

I never really connected my persona to my real emotions, because it never felt natural to relate to people in a real sense.  But, I guess that’s just a symptom of my schizoid-ness.  I am nothing but generic replies, generic statements and generic politeness when it comes to the masses.  But, I also know that if I did some sort of ‘radical honesty’ thing, I would probably just spend my entire life berating people for not really thinking for themselves, even when they think they are.  I’m not 16 anymore, so the thought of that just seems so… unclean.  As much as I can look down on them from some corner of my own individuation, I can never bring myself to spit vitriol like that into another person’s eyes.  Because then, they will just be blind, and angry.  And I would get into too many fights.

All I can really do that gives me a sense of control is maintain that separation from other people, to make them think that there’s something behind my vision that is untamed and unknowable.  Something about the way people react to my making eye contact with them makes me feel better about myself, like my eyes are still the massive razors boring through the thoughts of another.  Or maybe they can sense that I’m completely insane from my glowering.

A long time ago, someone told me that I had soulful eyes.  If that’s true, I wonder what that says about the black holes they’ve become, now.

Or, maybe people think I’m always trying to intimidate them.  Maybe they think I desperately want to act like I’m hard.  But that feeling of decimating someone’s personality by seeing right through them is so satisfying to me, it’s almost worth what I paid to receive it.

Everyone walks alone; we don’t care, here we are; we proclaim the start of…

It’s taken me 6 months to find any sense of stability here; not just financially, but psychologically.  It’s one thing to be solitary in an area that you’ve always known, surrounded by people you’ve always known.  It’s another thing entirely to be solitary in a world that makes you feel even moreso.

But, this is what I’ve always wanted:  To leave my life behind and find something new.  Even if it exposes the fractured state of my mind, and makes me even more solitary, I can’t really complain about it anymore.  I am sick of capitulating to dumb people and their shallow interests; to a social setting that makes women prey and men predators; to a structure of living that bleeds the soul dry.

I’ll do what I used to do.  I’ll walk through life and push everything that I don’t like far out of my way, and if anything or anyone wants to stand next to me, they will have to earn it.

They call it night, they call it night, and I know it well…

I realized recently that being in a social setting for longer than a few days at a time changes me a lot.  Or, maybe lying in an apartment for the 4 months before that was what originally changed me.

But all of my social interactions are more or less the same.  People try to be friendly to me, and I reciprocate in a very cliche` way, because deep down, I really don’t care at all about other people.  But, dealing with those same people over and over forces me to adopt a layer of personality on top of my own.  This started as me not wanting to weird out people I had just met and was going to work with for the foreseeable future.  But, it made me realize that most people just like to talk about themselves to another person who is acting like he’s listening.  It’s amazing just how much people enjoy doing it.  Being around people that I haven’t known for years and years all of a sudden brings out the sociopathic psychoanalyst in me.  I’d like to think that I say things uncharacteristic of my own mind just because I am reinforcing a person’s psyche and dissecting it at the same time, but really I just reflexively respond with whatever is on the top of my head, and only afterwards do I really think about it.

I forgot how much of my physicality and mentality were based on how much anxiety I was feeling at the time.  It’s only recently that I’ve started to feel more relaxed, and it has let some of my real personality come out naturally.  I feel like I haven’t really been myself since moving here… but am slowly returning to something that existed years before I even thought of moving, a level that was smothered by habits and emotional dislocation.